dec 13, 2011
“Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the
spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood
who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings’ sons.
—Alas, Stephen said.
—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto.
He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin
from the Ards of Down to do so.
Lal the ral the ra
The rocky road to Dublin.
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft
day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! … Day! … Day! …
Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the
ra. Lal the ral the raddy.
—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a
favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I
have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have
just to copy the end.
He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his
chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the
drum of his typewriter.
—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the
dictates of common sense. Just a moment.
He peered from under his shaggy brows at the
manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod
the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes
blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.”
Stephen fails to warm to Mr. Deasy’s arguments.