Улисс

           NowIamspeculatingwhatitwouldbelikelytobe.Suchpersonsalwayshave.

           BuckMulliganbentacrossthetablegravely.

           —Theydrovehiswitsastray,hesaid,byvisionsofhell.HewillnevercapturetheAtticnote.ThenoteofSwinburne,ofallpoets,thewhitedeathandtheruddybirth.Thatishistragedy.Hecanneverbeapoet.Thejoyofcreation...

           —Eternalpunishment,Hainessaid,noddingcurtly.Isee.Itackledhimthismorningonbelief.Therewassomethingonhismind,Isaw.It’sratherinterestingbecauseprofessorPokornyofViennamakesaninterestingpointoutofthat.

           BuckMulligan’swatchfuleyessawthewaitresscome.Hehelpedhertounloadhertray.

           —HecanfindnotraceofhellinancientIrishmyth,Hainessaid,amidthecheerfulcups.Themoralideaseemslacking,thesenseofdestiny,ofretribution.Ratherstrangeheshouldhavejustthatfixedidea.Doeshewriteanythingforyourmovement?

           Hesanktwolumpsofsugardeftlylongwisethroughthewhippedcream.BuckMulliganslitasteamingsconeintwoandplasteredbutteroveritssmokingpith.Hebitoffasoftpiecehungrily.

           —Tenyears,hesaid,chewingandlaughing.Heisgoingtowritesomethingintenyears.

           —Seemsalongwayoff,Hainessaid,thoughtfullyliftinghisspoon.Still,Ishouldn’twonderifhedidafterall.

           Hetastedaspoonfulfromthecreamyconeofhiscup.

           —ThisisrealIrishcreamItakeit,hesaidwithforbearance.Idon’twanttobeimposedon.