jul 25, 2012
Stephen will never be a saint, for various reasons.
“And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the cor-
ner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another
locking it into a pyx. Dringadring! And in a ladychapel an-
other taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdring! Down,
up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible
doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tick-
led his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard
twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he
is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two
bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.
Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints.
You were awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the
Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You
prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy
widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the
wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags
pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top
of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women!
naked women! What about that, eh?
What about what? What else were they invented for?
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh?”