Улісс

           Waittillyouhearhim,Simon,onBenDollard’ssingingofTheCroppyBoy.

           —Immense,MartinCunninghamsaidpompously.Hissingingofthatsimpleballad,Martin,isthemosttrenchantrenderingIeverheardinthewholecourseofmyexperience.

           —Trenchant,MrPowersaidlaughing.He’sdeadnutsonthat.Andtheretrospectivearrangement.

           —DidyoureadDanDawson’sspeech?MartinCunninghamasked.

           —Ididnotthen,MrDedalussaid.Whereisit?

           —Inthepaperthismorning.

           MrBloomtookthepaperfromhisinsidepocket.ThatbookImustchangeforher.

           —No,no,MrDedalussaidquickly.Lateronplease.

           MrBloom’sglancetravelleddowntheedgeofthepaper,scanningthedeaths:Callan,Coleman,Dignam,Fawcett,Lowry,Naumann,Peake,whatPeakeisthat?isitthechapwasinCrosbieandAlleyne’s?no,Sexton,Urbright.Inkedcharactersfastfadingonthefrayedbreakingpaper.ThankstotheLittleFlower.Sadlymissed.Totheinexpressiblegriefofhis.Aged88afteralongandtediousillness.Month’smind:Quinlan.OnwhosesoulSweetJesushavemercy.

           ItisnowamonthsincedearHenryfled

           Tohishomeupaboveinthesky

           Whilehisfamilyweepsandmournshisloss

           Hopingsomedaytomeethimonhigh.

           Itoreuptheenvelope?Yes.WheredidIputherletterafterIreaditinthebath?Hepattedhiswaistcoatpocket.Thereallright.DearHenryfled.Beforemypatienceareexhausted.

           Nationalschool.Meade’syard.Thehazard.Onlytwotherenow.Nodding.Fullasatick.Toomuchboneintheirskulls.Theothertrottingroundwithafare.AnhouragoIwaspassingthere.