jun 20, 2012
In Stephen’s mind (still on Sandymount Strand), his uncle offers him food and drink, of a sorts. Second-hand opera, and a note of warning.
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Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of
Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde’s
Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings
—Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is
—Bathing Crissie, sir.
Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.
—No, uncle Richie …
—Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers.
—Uncle Richie, really …
—Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.
Walter squints vainly for a chair.
—He has nothing to sit down on, sir.
—He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our
chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something?
None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a
rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We
have nothing in the house but backache pills.
He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria di sortita. The grandest
number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.
His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with
rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded
This wind is sweeter. ”