sep 07, 2011
“―Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.
Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
―Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
―Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the
―Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked.
Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had
loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would
have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery
blood drained from her own. Was that then real?”