aug 03, 2011
“―Tell us a story, sir.
―O, do, sir. A ghoststory.
―Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.
―Weep no more, Comyn said.
―Go on then, Talbot.
―And the story, sir?
―After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.
A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel.
He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:
―Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor …”
In Stephen’s classroom, Joyce brings in Milton. Reflections on drowning.