jan 25, 2012
“On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the
goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers.
Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the
temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.
Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their
full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and
unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them
and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and
hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by
the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew
their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours
of their flesh.”
Stephen reflects vividly upon Mr. Deasy’s rant.