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Updated: May 10, 2025
He sighed aside: Ah me! O my! He greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod. Greetings from the famous son of a famous father. Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked. Lenehan opened most genial arms. Who? Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard. Dry. Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe. I see, he said. I didn't recognise him for the moment.
Love and War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. God be with old times. Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded, turned from the crossblind, smitten by sunlight. Gone. Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the Collard grand. There was. A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil wouldn't stop him.
He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of drink. God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment. They laughed all three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding garment. Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's my pipe, by the way?
What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for high? Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said. Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating: The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys! And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
We're as old as we feel, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus. And just finish what you have there and we'll have another. Here, Tim or Tom or whatever your name is, give us the same again here. By God, I don't feel more than eighteen myself. There's that son of mine there not half my age and I'm a better man than he is any day of the week. Draw it mild now, Dedalus.
When all had been safely stowed the vans had set off noisily down the avenue: and from the window of the railway carriage, in which he had sat with his red-eyed mother, Stephen had seen them lumbering along the Merrion Road. The parlour fire would not draw that evening and Mr Dedalus rested the poker against the bars of the grate to attract the flame.
What, then, had become of that deep-rooted shyness of his which had made him loth to eat or drink under a strange roof? What had come of the pride of his spirit which had always made him conceive himself as a being apart in every order? The Reverend Stephen Dedalus, S.J.
Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone. He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon! Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.
J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's row. He halted near his daughter. It's time for you, she said. Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said.
When she had gone he said, laughing: We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. Haines opened his newbought book. I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance. The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street: England expects...
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