Улисс

           Lenehanstoppedandleanedontheriverwall,pantingwithsoftlaughter.

           —I’mweak,hegasped.

           M’Coy’swhitefacesmiledaboutitatinstantsandgrewgrave.Lenehanwalkedonagain.Heliftedhisyachtingcapandscratchedhishindheadrapidly.HeglancedsidewaysinthesunlightatM’Coy.

           —He’saculturedallroundman,Bloomis,hesaidseriously.He’snotoneofyourcommonorgarden...youknow...There’satouchoftheartistaboutoldBloom.

           ***

           MrBloomturnedoveridlypagesofTheAwfulDisclosuresofMariaMonk,thenofAristotle’sMasterpiece.Crookedbotchedprint.Plates:infantscuddledinaballinbloodredwombslikeliversofslaughteredcows.Lotsofthemlikethatatthismomentallovertheworld.Allbuttingwiththeirskullstogetoutofit.Childborneveryminutesomewhere.MrsPurefoy.

           Helaidbothbooksasideandglancedatthethird:TalesoftheGhettobyLeopoldvonSacherMasoch.

           —ThatIhad,hesaid,pushingitby.

           Theshopmanlettwovolumesfallonthecounter.

           —Themaretwogoodones,hesaid.

           Onionsofhisbreathcameacrossthecounteroutofhisruinedmouth.Hebenttomakeabundleoftheotherbooks,huggedthemagainsthisunbuttonedwaistcoatandborethemoffbehindthedingycurtain.

           OnO’ConnellbridgemanypersonsobservedthegravedeportmentandgayapparelofMrDenisJMaginni,professorofdancing&c.

           MrBloom,alone,lookedatthetitles.FairTyrantsbyJamesLovebirch.Knowthekindthatis.Hadit?Yes.

           Heopenedit.Thoughtso.

           Awoman’svoicebehindthedingycurtain.Listen:theman.

           No:shewouldn’tlikethatmuch.