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Updated: June 5, 2025
Would that surprise you? The church is not the stone building nor even the clergy and their dogmas. It is the whole mass of those born into it. I don't know what you wish to do in life. Is it what you told me the night we were standing outside Harcourt Street station? Yes, Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cranly's way of remembering thoughts in connexion with places.
Stephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irresolutely. From under the wide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly's dark eyes were watching him. Have you signed? Stephen asked. Cranly closed his long thin-lipped mouth, communed with himself an instant and answered: EGO HABEO. What is it for? What is it for?
He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down the steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the dusk like a wild creature, nimble and fleet-footed. Cranly's heavy boots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step.
Its drawl was an echo of the quays of Dublin given back by a bleak decaying seaport, its energy an echo of the sacred eloquence of Dublin given back flatly by a Wicklow pulpit. The heavy scowl faded from Cranly's face as MacCann marched briskly towards them from the other side of the hall. Here you are! said MacCann cheerily. Here I am! said Stephen. Late as usual.
Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it. Cranly's arm. His arm. And to think of your having to beg from these swine.
But he turned again to Stephen and said with a sudden eagerness: That word is a most interesting word. That's the only English dual number. Did you know? Is it? Stephen said vaguely. He was watching Cranly's firm-featured suffering face, lit up now by a smile of false patience.
Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? The Sorrows of Satan he calls it. Smile. Smile Cranly's smile. First he tickled her Then he patted her Then he passed the female catheter. For he was a medical Jolly old medi... I feel you would need one more for Hamlet. Seven is dear to the mystic mind.
Stephen smiled at the manner of this confidence and, when Moynihan had passed, turned again to meet Cranly's eyes. Perhaps you can tell me, he said, why he pours his soul so freely into my ear. Can you? A dull scowl appeared on Cranly's forehead. He stared at the table where Moynihan had bent to write his name on the roll, and then said flatly: A sugar!
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