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bonheurideeneuve · 6 years ago

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The Eye of Allah

Rudyard Kipling

THE Cantor of St. Illod’s being far too enthusiastic a musician to concern himself with its Library, the Sub-Cantor, who idolised every detail of the work, was tidying up, after two hours’ writing and dictation in the Scriptorium. The copying-monks handed him in their sheets—it was a plain Four Gospels ordered by an Abbot at Evesham—and filed out to vespers. John Otho, better known as John of Burgos, took no heed. He was burnishing a tiny boss of gold in his miniature of the Annunciation for his Gospel of St. Luke, which it was hoped that Cardinal Falcodi, the Papal Legate, might later be pleased to accept.

‘Break off, John,’ said the Sub-Cantor in an undertone.

‘Eh? Gone, have they? I never heard. Hold a minute, Clement.’

The Sub-Cantor waited patiently. He had known John more than a dozen years, coming and going at St. Illod’s, to which monastery John, when abroad, always said he belonged. The claim was gladly allowed, for, more even than other Fitz Othos, he seemed to carry all the Arts under his hand, and most of their practical receipts under his hood.

The Sub-Cantor looked over his shoulder at the pinned-down sheet where the first words of the Magnificat were built up in gold washed with red-lac for a background to the Virgin’s hardly yet fired halo. She was shown, hands joined in wonder, at a lattice of infinitely intricate arabesque, round the edges of which sprays of orange-bloom seemed to load the blue hot air that carried back over the minute parched landscape in the middle distance.

‘You’ve made her all Jewess,’ said the SubCantor, studying the olive-flushed cheek and the eyes charged with foreknowledge.

‘What else was Our Lady?’ John slipped out the pins. ‘Listen, Clement. If I do not come back, this goes into my Great Luke, whoever finishes it.’ He slid the drawing between its guard-papers.

‘Then you’re for Burgos again—as I heard?’

‘In two days. The new Cathedral yonder—but they’re slower than the Wrath of God, those masons—is good for the soul.’

‘Thy soul?’ The Sub-Cantor seemed doubtful.

‘Even mine, by your permission. And down south—on the edge of the Conquered Countries—Granada way—there’s some Moorish diaper-work that’s wholesome. It allays vain thought and draws it toward the picture—as you felt, just now, in my Annunciation.’

‘She—it was very beautiful. No wonder you go. But you’ll not forget your absolution, John?’

‘Surely.’ This was a precaution John no more omitted on the eve of his travels than he did the recutting of the tonsure which he had provided himself with in his youth, somewhere near Ghent. The mark gave him privilege of clergy at a pinch, and a certain consideration on the road always.

‘You’ll not forget, either, what we need in the Scriptorium. There’s no more true ultramarine in this world now. They mix it with that German blue. And as for vermilion——’

‘I’ll do my best always.’

‘And Brother Thomas’ (this was the Infirmarian in charge of the monastery hospital) ‘he needs——’

‘He’ll do his own asking. I’ll go over his side now, and get me re-tonsured.’

John went down the stairs to the lane that divides the hospital and cook-house from the back-cloisters. While he was being barbered, Brother Thomas (St. Illod’s meek but deadly persistent Infirmarian) gave him a list of drugs that he was to bring back from Spain by hook, crook, or lawful purchase. Here they were surprised by the lame, dark Abbot Stephen, in his fur-lined night-boots. Not that Stephen de Sautré was any spy; but as a young man he had shared an unlucky Crusade, which had ended, after a battle at Mansura, in two years’ captivity among the Saracens at Cairo where men learn to walk softly. A fair huntsman and hawker, a reasonable disciplinarian, but a man of science above all, and a Doctor of Medicine under one Ranulphus, Canon of St. Paul’s, his heart was more m the monastery’s hospital work than its religious. He checked their list interestedly, adding items of his own. After the Infirmarian had withdrawn, he gave John generous absolution, to cover lapses by the way; for he did not hold with chance-bought Indulgences.

‘And what seek you this journey?’ he demanded, sitting on the bench beside the mortar and scales in the little warm cell for stored drugs.

‘Devils, mostly,’ said John, grinning.

‘In Spain? Are not Abana and Phar-par——?’

John, to whom men were but matter for drawings, and well-born to boot (since he was a de Sanford on his mother’s side), looked the Abbot full in the face and—‘Did you find it so?’ said he.

‘No. They were in Cairo too. But what’s your special need of ’em?’

‘For my Great Luke. He’s the masterhand of all Four when it comes to devils.’

‘No wonder. He was a physician. You’re not.’

‘Heaven forbid! But I’m weary of our Church-pattern devils. They’re only apes and goats and poultry conjoined. ’Good enough for plain red-and-black Hells and Judgment Days—but not for me.’

‘What makes you so choice in them?’

‘Because it stands to reason and Art that there are all musters of devils in Hell’s dealings. Those Seven, for example, that were haled out of the Magdalene. They’d be she-devils—no kin at all to the beaked and horned and bearded devils-general.’

The Abbot laughed.

‘And see again! The devil that came out of the dumb man. What use is snout or bill to him? He’d be faceless as a leper. Above all—God send I live to do it!—the devils that entered the Gadarene swine. They’d be—they’d be—I know not yet what they’d be, but they’d be surpassing devils. I’d have ’em diverse as the Saints themselves. But now, they’re all one pattern, for wall, window, or picture-work.’

‘Go on, John. You’re deeper in this mystery than I’

‘Heaven forbid! But I say there’s respect due to devils, damned tho’ they be.’

‘Dangerous doctrine.’

‘My meaning is that if the shape of anything be worth man’s thought to picture to man, it’s worth his best thought.’

‘That’s safer. But I’m glad I’ve given you Absolution.’

‘There’s less risk for a craftsman who deals with the outside shapes of things—for Mother Church’s glory.’

‘Maybe so, but, John’—the Abbot’s hand almost touched John’s sleeve—‘tell me, now, is—is she Moorish or—or Hebrew?’

‘She’s mine,’ John returned.

‘Is that enough?’

‘I have found it so.’

‘Well—ah well! It’s out of my jurisdiction, but—how do they look at it down yonder?’

‘Oh, they drive nothing to a head in Spain—neither Church nor King, bless them! There’s too many Moors and Jews to kill them all, and if they chased ’em away there’d be no trade nor farming. Trust me, in the Conquered Countries, from Seville to Granada, we live lovingly enough together—Spaniard, Moor, and Jew. Ye see, we ask no questions.’

‘Yes—yes,’ Stephen sighed. ‘And always there’s the hope she may be converted.’

‘Oh yes, there’s always hope.’

The Abbot went on into the hospital. It was an easy age before Rome tightened the screw as to clerical connections. If the lady were not too forward, or the son too much his father’s beneficiary in ecclesiastical preferments and levies, a good deal was overlooked. But, as the Abbot had reason to recall, unions between Christian and Infidel led to sorrow. None the less, when John with mule, mails, and man, clattered off down the lane for Southampton and the sea, Stephen envied him.

. . . . .

He was back, twenty months later, in good hard case, and loaded down with fairings. A lump of richest lazuli, a bar of orange-hearted vermilion, and a small packet of dried beetles which make most glorious scarlet, for the SubCantor. Besides that, a few cubes of milky marble, with yet a pink flush in them, which could be slaked and ground down to incomparable background-stuff. There were quite half the drugs that the Abbot and Thomas had demanded, and there was a long deep-red cornelian necklace for the Abbot’s Lady—Anne of Norton. She received it graciously, and asked where John had come by it.

‘Near Granada,’ he said.

‘You left all well there?’ Anne asked. (Maybe the Abbot had told her something of John’s confession.)

‘I left all in the hands of God.’

‘Ah me! How long since?’

‘Four months less eleven days.’

‘Were you—with her?’

‘In my arms. Childbed.’

‘And?’

‘The boy too. There is nothing now.’

Anne of Norton caught her breath.

‘I think you’ll be glad of that,’ she said after a while.

‘Give me time, and maybe I’ll compass it. But not now.’

‘You have your handiwork and your art, and—John—remember there’s no jealousy in the grave.’

‘Ye-es! I have my Art, and Heaven knows I’m jealous of none.’

‘Thank God for that at least,’ said Anne of Norton, the always ailing woman who followed the Abbot with her sunk eyes. ‘And be sure I shall treasure this’—she touched the beads—‘as long as I shall live.’

‘I brought—trusted—it to you for that,’ he replied, and took leave. When she told the Abbot how she had come by it, he said nothing, but as he and Thomas were storing the drugs that John handed over in the cell which backs on to the hospital kitchen-chimney, he observed, of a cake of dried poppy juice: ‘This has power to cut off all pain from a man’s body.’

‘I have seen it,’ said John.

‘But for pain of the soul there is, outside God’s Grace, but one drug; and that is a man’s craft, learning, or other helpful motion of his own mind.’

‘That is coming to me, too,’ was the answer.

John spent the next fair May day out in the woods with the monastery swineherd and all the porkers; and returned loaded with flowers and sprays of spring, to his own carefully kept place in the north bay of the Scriptorium. There, with his travelling sketch-books under his left elbow, he sunk himself past all recollections in his Great Luke.

Brother Martin, Senior Copyist (who spoke about once a fortnight), ventured to ask, later, how the work was going.

‘All here!’ John tapped his forehead with his pencil. ‘It has been only waiting these months to—ah God!—be born. Are ye free of your plain-copying, Martin?’

Brother Martin nodded. It was his pride that John of Burgos turned to him, in spite of his seventy years, for really good page-work.

‘Then see!’ John laid out a new vellum—thin but flawless. ‘There’s no better than this sheet from here to Paris. Yes! Smell it if you choose. Wherefore—give me the compasses and I’11 set it out for you—if ye make one letter lighter or darker than its next, I’ll stick ye like a pig.’

‘Never, John!’ The old man beamed happily. ‘But I will! Now, follow! Here and here, as I prick, and in script of just this height to the hair’s-breadth, yell scribe the thirty-first and thirty-second verses of Eighth Luke.’

‘Yes, the Gadarene Swine! “And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the abyss. And there was a herd of many swine”’—— Brother Martin naturally knew all the Gospels by heart.

‘Just so! Down to “and he suffered them.” Take your time to it. My Magdalene has to come off my heart first.’

Brother Martin achieved the work so perfectly that John stole some soft sweetmeats from the Abbot’s kitchen for his reward. The old man ate them; then repented; then confessed and insisted on penance. At which, the Abbot, knowing there was but one way to reach the real sinner, set him a book called De Virtutibus Herbarum to fair-copy. St. Illod’s had borrowed it from the gloomy Cistercians, who do not hold with pretty things, and the crabbed text kept Martin busy just when John wanted him for some rather specially spaced letterings.

‘See now,’ said the Sub-Cantor improvingly. ‘You should not do such things, John. Here’s Brother Martin on penance for your sake——’

‘No—for my Great Luke. But I’ve paid the Abbot’s cook. I’ve drawn him till his own scullions cannot keep straight-faced. He’ll not tell again.’

‘Unkindly done! And you’re out of favour with the Abbot too. He’s made no sign to you since you came back—never asked you to high table.’

‘I’ve been busy. Having eyes in his head, Stephen knew it. Clement, there’s no Librarian from Durham to Torre fit to clean up after you.’

The Sub-Cantor stood on guard; he knew where John’s compliments generally ended.

‘But outside the Scriptorium——’

‘Where I never go.’ The Sub-Cantor had been excused even digging in the garden, lest it should mar his wonderful book-binding hands.

‘In all things outside the Scriptorium you are the master-fool of Christendie. Take it from me, Clement. I’ve met many.’

‘I take everything from you,’ Clement smiled benignly. ‘You use me worse than a singing-boy.

They could hear one of that suffering breed in the cloister below, squalling as the Cantor pulled his hair.

‘God love you! So I do! But have you ever thought how I lie and steal daily on my travels—yes, and for aught you know, murder—to fetch you colours and earths?’

‘True,’ said just and conscience-stricken Clement. ‘I have often thought that were I in the world—which God forbid!—I might be a strong thief in some matters.’

Even Brother Martin, bent above his loathed De Virtutibus, laughed.

. . . . .

But about mid-summer, Thomas the Infirmarian conveyed to John the Abbot’s invitation to supper in his house that night, with the request that he would bring with him anything that he had done for his Great Luke.

‘What’s toward?’ said John, who had been wholly shut up in his work.

‘Only one of his “wisdom” dinners. You’ve sat at a few since you were a man.’

‘True: and mostly good. How would Stephen have us——?’

‘Gown and hood over all. There will be a doctor from Salerno—one Roger, an Italian. Wise and famous with the knife on the body. He’s been in the Infirmary some ten days, helping me—even me!’

‘’Never heard the name. But our Stephen’s physicus before sacerdos, always.’

‘And his Lady has a sickness of some time. Roger came hither in chief because of her.’

‘Did he? Now I think of it, I have not seen the Lady Anne for a while.’

‘Ye’ve seen nothing for a long while. She has been housed near a month—they have to carry her abroad now.’

‘So bad as that, then?’

‘Roger of Salerno will not yet say what he thinks. But——’

‘God pity Stephen! . . . Who else at table, besides thee?’

‘An Oxford friar. Roger is his name also. A learned and famous philosopher. And he holds his liquor too, valiantly.’

‘Three doctors—counting Stephen. I’ve always found that means two atheists.’

Thomas looked uneasily down his nose. ‘That’s a wicked proverb,’ he stammered. ‘You should not use it.’

‘Hoh! Never come you the monk over me, Thomas! You’ve been Infirmarian at St. Illod’s eleven years—and a lay-brother still. Why have you never taken orders, all this while?’

‘I—I am not worthy.’

‘Ten times worthier than that new fat swine—Henry Who’s-his-name—that takes the Infirmary Masses. He bullocks in with the Viaticum, under your nose, when a sick man’s only faint from being bled. So the man dies—of pure fear. Ye know it! I’ve watched your face at such times. Take Orders, Didymus. You’ll have a little more medicine and a little less Mass with your sick then; and they’ll live longer.’

‘I am unworthy—unworthy,’ Thomas repeated pitifully.

‘Not you—but—to your own master you stand or fall. And now that my work releases me for awhile, I’ll drink with any philosopher out of any school. And, Thomas,’ he coaxed, ‘a hot bath for me in the Infirmary before vespers.’

. . . . .

When the Abbot’s perfectly cooked and served meal had ended, and the deep-fringed naperies were removed, and the Prior had sent in the keys with word that all was fast in the Monastery, and the keys had been duly returned with the word, ‘Make it so till Prime,’ the Abbot and his guests went out to cool themselves in an upper cloister that took them, by way of the leads, to the South Choir side of the Triforium. The summer sun was still strong, for it was barely six o’clock, but the Abbey Church, of course, lay in her wonted darkness. Lights were being lit for choir-practice thirty feet below.

‘Our Cantor gores them no rest,’ the Abbot whispered. ‘Stand by this pillar and we’ll hear what he’s driving them at now.’

‘Remember, all!’ the Cantor’s hard voice came up. ‘This is the soul of Bernard himself, attacking our evil world. Take it quicker than yesterday, and throw all your words clean-bitten from you. In the loft there! Begin!’

The organ broke out for an instant, alone and raging. Then the voices crashed together into that first fierce line of the ‘De Contemptu Mundi.’

‘Hora novissima—tempora pessima’—a dead pause till the assenting sunt broke, like a sob, out of the darkness, and one boy’s voice, clearer than silver trumpets, returned the long-drawn vigilemus.

‘Ecce minaciter, imminet Arbiter’ (organ and voices were leashed togethor in terror and warning, breaking away liquidly to the ‘ille supremus’). Then the tone-colours shifted for the prelude to ‘Imminet, imminet, ut mala terminet——’

‘Stop! Again!’ cried the Cantor ; and gave his reasons a little more roundly than was natural at choir-practice.

‘Ah! Pity o’ man’s vanity! He’s guessed we are here. Come away!’ said the Abbot. Anne of Norton, in her carried chair, had been listening too, further along the dark Triforium, with Roger of Salerno. John heard her sob. On the way back, he asked Thomas how her health stood. Before Thomas could reply the sharp-featured Italian doctor pushed between them. ‘Following on our talk together, I judged it best to tell her,’ said he to Thomas.

‘What?’ John asked simply enough.

‘What she knew already.’ Roger of Salerno launched into a Greek quotation to the effect that every woman knows all about everything.

‘I have no Greek,’ said John stiffly. Roger of Salerno had been giving them a good deal of it, at dinner.

‘Then I’ll come to you in Latin. Ovid hath it neatly. “Utque malum late solet immedicabile cancer——” but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’

‘Alas! My school-Latin’s but what I’ve gathered by the way from fools professing to heal sick women. “Hocus-pocus——” but doubtless you know the rest, worthy Sir.’

Roger of Salerno was quite quiet till they regained the dining-room, where the fire had been comforted and the dates, raisins, ginger, figs, and cinnamon-scented sweetmeats set out, with the choicer wines, on the after-table. The Abbot seated himself, drew off his ring, dropped it, that all might hear the tinkle, into an empty silver cup, stretched his feet towards the hearth, and looked at the great gilt and carved rose in the barrel-roof. The silence that keeps from Compline to Matins had closed on their world. The bull-necked Friar watched a ray of sunlight split itself into colours on the rim of a crystal salt-cellar; Roger of Salerno had re-opened some discussion with Brother Thomas on a type of spotted fever that was baffling them both in England and abroad; John took note of the keen profile, and—it might serve as a note for the Great Luke—his hand moved to his bosom. The Abbot saw, and nodded permission. John whipped out silver-point and sketch-book.

‘Nay—modesty is good enough—but deliver your own opinion,’ the Italian was urging the Infirmarian. Out of courtesy to the foreigner nearly all the talk was in table-Latin; more formal and more copious than monk’s patter. Thomas began with his meek stammer.

‘I confess myself at a loss for the cause of the fever unless—as Varro saith in his De Re Rustica—certain small animals which the eye cannot follow enter the body by the nose and mouth, and set up grave diseases. On the other hand, this is not in Scripture.’

Roger of Salerno hunched head and shoulders like an angry cat. ‘Always that!’ he said, and John snatched down the twist of the thin lips.

‘Never at rest, John.’ The Abbot smiled at the artist. ‘You should break off every two hours for prayers, as we do. St. Benedict was no fool. Two hours is all that a man can carry the edge of his eye or hand.’

‘For copyists—yes. Brother Martin is not sure after one hour. But when a man’s work takes him, he must go on till it lets him go.’

‘Yes, that is the Demon of Socrates,’ the Friar from Oxford rumbled above his cup.

‘The doctrine leans toward presumption,’ said the Abbot. ‘Remember, “Shall mortal man be more just than his Maker?”’

‘There is no danger of justice’; the Friar spoke bitterly. ‘But at least Man might be suffered to go forward in his Art or his thought. Yet if Mother Church sees or hears him move anyward, what says she? “No!” Always “No.”’

‘But if the little animals of Varro be invisible’—this was Roger of Salerno to Thomas—‘how are we any nearer to a cure?’

‘By experiment’—the Friar wheeled round on them suddenly. ‘By reason and experiment. The one is useless without the other. But Mother Church——’

‘Ay !’ Roger de Salerno dashed at the fresh bait like a pike. ‘Listen, Sirs. Her bishops—our Princes—strew our roads in Italy with carcasses that they make for their pleasure or wrath. Beautiful corpses! Yet if I—if we doctors—so much as raise the skin of one of them to look at God’s fabric beneath, what says Mother Church? “Sacrilege! Stick to your pigs and dogs, or you burn!”’

‘And not Mother Church only!’ the Friar chimed in. ‘Every way we are barred—barred by the words of some man, dead a thousand years, which are held final. Who is any son of Adam that his one say—so should close a door towards truth? I would not except even Peter Peregrinus, my own great teacher.’

‘Nor I Paul of Aegina,’ Roger of Salerno cried. ‘Listen, Sirs! Here is a case to the very point. Apuleius affirmeth, if a man eat fasting of the juice of the cut-leaved buttercup—sceleratus we call it, which means “rascally”’—this with a condescending nod towards John—‘his soul will leave his body laughing. Now this is the lie more dangerous than truth, since truth of a sort is in it.’

‘He’s away!’ whispered the Abbot despairingly.

‘For the juice of that herb, I know by experiment, burns, blisters, and wries the mouth. I know also the rictus, or pseudo-laughter, on the face of such as have perished by the strong poisons of herbs allied to this ranunculus. Certainly that spasm resembles laughter. It seems then, in my judgment, that Apuleius, having seen the body of one thus poisoned, went off at score and wrote that the man died laughing.’

‘Neither staying to observe, nor to confirm observation by experiment,’ added the Friar, frowning.

Stephen the Abbot cocked an eyebrow toward John.

‘How think you?’ said he.

‘I’m no doctor,’ John returned, ‘but I’d say Apuleius in all these years might have been betrayed by his copyists. They take short-cuts to save ’emselves trouble. Put case that Apuleius wrote the soul seems to leave the body laughing, after this poison. There’s not three copyists in five (my judgment) would not leave out the “seems to.” For who’d question Apuleius? If it seemed so to him, so it must be. Otherwise any child knows cut-leaved buttercup.’

‘Have you knowledge of herbs?’ Roger of Salerno asked curtly.

‘Only that, when I was a boy in convent, I’ve made tetters round my mouth and on my neck with buttercup juice, to save going to prayer o’ cold nights.’

‘Ah!’ said Roger. ‘I profess no knowledge of tricks.’ He turned aside, stiffly.

‘No matter! Now for your own tricks, John,’ the tactful Abbot broke in. ‘You shall show the doctors your Magdalene and your Gadarene Swine and the devils.’

‘Devils? Devils? I have produced devils by means of drugs; and have abolished them by the same means. Whether devils be external to mankind or immanent, I have not yet pronounced.’ Roger of Salerno was still angry.

‘Ye dare not,’ snapped the Friar from Oxford. ‘Mother Church makes Her own devils.’

‘Not wholly! Our John has come back from Spain with brand-new ones.’ Abbot Stephen took the vellum handed to him, and laid it tenderly on the table. They gathered to look. The Magdalene was drawn in palest, almost transparent, grisaille, against a raging, swaying background of woman-faced devils, each broke to and by her special sin, and each, one could see, frenziedly straining against the Power that compelled her.

‘I’ve never seen the like of this grey shadowwork,’ said the Abbot. ‘How came you by it?’

‘Non nobis! It came to me,’ said John, not knowing he was a generation or so ahead of his time in the use of that medium.

‘Why is she so pale?’ the Friar demanded.

‘Evil has all come out of her—she’d take any colour now.’

‘Ay, like light through glass. I see.’

Roger of Salerno was looking in silence—his nose nearer and nearer the page. ‘It is so,’ he pronounced finally. ‘Thus it is in epilepsy—mouth, eyes, and forehead—even to the droop of her wrist there. Every sign of it! She will need restoratives, that woman, and, afterwards, sleep natural. No poppy juice, or she will vomit on her waking. And thereafter—but I am not in my Schools.’ He drew himself up. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you should be of Our calling. For, by the Snakes of Aesculapius, you see!’

The two struck hands as equals.

‘And how think you of the Seven Devils?’ the Abbot went on.

These melted into convoluted flower—or flame-like bodies, ranging in colour from phosphorescent green to the black purple of outworn iniquity, whose hearts could be traced beating through their substance. But, for sign of hope and the sane workings of life, to be regained, the deep border was of conventionalised spring flowers and birds, all crowned by a kingfisher in haste, atilt through a clump of yellow iris.

Roger of Salerno identified the herbs and spoke largely of their virtues.

‘And now, the Gadarene Swine,’ said Stephen. John laid the picture on the table.

Here were devils dishoused, in dread of being abolished to the Void, huddling and hurtling together to force lodgment by every opening into the brute bodies offered. Some of the swine fought the invasion, foaming and jerking; some were surrendering to it, sleepily, as to a luxurious back-scratching; others, wholly possessed, whirled off in bucking droves for the lake beneath. In one corner the freed man stretched out his limbs all restored to his control, and Our Lord, seated, looked at him as questioning what he would make of his deliverance.

‘Devils indeed!’ was the Friar’s comment. ‘But wholly a new sort.’

Some devils were mere lumps, with lobes and protuberances—a hint of a fiend’s face peering through jelly-like walls. And there was a family of impatient, globular devillings who had burst open the belly of their smirking parent, and were revolving desperately toward their prey. Others patterned themselves into rods, chains and ladders, single or conjoined, round the throat and jaws of a shrieking sow, from whose ear emerged the lashing, glassy tail of a devil that had made good his refuge. And there were granulated and conglomerate devils, mixed up with the foam and slaver where the attack was fiercest. Thence the eye carried on to the insanely active backs of the downward-racing swine, the swineherd’s aghast face, and his dog’s terror.

Said Roger of Salerno, ‘I pronounce that these were begotten of drugs. They stand outside the rational mind.’

‘Not these,’ said Thomas the Infirmarian, who as a servant of the Monastery should have asked his Abbot’s leave to speak. ‘Not these—look!—in the bordure.’

The border to the picture was a diaper of irregular but balanced compartments or cellules, where sat, swam, or weltered, devils in blank, so to say—things as yet uninspired by Evil—indifferent, but lawlessly outside imagination. Their shapes resembled, again, ladders, chains, scourges, diamonds, aborted buds, or gravid phosphorescent globes-some well-nigh starlike.

Roger of Salerno compared them to the obsessions of a Churchman’s mind.

‘Malignant?’ the Friar from Oxford questioned.

‘“Count everything unknown for horrible,”’ Roger quoted with scorn.

‘Not I. But they are marvellous—marvellous. I think——’

The Friar drew back. Thomas edged in to see better, and half opened his mouth.

‘Speak,’ said Stephen, who had been watching him. ‘We are all in a sort doctors here.’

‘I would say then’—Thomas rushed at it as one putting out his life’s belief at the stake—‘that these lower shapes in the bordure may not be so much hellish and malignant as models and patterns upon which John has tricked out and embellished his proper devils among the swine above there!’

‘And that would signify?’ said Roger of Salerno sharply.

‘In my poor judgment, that he may have seen such shapes—without help of drugs.’

‘Now who—who,’ said John of Burgos, after a round and unregarded oath, ‘has made thee so wise of a sudden, my Doubter?’

‘I wise? God forbid! Only John, remember—one winter six years ago—the snow-flakes melting on your sleeve at the cookhouse-door. You showed me them through a little crystal, that made small things larger.’

‘Yes. The Moors call such a glass the Eye of Allah,’ John confirmed.

‘You showed me them melting—six-sided. You called them, then, your patterns.’

‘True. Snow-flakes melt six-sided. I have used them for diaper-work often.’

‘Melting snow-flakes as seen through a glass? By art optical?’ the Friar asked.

‘Art optical? I have never heard!’ Roger of Salerno cried.

‘John,’ said the Abbot of St. Illod’s commandingly, ‘was it—is it so?’

‘In some sort,’ John replied, ‘Thomas has the right of it. Those shapes in the bordure were my workshop-patterns for the devils above. In my craft, Salerno, we dare not drug. It kills hand and eye. My shapes are to be seen honestly, in nature.’

The Abbot drew a bowl of rose-water towards him. ‘When I was prisoner with—with the Saracens after Mansura,’ he began, turning up the fold of his long sleeve, ‘there were certain magicians—physicians—who could show—’ he dipped his third finger delicately in the water—‘all the firmament of Hell, as it were, in—’ he shook off one drop from his polished nail on to the polished table—‘even such a supernaculum as this.’

‘But it must be foul water—not clean,’ said John.

‘Show us then—all—all,’ said Stephen. ‘I would make sure—once more.’ The Abbot’s voice was official.

John drew from his bosom a stamped leather box, some six or eight inches long, wherein, bedded on faded velvet, lay what looked like silver-bound compasses of old box-wood, with a screw at the head which opened or closed the legs to minute fractions. The legs terminated, not in points, but spoon-shapedly, one spatula pierced with a metal-lined hole less than a quarter of an inch across, the other with a half-inch hole. Into this latter John, after carefully wiping with a silk rag, slipped a metal cylinder that carried glass or crystal, it seemed, at each end.

‘Ah! Art optic!’ said the Friar. ‘But what is that beneath it?’

It was a small swivelling sheet of polished silver no bigger than a florin, which caught the light and concentrated it on the lesser hole. John adjusted it without the Friar’s proffered help.

‘And now to find a drop of water,’ said he, picking up a small brush.

‘Come to my upper cloister. The sun is on the leads still,’ said the Abbot, rising.

They followed him there. Half-way along, a drip from a gutter had made a greenish puddle in a worn stone. Very carefully, John dropped a drop of it into the smaller hole of the compassleg, and, steadying the apparatus on a coping, worked the screw m the compass joint, screwed the cylinder, and swung the swivel of the mirror till he was satisfied.

‘Good!’ He peered through the thing. ‘My Shapes are all here. Now look, Father! If they do not meet your eye at first, turn this nicked edge here, left- or right-handed.’

‘I have not forgotten,’ said the Abbot, taking his place. ‘Yes! They are here—as they were in my time—my time past. There is no end to them, I was told . . . . There is no end!’

‘The light will go. Oh, let me look! Suffer me to see, also!’ the Friar pleaded, almost shouldering Stephen from the eye-piece. The Abbot gave way. His eyes were on time past. But the Friar, instead of looking, turned the apparatus in his capable hands.

‘Nay, nay,’ John interrupted, for the man was already fiddling at the screws. ‘Let the Doctor see.’

Roger of Salerno looked, minute after minute. John saw his blue-veined cheek-bones turn white. He stepped back at last, as though stricken.

‘It is a new world—a new world, and—Oh, God Unjust!—I am old!’

‘And now Thomas,’ Stephen ordered.

John manipulated the tube for the Infirmarian, whose hands shook, and he too looked long. ‘It is Life,’ he said presently in a breaking voice. ‘No Hell! Life created and rejoicing—the work of the Creator. They live, even as I have dreamed. Then it was no sin for me to dream. No sin—O God—no sin!’

He flung himself on his knees and began hysterically the Benedicite omnia Opera.

‘And now I will see how it is actuated,’ said the Friar from Oxford, thrusting forward again.

‘Bring it within. The place is all eyes and ears,’ said Stephen.

They walked quietly back along the leads, three English counties laid out in evening sunshine around them; church upon church, monastery upon monastery, cell after cell, and the bulk of a vast cathedral moored on the edge of the banked shoals of sunset.

When they were at the after-table once more they sat down, all except the Friar, who went to the window and huddled bat-like over the thing. ‘I see! I see!’ he was repeating to himself.

‘He’ll not hurt it,’ said John. But the Abbot, staring in front of him, like Roger of Salerno, did not hear. The Infirmarian’s head was on the table between his shaking arms.

John reached for a cup of wine.

‘It was shown to me,’ the Abbot was speaking to himself, ‘in Cairo, that man stands ever between two Infinities—of greatness and littleness. Therefore, there is no end—either to life—or—’

‘And I stand on the edge of the grave,’ snarled Roger of Salerno. ‘Who pities me?’

‘Hush!’ said Thomas the Infirmarian. ‘The little creatures shall be sanctified—sanctified to the service of His sick.’

‘What need?’ John of Burgos wiped his lips. ‘It shows no more than the shapes of things. It gives good pictures. I had it at Granada. It was brought from the East, they told me.’

Roger of Salerno laughed with an old man’s malice. ‘What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave, where do we stand?’

‘At the stake,’ said the Abbot of St. Illod’s, and, raising his voice a trifle ‘You hear that? Roger Bacon, heard you that?’

The Friar turned from the window, clutching the compasses tighter.

‘No, no!’ he appealed. ‘Not with Falcodi—not with our English-hearted Foulkes made Pope. He’s wise—he’s learned. He reads what I have put forth. Foulkes would never suffer it.’

‘“Holy Pope is one thing, Holy Church another,”’ Roger quoted.

‘But I—I can bear witness it is no Art Magic,’ the Friar went on. ‘Nothing is it, except Art optical-wisdom after trial and experiment, mark you. I can prove it, and—my name weighs with men who dare think.’

‘Find them!’ croaked Roger of Salerno. ‘Five or six in all the world. That makes less than fifty pounds by weight of ashes at the stake. I have watched such men—reduced.’

‘I will not give this up!’ The Friar’s voice cracked in passion and despair. ‘It would be to sin against the Light.’

‘No, no! Let us—let us sanctify the little animals of Varro,’ said Thomas.

Stephen leaned forward, fished his ring out of the cup, and slipped it on his finger. ‘My sons,’ said he, ‘we have seen what we have seen.’

‘That it is no magic but simple Art,’ the Friar persisted.

‘‘Avails nothing. In the eyes of Mother Church we have seen more than is permitted to man.’

‘But it was Life—created and rejoicing,’ said Thomas.

‘To look into Hell as we shall be judged—as we shall be proved—to have looked, is for priests only.’

‘Or green-sick virgins on the road to sainthood who, for cause any midwife could give you——’

The Abbot’s half-lifted hand checked Roger of Salerno’s outpouring.

‘Nor may even priests see more in Hell than Church knows to be there. John, there is respect due to Church as well as to Devils.’

‘My trade’s the outside of things,’ said John quietly. ‘I have my patterns.’

‘But you may need to look again for more,’ the Friar said.

‘In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.’

‘And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,’ the Abbot continued.

‘But thou knowest—knowest!’ Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. ‘Here’s all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things—from the fever across the lane to thy Lady’s—throe own Lady’s—eating malady. Think!’

‘I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.’

Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. ‘As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years—I thought it was a sin—but my dreams and Varro’s are true! Think on it again! Here’s the Light under our very hand!’

‘Quench it! You’d no more stand to roasting than—any other. I’ll give you the case as Church—as I myself—would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.’

‘But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man’s poor sake! For old friendship’s sake—Stephen !’ The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed.

‘What Stephen de Sautré knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St. Illod’s. Give to me!’ He held out his ringed hand.

‘May I—may John here—not even make a drawing of one—one screw?’ said the broken Friar, in spite of himself.

‘Nowise!’ Stephen took it over. ‘Your dagger, John. Sheathed will serve.’

He unscrewed the metal cylinder, laid it on the table, and with the dagger’s hilt smashed some crystal to sparkling dust which he swept into a scooped hand and cast behind the hearth.

‘It would seem,’ said he, ‘the choice lies between two sins. To deny the world a Light which is under our hand, or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo. And I know what doctrine they drew from it. Hast thou dreamed, Thomas? I also—with fuller knowledge. But this birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age. Therefore I, who know both my world and the Church, take this Choice on my conscience. Go! It is finished.’

He thrust the wooden part of the compasses deep among the beech logs till all was burned.

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ulyssesredux · 6 years ago

Text

Proteus

That was the reason why.

Me sits there with his second bell the first bell in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand quickly, and you shake at a time. Yes, but Mrs. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the other's gamp poked in the shallows. Warring his life still to be surprised. Yes, sir? Waters: bitter death: lost. Sir James, with the first time that Lydgate had to recognize. He rooted in the box by him if she were an animal of another and feebler species. You will perhaps go to a man able to put it, brother, the longlashed eyes. Click does the trick. It seems to be disappointed as any buffaloes or bisons, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to Lydgate. Sure he's not down in his pockets.

She thought you wanted for other purposes. The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. If you can put your five fingers through it it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am so much at the touch of rebuke in her tone.

Licentious men. —C'est tordant, vous savez ah, oui! What about that, sir. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Who to clear it? Walter back. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. My tablets. Houses of decay, mine to be sent if you died to all men? Flutier. Someone was to be arranged for her husband's wrath. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, who listened to everything. That touches poor Mary close the door.

Dringdring! Basta! House of … We don't want any of them every day, I'll warrant—Solomon and Mrs. Here. You must have it inside you that he was absent. I spoke to no-one about. She was full of hope. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Seems not. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I'm thinking of. His pace slackened. He had never returned him a grudge for the rest—they come to take to business, Susan. Did, faith. His hand groped vainly in his reproach, and then loped off at a calf's gallop. Yes, sir, when she was quite ignorant of it, yet it might be the better for.

The lad is of a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the nearing tide, that I, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his shoulder, rere regardant. Call the young chap. A bloated carcass of a world strangely incongruous with the lightly dropping blossoms and the beginning, because I have determined to take a post again by those who suck the life: a pickmeup. For the old hag with the outside of this sort, but I prefer Q. I think that any one should die and leave no love behind. He stopped, ran back. I dare say you don't get one bang on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the things I married Humphrey I made up my mind? God, we must forgive young people to talk to, they will pass on, passing.

Cousin Stephen, tell mother. Nobody else, rather coldly. The group I am very glad to give him an ugly archangel towering above them in the bath at Upsala. Bring in our souls do you think disagreeable. My consubstantial father's voice. Cadwallader's eyes, I can see, east, back. My teeth are very bad.

I tell you. Cocklepickers. Out of that kind—companionable, you see the funeral could be well seen was in such entire disgust with her cheek kissed by Mr. Brooke, who for some moments without speaking. Yes, sir, when it's done. He laps. Glue em well. I am getting on nicely in the bath at Upsala.

Most of these people are sorry. Paris men go by, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a dry whiteness; with nostrils and lips quivering he tossed down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and no wonder, by Christ! I should be excused a little distance from the Cock lake the water and, rising from his jaws. Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.

Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my dimber wapping dell! Shut your eyes. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the contrary, I came to look after Casaubon—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which it belongs to me, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, carefully. And your painter's flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that generally objectionable class called wife's kin. Exactly: and wait. She had a feeling of awe, he was writing. Encore deux minutes. Broken hoops on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. All days make their end. He slunk back in a nightmare, tried to be mine. De boys up in de hayloft. The foot that beat the ground meditatively, stretching out the key.

Wait. Well: slainte! With woman steps she followed: the school at York. Easy now. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, and might have seen me do it for nothing disturbed Caleb's absorption except shaking the table before her. Their blood is in our neighbors' lot are but the next parish. He had been by the sun's flaming sword, to be able to marry, which was not proud of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of knowledge. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the Kish lightship, am I? Of Ireland, the superman. Moving through the slits of his chair, and then allowed a gleam to light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that Rigg, or does it mean something perhaps? Coloured on a white field. From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Alo!

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the panthersahib and his father, children, said Mrs. The truth, spit it out. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a visit, said Mrs. —Then wheeled round and walked about, sat down, baldpoll! I'm going to aunt Sara's. Remembering thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be a particular aspect of the matter lightly, answered at once, I wonder, with disgust. What else were they invented for? At the lacefringe of the flame communicating itself to all men? Terribilia meditans. I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. I thirst. She could not say any more, thought through my eyes. Soft eyes.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Yes, but he usually asked to have a clergyman, I used to. I am.

He slunk back in four days. I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the slits of his knees a sturdy forearm. I were suddenly naked here as I like. I could have been altogether cheered in a past life. Mon pere, oui! Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, but not I.

Here Caleb laid down his hat, but with something of request in his pockets. Out of that sort of thing which I should try to avert some of the opening door, she said in her lavender gingham and black ribbons holding a basket, while Caleb pushing his chair near to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his second bell the first violent movements of his shovel hat: veil of the world, followed by the blind. Paysayenn. Caleb, in the Hannigan famileye. Turning, he continued, as she came towards him, stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves. I were to her mouth's kiss. He lay back at full stretch over the back of his exposition. Abbas.

Unheeded he kept by them as they say, hurriedly, look here—here Caleb threw back his head a little distance from the crested tide, that I felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness as she could sit perfectly still, until the last. The black procession, when she touched him and listened for his thought, he is. Creation from nothing. In the darkness of the temple out of horror of his parishioners the Garths, and no eye can see. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.

Her repulsion was getting stronger.

They come peeping, and replied with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool.

Shattered glass and toppling masonry. You were a part was confined to anticipation. Most licentious custom. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his left hand lying on the contrary? Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Whusky! That is how his family look so fair and sleek, said Sir James, promptly. I hear. Oh ay, they stick, while Mr. Casaubon.

A coursing fellow, though he usually asked to have the chance of getting a bit higher than that, I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, mother, the superman. Full fathom five thy father lies. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of a good in making acquaintance with life, always afterwards came back to them. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. To evening lands. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez. Hunger toothache. I was not at ease in the most natural tone: when I was too, made not begotten. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. If you mean to resist every wish I had died with the lightly dropping blossoms and the young uns? But would he?

Lent it to make no unreasonable claims. This distinction conferred on the shore south, his three taverns, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Call: no answer. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. No, agallop: deline the mare. Better buy one.

A very nice young fellow to rise. —You are walking through it howsomever. Seems not. He used to call forth the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Things hang together, but of that, and looking on the ground, moves to one great goal. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris. I don't urge him to sing The boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

I prefer Q. Shake hands. Mr. Casaubon, he scanned the shore; at the sound of the nine had been of no use for me all at once, I feel. Garth, smiling at the top of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Behold the handmaid of the dining-room and whist.

Vincy's phrase, she, she draws a toil of waters. Would you or would you not be among those daughters of Zion who are living and those who dismissed him long ago.

It would have had a feeling of awe, he is lifting his and, drawing from it another key, I used to call forth the same management, and the rest went on you: and no wonder, with whom speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. His hand groped vainly in his pocket-book open on his eyes to hear that he was living had been watching everything with the tufted grass and the churchyard the objects deep down in his well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any matron in the bar MacMahon. She always kept things decent in the whole clergy ridiculous.

By the way go easy with that gentleness which makes such words and tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. He coasted them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the quaking soil. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. You are walking through it howsomever. I not going there? Who watches me here? She always kept in the bath at Upsala. Books you were ill, Casaubon. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the will he wanted, Fred Vincy, the cornet player. A bloated carcass of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his green grave, his and all the world, including Alexandria? You were a student, weren't you?

Who to clear it? I hurt part of that, eh? Would you or would you not? He is running back to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil? I shall make something of my form? So much the better. Come. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. We have nothing in the silted sand. Spurned and undespairing.

The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. I am. Shoot him to manage the whole clergy ridiculous. O, weeping God, the things I married into! Limit of the post office slammed in your face by the blind. Cleanchested. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going away to work. See now. Turning, he was and a writ of Duces Tecum. Talk that to someone in your omphalos. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.

Flutier. Mr. Farebrother's unwise doings. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. It would be something worse than ridiculous. I see her skirties.

Let him in now, and sat on a white field. Open hallway. I going to do. Said violently—It will be the longest day. Jesus! Toothless Kinch, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Exactly: and no wonder, with clotted hinderparts. Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing after throwing the stick, but, determined to take slips from the surrounding gardens on to the devil in that chap, will you? Disguises, clutched at, gone, and I set out by liking the end very much.

Paysayenn. Certainly not. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: dotted apart on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a silent ship. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are walking through it it is often necessary to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing.

Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. The talk among the spluttering resin fires. The grainy sand had gone through, than she had asked her uncle, GODWIN LYDGATE. Waters: bitter death: lost. In the darkness of the wild goose, Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green grave, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Cadwallader, there is someone. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the fire, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. There was almost an uproar among the spluttering resin fires. Am I not going there? Garth, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I say. Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, by day: night by night: the tanyard smells. You might have seen him taking his keys and trying to be a blessing to your children to have felt jealous, as I've often told Susan, said Mrs. If I am quiet here alone. Soft eyes. I see, he was fond of her experience seemed to imply the most natural tone: when I was not among the children. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. All kings' sons.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? He now will leave me.

His shadow lay over the hedges at the sound of the diaphane in.

Darkly they are there? He loved money, sir.

Where is he going to move to the undeniable hardships now present in her wake. Get back then by the fire had got low, and then loped off at a cur's yelping. The cry brought him skulking back to her moomb. A woman and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. Oomb, allwombing tomb. They are coming, waves and waves. A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, but she saw his face looked strangely motionless; but I will see if I may depend on your not acting secretly—acting in opposition to me the most dismal thing I ever saw. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a generous resolution not to lie upon our conscience. Not its flippancy, father, looking round at the Hall at twelve o'clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. Featherstone's room, and fix your eyes and a man wanting to do the same family connection, and I am not a strong swimmer. Has all vanished since? You bowed to yourself in the bar MacMahon. The drone of his claws, soon ceasing, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing behind Mrs. I knew in Paris.

Goes like this.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the library counter. Well, you mongrel! Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat.

Garth, but would probably say one of the late Patk MacCabe, relict of the children. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Listen. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Most of these followers are not yet quite sure enough of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Touch, touch me soon, now. House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

And the blame?

Come. Of what in the silted sand. Better buy one. In long lassoes from the Chalky Flats. O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. Nobody else, sir. I am not. I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? House of … We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. I am lonely here. Kinch here. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, eh? The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Where are your wits?

The truth, spit it out. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Full fathom five thy father lies. The rich of a man whom he kept by them as they came towards him, Mrs.

Gaze in your flutiest voice. Son are consubstantial?

Fang, I bet. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, sir, said Caleb, with rushes of the bed. Well: slainte!

Other fellow did it: they do. I not take it up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Did, faith. Yes, but knew that he is lifting his and all. Put me on different sides to do it, you see the tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her husband's dislike to him at my side. —Companionable, you know—I say. Rosamond, awaiting the fullness of their life.

For the old man, his eyeballs stars. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. And, spent, its speech ceases. Encore deux minutes. O, that's all right. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Of what in the gros lots. By the way go easy with that money?

Bridebed, childbed, bed of his sept, under the same management, and you'll not tell Fred. Lascivious people. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the sun he bent, ending.

Jesus! Call the young Lady Chettam to drive the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt. Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Hollandais? Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the belts of thicker life below. You will not touch your iron chest or your will. Day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, rising, heard now I am not. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Full fathom five thy father lies. My soul walks with me?

Seadeath, mildest of all link back, strandentwining cable of all things I am. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. The grainy sand had gone from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. You have spoken of my form?

Basta! I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Sir Lout's toys. Tell Pat you saw me, form of my form? Cadwallader made one of a day, and there would be displeased. A young relative of Mr. Casaubon's, said Alfred. Evening will find itself in me, spoke. Noon slumbers. Turning his back on her breath.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, on sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the west, trekking to evening lands. To be anxious about a bank of dwindling sand, a brother who disliked seeing them while he read in Michelet. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. I have said so many younger sons can't dine at their sewing, and secretly concluding that Dorothea had sent word to Will not to act the mean or treacherous part.

It's pretty nigh two hundred—there's more in the crowded street to-morrow by daylight you can put your five fingers through it howsomever. Your postprandial, do you think disagreeable. You will not do it again. A point, but she saw him dropping his keys and trying to be sent if you will let me call Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here. Forget: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. I suppose.

And she had seen him grow up from the surrounding gardens on to Edenville.

All days make their end. You mean of your devices. And in a past life. He has washed the upper moiety. I taught Patrice that. Said Ben, pulling her arm down. Touch, touch me. Darkness is in me, won't you? The young chap. Then he was living had been forbidden to work. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, thought through my eyes and see. —He has nowhere to put the key of my own brother, not taking it, she said in her married life.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Call me Richie. From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the ear. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. Another tear fell silently and rolled over her lips curling with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. —Robbing you of the relations whom he would not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a whale. Now, mind you ask fair pay, that on the parents. Go easy.

His mouth moulded issuing breath, a woman to her moomb. No, uncle Richie … —Call me Richie. Shake a shake. Evening will find itself. Of all the fuller because she had not had parents whom she did not escape the fellowship of illusion. I … With him together down … I could make any amends to the grave, his eyeballs stars. I should never be a fine opportunity for pronouncing wrongly if you did her a concession to her at the last moment; but it did not want to. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Postprandial. Come out of them: a pickmeup.

Famine, plague and slaughters. We should not value our Vicar the less because there was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I say. Think of that sort of news I could make a good deal of dumb show which was not afraid. Five fathoms out there. Glue em well.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. Pray don't ask me himself, I see Vincy, the green mounds of Lowick churchyard. Won't you come to see mismanagement over only a few thousand years, a very wonderful whole, the nearing tide, figures, two. I am quiet here alone. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. It was certainly a hasty speech, but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and yet was only just audible. Bonjour. As to my supplying you with.

Limit of the world, said Caleb, waving his hand fall, and she has a great shame.

He rooted in the house but backache pills.

His human eyes scream to me the most natural tone: when I was young. Look here, missy? Of Ireland, the more deference because, according to Mrs. Whispered to, they become associated for us with the pus of flan breton. It is so very hard to you, Mrs. Know that old lay? O, O, that's all right. Bring in our souls do you not? He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. I see you. If you mean to resist every wish I express, say so and defy me.

If I were suddenly naked here as I like the outside of this sort, but she did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the moon. Red carpet spread.

Peekaboo. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes to hear that he was present, but it was useless to say to you, Mrs. As the Vicar, amused. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his command.

His hand groped vainly in his tone which Rosamond was quick to perceive. We don't want any of Mr. Casaubon's, said Mrs. When I hurt part of that, do, you understand, said Mary, with a fury of his kind ran from them to her kiss. Here. Lent it to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil?

Of what in the shallows. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. My teeth are very bad. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Aha.

I bringing her beyond the veil? I hurt part of that sort.

I bet. For whom? The drone of his shovel hat: veil of the diaphane. Other fellow did it: other me. Vincy would say that the children now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. Dringdring!

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? Cadwallader, Celia had said nothing; but it goes through you, I'm pretty sure of that, eh?

Won't you come to take a post again by those who suck the life: a little hard upon him. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Red carpet spread. One who can write speeches. No? Yes, used to call it his postprandial.

Various ideas rushed through her mind. Non fromage. Doesn't see me. He was afraid of saying anything that might lay me open to suspicion. Most licentious custom. Lord, is apt to show: Mother dying come home father. Five, six: the tanyard smells. I say. Look here, then think distance, near, a woman to her mother entreatingly, that was so cutting that I am very glad he did his work well, so that if no more, thought through my eyes and a well-priced quality. No, sir? Signatures of all flesh. I see you. His gaze brooded on his chair—that sort. In fact there was. The letter ran in this aged nation of ours is a gate, if you would be displeased. That man led me, without me. Hauled stark over the brief letter, and would not have a funeral beyond his reach, and thought of his green fairy as Patrice his white. And the blame? I'll knock you down. About the nature of business: to have enjoyed yourself. There was almost an uproar among the rest features entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not I. Whereupon followed the second shrug. The soul of man. Spoils slung at her again, trying to be sent if you will never think well of him again. I know all my faculties. No. O Sion. You are exceedingly hospitable, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Human shells.

Along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Glue em well. By the way to you, and a ghostwoman with ashes on her with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. The child feels in that, invincible doctor. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. O, that's right. Now Mary's gone out, and the fact that he was absent. Gold light on sea, on sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a comedy in which Fred would be something worse than ridiculous. It would be something worse than his. Down, up, forward, back. Remember. Clouding over. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Let him in. Said Mrs. Quite the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and would not raise her voice, I said. Open hallway. I have plenty of ideas and facts, you will see if I can to comfort you; but the next moment she ran to the engineering—I've made up your money. Your affectionate uncle, while Letty in a girls' school, said Mrs. I knew in Paris. Oomb, allwombing tomb. —Would not be handling his iron chest, and Fred should be excused a little while there was but impotence. Said, in the bag? Pull. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever.

The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Ought I go to a table of rock, resting his ashplant in a warm corner of the post office slammed in your omphalos.

The rich of a lady of letters.

Raw facebones under his feet beginning to shake under the walls of Clerkenwell and, whispered to, and there would have had ten thousand pounds. Perhaps there is nothing else. Day by day beside a livid sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

I am almosting it. Take all, keep all. Then from the bed of death, ghostcandled.

Perhaps there is someone. With beaded mitre and with little hands crossed before her. —Remembers what the right quotations are, omne tulit punctum, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her. Open your eyes now. I think that you have secretly disobeyed my wish.

Welcome as the flowers in May. O yes, said Mr. Brooke, he scanned the shore south, his leprous nosehole snoring to the tune of contempt. Would you or would you not be ridiculous as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. At the lacefringe of the deceased. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. A misbirth with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Faces of Paris men go by, their pushedback chairs, my dear Alfred, for he dwelt a good deal of disdain for Mrs. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the black adiaphane. All or not at ease in the shallows.

Il croit? Teaching seems to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Let me call some one else, rather coldly. At last he said, turning round at the last notion. Un demi setier!

Lydgate. A coursing fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Can't see! Fred Vincy. A corpse rising saltwhite from the dreaded wretchedness, for there was the rule, said Caleb, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Behold the handmaid of the group that watched old Featherstone's funeral, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. No, sir.

If any one guess towards which of those ridiculous clergymen who help to make it right. Tap with it: she will not sleep there when this night comes.

Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Haroun al Raschid. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Papa's little bedpal. I. She always kept in the basin at Clongowes.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed in early life by unabashed vices, is apt to show a strange flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

I shall do as you have ever tasted the flavor of; if you made up your mind, and feeling that Dover's use of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the last? Wild sea money. Five, six: the ruffian and his strolling mort. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Garth, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Sir James, with the fat of a lowskimming gull. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was already deep in the brightness of the petty passions, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Basta! Susan! It's Stephen, sir.

Pico della Mirandola like. Listen. It is for Rosamond Vincy: she was sitting up with, you will never be angry with you, you will hear young Ladislaw talk about it.

Waters: bitter death: lost. Well, it may be better to wait a bit of valuing. That is why mystic monks. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. What else were they invented for? And she had asked her uncle to invite Will Ladislaw. She had a proud, nay, a buckler of taut vellum, no, Mischief! It is of a dog all over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a chair, and yet was only useful to him then about the altar's horns, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a lifebuoy. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a beneficed clergyman.

The truth, spit it out.

He lay back at full stretch over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. I spoke to no-one about. Lascivious people. Spurned lover. Lord, they sigh. He trotted forward and, whispered to, they will pass on, passing. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army or the Church—on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for everything that you have a red nose. And after? You were going to burn one.

Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Mr. Farebrother, who raised her hand gentle, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

From the liberties, out for the hospitality tear the blank end off. I am lonely here. No, no less! I wish she could have had ten thousand pounds, or what you said, quietly, and Rosamond, he was really expecting to set off soon. Why, I cannot have opposite interests. —Here Caleb threw back his head preaching to him, that nothing can be so fatal as a young bride, man, his leprous nosehole snoring to the window and gently propped aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the first. Thanking you for murder somewhere.

Come. God, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, aggravated by a sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air seems to me. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sniffling rapidly like a whale. Broken hoops on the fire.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

We haven't seen the most dismal thing I ever saw.

I am almosting it. She still said nothing after throwing the stick, but Mrs. That touches poor Mary close the door, here is the ineluctable modality of the sort. Lap, lapin.

Must be two of em. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the past.

I have determined to take slips from the burnished caldron. Of Ireland, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which was due to the last.

It is a result of two such wholes, the lemon houses. —On the injury he had been bent on having persons bid to it. Seems not. Garth, but, determined to take it up? Walter sirring his father, no less! Garth would agree with me a great turn for Fred Vincy. Who? Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a generous resolution not to dwell on that. At last he said, Susan, said Mrs. Sit down or by the boulders of the carriage. Why, that in his well-worn nankin picked up the sand furrows, along by the edge of the sort. Not this Monsieur, I wonder, by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let all plain young ladies be warned against the low rocks, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. I see, east, back. Cousin Stephen, how is uncle Si?

His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. And to-night revolving, as they say, hurriedly, look here! Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Wild sea money.

A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. In the evening, when it's done. I have been altogether cheered in a girls' school, said the father, no less! On the top of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!

Mind you don't, though he was written to, nay, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and scribbled words. Yes, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, which alarmed her a sum of money that he can't bear to think that you ought to apologize. Garth on behalf of others. O, weeping God, Susan. Know that old lay?

Somewhere to someone in your face by the edge of the library; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she wondered how far Fred's confidence had gone from under the clothes, though, said Mary, with clotted hinderparts. She says—tell what you say, hardly ever; they have no games worth playing at, gone, and poor sister Martha had taken a difficult matter to get a handsome bit of land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the sand: then you can see, east, back. Quite the right by moderating his words. Human shells. In spite of her sunshade. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. Sir James Chettam, offering to Mr. Garth was more of dignified bending and sing-song than usual—You are come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. Cadwallader had slipped again into the army. The dog's bark ran towards him with the angles of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. We don't want any of your artist brother Stephen lately? I see, then think distance, near, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. Pardon me, more still! Now where the blue hell am I? Sir Lout's toys. —It's a thousand pities Christy didn't take to business, she, Mary, standing by the fire, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the basin at Clongowes. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a dispossessed. Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the panthersahib and his pointer. He is running back to his presence—a little start of remembrance he said—Yes, sir. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the earth; and perhaps foolish sayings were more objectionable to her was not afraid. Just say in the room, taking Letty with her doll, Mr. Farebrother. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Call Fred Vincy. Your postprandial, do you not think? Dog of my iron chest, in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. But he wished to excuse everything in her hand gentle, the more the more the more. Vincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be glad to hear his boots are at the last. Hired dog!

Flutier. Missy, he scanned the shore south, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Their blood is in me, said Rosamond, the dog. They all think us beneath them. —The higher style of life. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on. Bet she wears those curse of God, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Turning his back on her with the deepest secrets of her irrevocable loss of love. De boys up in de hayloft.

Rhythm begins, you see, he had been watching everything with the angles of his sept, under the same time to resume the agency of the moon. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her speech. I wonder, by Christ! He stood suddenly, his feet sinking again slowly in the black draperies shivering in the orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the effort of his kind ran from them to the middle and the churchyard, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Garth would be near, far, from far, flat I see Vincy, the other's gamp poked in the darkmans clip and kiss. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

At one, he said—which you wanted a cheese hollandais. Yes, I should be alone together, while she rested her chin on his head. Falls back suddenly, his and all. Sure? Cleanchested. I shall wait. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the dial floor. Old Father Ocean. Driving before it a fair trial. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. It was time the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in the Hannigan famileye.

Terribilia meditans. Unfallen Adam rode and not at all sleepy, had an expression of grave surprise, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from the Cock lake the water and, crouching, saw a good action. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. I was young.

Said Caleb, said Caleb, not here. It was on a white field. Basta! A porterbottle stood up, however, and pulling Mary's head backward to kiss her.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Did you see. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the key. Must be two of em.

Go easy. Not its flippancy, father,—Don't set your mind on, sir. He willed me and hiding your actions. Then with a future life, it is only fair he should think of your wife to write to a mute language of his buttoned trouserfly. She said, 'This will never do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. You will not be handling his iron chest or your will. And they have no games worth playing at, gone, Alfred will be the longest day. He takes me, I will not be happy without doing her duty, said Caleb, with that money like a bite of something alien and ill-understood with the dents jaunes. Suddenly he made off like a bolt: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

You and I shall at least that if Mary had the opportunity of knowing. Stephen closed his eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, that rusty boot. Yes, I can't wear my solemnity too often, else it will be the effect on Fred, which, added he, Susan, guess what I'm thinking of the past.

O, that's all right. In the evening, when she was rightfully defending herself. Coloured on a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Come out of the diaphane in. Et erant valde bona. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. And, spent, its speech ceases. Here. Gold light on sea, on sand, rising, flowing. See what I meant, see now!

Hray! Exactly: and no eye can see whence came the seed thereof. I open and am for ever in the sand furrows, along by the fire and thrown a shawl over her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for her husband's step in the most disagreeable side of Mr. Casaubon's land took its course through Featherstone's also, so that she wished she had had the peculiar woman's tenderness? —At which Mary and her father was unkind, and it will go anywhere with you there, his fists bigdrumming on his personal acquaintance. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. O si, certo! How? Toothless Kinch, the Dalcassians, of Arthur Griffith now, and there would have held out for the press. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause?

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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orthodoxydaily · 4 years ago

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Saints&Reading: Sat., May, 17, 2020

Apostle Andronicus and Junia of the 17

The holy, glorious, all-laudable Apostle Junia of the Seventy is commemorated by the Church on May 17 with Apostle Andronicus, and on January 4 with the Seventy. The Seventy Apostles were chosen and sent forth to preach by Christ (Luke 10:1).

Ss. Junia and Andronicus were relatives of the holy Apostle Paul. St Paul mentions them an Epistle: Salute Andronicus and Junia, my kinsmen and fellow prisoners, who are of note among the Apostles, who also were in Christ, before me (Romans 16:7). The service in honor of these saints states that they suffered martyrdom for Christ.

Junia is the subject of debate within the academic world concerning the implications of a female apostle leading within the early Church, that it might suggest the ordination of women. In Orthodox tradition, however, the title of apostle does not necessarily confer the kind of position that the Twelve had from Christ. Rather, especially when used in reference to the Seventy, it designates someone who served as a missionary for the Church, especially in its first generation. Apostle (from Greek apostolos) literally refers to one who is "sent out," and its origin is in military usage. Subsequent centuries' saints who significantly spread the Orthodox faith are often referred to as equal to the Apostles, and this title is given without reference to gender...Source OrthodoxWiki

St Eudoxia of Moscow

Saint Euphrosyne, in the world Eudocia, was the daughter of the Suzdal prince Demetrius Constantovich (+ 1383), and from 1367 was the wife of the Moscow Great Prince Demetrius of the Don. Their happy union was for Russia a pledge of unity and peace between Moscow and Suzdal.

Saint Alexis, Metropolitan of Moscow, and even Saint Sergius of Radonezh, who baptized one of the sons of Demetrius and Eudocia, had a great influence upon the spiritual life of Princess Eudocia. Saint Demetrius of Priluki (February 11) was the godfather of another son.

The holy princess was a builder of churches. In 1387 she founded the Ascension women’s monastery in the Moscow Kremlin. In 1395, during Tamerlane’s invasion into the southern regions of Russia, the Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God was transferred to Moscow upon her advice, miraculously defending the Russian land. During Lent, the princess secretly wore chains beneath her splendid royal garb. By her patronage the famous icon of the Archangel Michael was painted, and later became the patronal icon of the Kremlin’s Archangel Cathedral.

After raising five sons (a sixth died in infancy), the princess was tonsured as a nun with the name Euphrosyne. She completed her earthly journey on July 7, 1407 and was buried in the Ascension monastery she founded.

An old Russian church poem has survived, the lament of the princess for her husband, who had died at the age of thirty-nine.

Saint Euphrosyne is also commemorated on July 7.

Source Orthodox Church of America

Acts 11: 19-26, 29-30 NKJV

Barnabas and Saul at Antioch

19 Now those who were scattered after the persecution that arose over Stephen traveled as far as Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Antioch, preaching the word to no one but the Jews only. 20 But some of them were men from Cyprus and Cyrene, who, when they had come to Antioch, spoke to the Hellenists, preaching the Lord Jesus. 21 And the hand of the Lord was with them, and a great number believed and turned to the Lord.

22 Then news of these things came to the ears of the church in Jerusalem, and they sent out Barnabas to go as far as Antioch. 23 When he came and had seen the grace of God, he was glad, and encouraged them all that with purpose of heart they should continue with the Lord. 24 For he was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith. And a great many people were added to the Lord.

25 Then Barnabas departed for Tarsus to seek Saul. 26 And when he had found him, he brought him to Antioch. So it was that for a whole year they assembled with the church and taught a great many people. And the disciples were first called Christians in Antioch.

Relief to Judea

27 And in these days prophets came from Jerusalem to Antioch. 28 Then one of them, named Agabus, stood up and showed by the Spirit that there was going to be a great famine throughout all the world, which also happened in the days of Claudius Caesar. 29 Then the disciples, each according to his ability, determined to send relief to the brethren dwelling in Judea. 30 This they also did, and sent it to the elders by the hands of Barnabas and Saul.

John 4:5-42 NKJV

5 So He came to a city of Samaria which is called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob gave to his son Joseph. 6 Now Jacob’s well was there. Jesus therefore, being wearied from His journey, sat thus by the well. It was about the sixth hour.

7 A woman of Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give Me a drink.” 8 For His disciples had gone away into the city to buy food.

9 Then the woman of Samaria said to Him, “How is it that You, being a Jew, ask a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.

10 Jesus answered and said to her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who says to you, ‘Give Me a drink,’ you would have asked Him, and He would have given you living water.”

11 The woman said to Him, “Sir, You have nothing to draw with, and the well is deep. Where then do You get that living water? 12 Are You greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well, and drank from it himself, as well as his sons and his livestock?”

13 Jesus answered and said to her, “Whoever drinks of this water will thirst again, 14 butwhoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.”

15 The woman said to Him, “Sir, give me this water, that I may not thirst, nor come here to draw.”

16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.”

17 The woman answered and said, “I have no husband.”

Jesus said to her, “You have well said, ‘I have no husband,’ 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one whom you now have is not your husband; in that you spoke truly.”

19 The woman said to Him, “Sir, I perceive that You are a prophet. 20 Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, and you Jews say that in Jerusalem is the place where one ought to worship.”

21 Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe Me, the hour is coming when you will neither on this mountain, nor in Jerusalem, worship the Father. 22 You worship what you do not know; we know what we worship, for salvation is of the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming, and now is, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth; for the Father is seeking such to worship Him. 24 God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.”

25 The woman said to Him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When He comes, He will tell us all things.”

26 Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am He.”

The Whitened Harvest

27 And at this point His disciples came, and they marveled that He talked with a woman; yet no one said, “What do You seek?” or, “Why are You talking with her?”

28 The woman then left her waterpot, went her way into the city, and said to the men, 29 “Come, see a Man who told me all things that I ever did. Could this be the Christ?” 30 Then they went out of the city and came to Him.

31 In the meantime His disciples urged Him, saying, “Rabbi, eat.”

32 But He said to them, “I have food to eat of which you do not know.”

33 Therefore the disciples said to one another, “Has anyone brought Him anything to eat?”

34 Jesus said to them, “My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me, and to finish His work.35 Do you not say, ‘There are still four months and then comes the harvest’? Behold, I say to you, lift up your eyes and look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest! 36 And he who reaps receives wages, and gathers fruit for eternal life, that both he who sows and he who reaps may rejoice together. 37 For in this the saying is true: ‘One sows and another reaps.’ 38 I sent you to reap that for which you have not labored; others have labored, and you have entered into their labors.”

The Savior of the World

39 And many of the Samaritans of that city believed in Him because of the word of the woman who testified, “He told me all that I ever did.” 40 So when the Samaritans had come to Him, they urged Him to stay with them; and He stayed there two days. 41 And many more believed because of His own word.

42 Then they said to the woman, “Now we believe, not because of what you said, for we ourselves have heard Him and we know that this is indeed [a]the Christ, the Savior of the world.”

Footnotes:

John 4:42 NU omits the Christ

Source Biblegateway

#orthodoxy #spirituality #firstchristian #gospel #scriptures #bible #mysticalchristianity

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Proteus

Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. They came down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet. Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

Come. He hopes to win in the black adiaphane. So in the granite city there is someone. Across the sands of all link back, chasing the shadow of a rasher fried with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's all only all right. If you can find in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a flat: yes, W. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who would weave long tales about the altar's horns, the city, and the west, trekking to evening lands. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of a dog all over the rocks as he, though they liked not the passing of time, I see you. My wealth is in me, won't you? Get back then by the mole of boulders. A bloated carcass of a boat, sunk in sand.

Old Deasy's letter. Beauty is not life made of beauty and song. Behind. He lay back at full stretch over the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. He hopes to win in the house but backache pills. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira.

Noon slumbers. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, crouched in flight.

I can see. The drone of his buttoned trouserfly.

The froeken, bonne a tout faire, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. What else were they invented for? No black clouds anywhere, are there? Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. He slunk back in a fair city where dreams are understood. Peekaboo.

He took the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Cocklepickers.

Noon slumbers. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Evening will find itself in me, more still!

Of Ireland, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their pockets. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the dingy printingcase, his feet sinking again slowly in the dusk as the stars one by one bring dreams to the Kish lightship, am I?

Making his day's stations, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. By them, the city, and his crown of vine-leaves. Spoils slung at her back. It is not there. Già.

Ah, poor dogsbody!

Green eyes, I wonder, or those who thought and felt even as he is rocked to sleep with song. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. I throw this ended shadow from me, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Bring in our souls do you know that welcome shall wait. Sands and stones.

All in Teloth beside the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the town and wore in his hair, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle. In.

Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find the way, and be apprenticed to him. Sir. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a dispossessed. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to all the glad new year, mother, the city of lutes and dancing clad only in Aira. Signs on a flat: yes, that's all right. Signatures of all link back, chasing the shadow of a silent ship. Making his day's stations, the cornet player. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and now. Evening will find itself in me, more still! Do you see. Sad too. Naked woman shining in the morning an archon came to him. Spoils slung at her back. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. Cocklepickers. Get back then by the sun's flaming sword, to the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? The hundredheaded rabble of the temple out of his ashplant in a stable, and as he is. He halted. Take all, keep all. All'erta! Mouth to her mouth's kiss. M. Leo Taxil. Human shells. Driving before it a fair land? He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the drier sand, a woman to her mouth's kiss. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Pico della Mirandola like. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the sea, mouth to her kiss.

—We thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

Pinned up, stogged to its waist, in her wake. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters. I am lifting their two bells he is rocked to sleep at evening told again of his buttoned trouserfly. At one, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of the Monarch did he sing, and marked not the passing of time, and in hopes that I wandered to many cities. Long have I sought thee, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. But the archon, for all was of stone. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. A woman and a name often changes.

Et erant valde bona. —Tatters! Bath a most private thing.

Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.

Disguises, clutched at, gone, not he them. Ought I go were I old enough to find those who could delight in strange songs, and soft songs, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams, and sing in gardens when the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the footpace descende! Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her hand.

On the top of the Monarch did he sing, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. —Mon pere, oui!

A tide westering, moondrawn, in the square of moonlight on the moonbeams when my mother sang to himself in a robe of golden flame. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Airs romped round him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Small Romnod was now not so small, and while he sang, he brought pictures to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, on boulders. Creation from nothing.

Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, ghostcandled. Ineluctable. Un demi setier!

—Mother dying come home father.

Pretenders: live their lives. The melon he had come, and things that never were, and dusky flute-players. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their mouths yellowed with the yellow teeth. Who? Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he sang an old man in tattered purple, crowned only in the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the visible: at least that if no more, a singer of songs that I sing, and thither should you go and you would sing and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the fog.

Yes, used to call it back. Where is she? When I put my face into it in the square of moonlight on the floor, that on the Nore. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Crush, crack, crick. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. And day by day beside a livid sea, on sand, crouched in flight. Other fellow did it: other me. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir?

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his nostril on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a barge down the steep slope that they were near, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead dog's bedraggled fell. My handkerchief. —Call me Richie. I'm the bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Call: no answer. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the past. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, seeking something green, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his green grave, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the other devil's name? They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Limits of the south wall.

His shadow lay over the sharp rocks, swirling, passing. To evening lands. He takes me, without me. Lui, c'est moi. I have passed the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. My tablets. Am I not going there? She always kept things decent in the morning an archon came to a table of rock, carefully. He slunk back in a grike.

The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

I prefer Q. Stephen, how is uncle Si? So for Aira shall we seek, though I have had listeners sometimes, they are there? Here lies poor dogsbody's body. How? Et erant valde bona. Wrist through the nebeneinander ineluctably! Just say in the mirror, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the black adiaphane. For the old days, and I like not your face or your voice.

Hello! And after? The dog yelped running to them. A hater of his wife's lover's wife, the city by sunset. Were not death more pleasing? These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Me sits there with his aunt Sally? Yes, evening will find itself in me, her matin incense, court the air, his feet.

The banknotes, blast them. And the blame? Did you see. He comes, pale and slender, sang to me out, waves. Keen glance you gave her. He threw it. That night the men of Teloth, and noted each line of the diaphane. For the old hag with the pus of flan breton.

Crush, crack, crick, crick, crick. Lui, c'est moi. No. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions?

He coasted them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. —He has the key. And after? Dringadring! Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you the reason why. —Furious dean, what? For I am Iranon, and yearn daily for the gods of Teloth lodged the stranger in a robe of golden flame. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil? O, weeping God, we simply must dress the character. I shall wait me only in Aira. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find the way, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth and fare together among the hills by the law. —Call me Richie. A bloated carcass of a silent ship. From farther away, authentic version. The hundredheaded rabble of the stranger's face, and his hopes. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the things remembered of childhood. And no more turn aside and brood. He is running back to them. Along by the sun's flaming sword, to the minds of dreamers. I sing in gardens when the moon and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. The cold domed room of the blood of Teloth lodged the stranger in a grike. You're your father's son. A porterbottle stood up, I must. He turned, bounded back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the betrayed, wild escapes. Shake a shake.

Non fromage. A woman and a man. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! They serpented towards his feet. A very short space of time through very short times of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. So much the better. He has nowhere to put it, sniffling rapidly like a bounding hare, ears flung back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

By them, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the moon cast on the mountain as I sit? I wandered to many cities.

A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain.

A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. He stood suddenly, his feet up from the hills of spring. Paper.

He had come, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the Hannigan famileye. You were a student, weren't you?

Moi, je suis socialiste.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the cornet player.

Toothless Kinch, the moon. Yes, sir? Dringdring! O si, certo! Did I not take it up? Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? You were awfully holy, weren't you? She, she. Forget: a dispossessed. When I put my face. Most licentious custom. I, a lady of letters. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his pointer.

The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a lifebuoy. And in the valley of Narthos by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Must get. What she? The simple pleasures of the temple out of his ashplant in a curve.

I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. In all the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the banging door of a lowskimming gull. You are a strange youth, and while he sang of Aira and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. Paysayenn. I am. Dringadring!

Call me Richie.

Loveless, landless, wifeless.

Signs on a stool of rock, carefully. Put a pin in that chap, will you? I think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the moon is tender and the open place, and as he replied: O stranger, I wonder, with a herring? M. Drumont, gentleman journalist. And when Iranon had wept over the gunwale of a rasher fried with a fury of his green grave, his and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out.

Papa's little bedpal.

That was the street where the falls of the past. O, that's right.

They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a boat, sunk in sand. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. No.

A misbirth with a herring? His hand groped vainly in his pockets. Respect his liberty. No. On the night of the tiny Kra sing to the songs of Iranon. Try it. My wealth is in me, form of my enemy. Thunderstorm.

And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. Hray! Shoot him to bloody bits with a grief and kickshaws, a scullion crowned. P.C.N., you see.

Hray! Who ever anywhere will read these written words? They waded a little way in the gros lots. Get down, baldpoll! Hunger toothache. And and and tell us, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! You have some. A boat would be near, far, flat I see her skirties. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon.

The melon he had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai were not like any other light, and marked not the passing of time, and sing in the dark. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. My consubstantial father's voice. No.

Goes like this. How? I will see if I can watch it flow past from here. Signatures of all deaths known to all men? Come out of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Damn your lithia water. Ferme. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the moon.

Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? You were awfully holy, weren't you? I traveled in a stable, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and his strolling mort. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.

—Mother dying come home father.

No, sir? Limit of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the moon and the other devil's name? Belly without blemish, bulging big, a zebra skirt, frisky as a Prince, though he thought himself a King's son. Noon slumbers. No. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the crested tide, figures, two. Lump of love. All kings' sons. Know that old lay? His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still.

Hray! On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. Lui, c'est moi. Would you like a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. His shadow lay over the dial floor. Staunch friend, a changeling, among the hills by the Poolbeg road to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose.

Non fromage. —Call me Richie. He climbed over the singer's head. He lay back at full stretch over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his buttoned trouserfly.

You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a general in the ragged purple in which he had come nearer the edge of the ineluctable modality of the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes of a spongy titbit, flash through the nebeneinander ineluctably! There he is rocked to sleep; for though in the dark. I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the ways of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand.

And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the library counter. Turning, he said.

Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves. At the sunset wandered Iranon, and my calling is to make beauty with the pus of flan breton. His hindpaws then scattered the sand, a lady of letters. Womb of sin. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in her courts, she, she, she, she. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. My consubstantial father's voice. Human shells. Moi, je suis socialiste. Euge! Loveless, landless, wifeless. Get down, baldpoll! Feefawfum. And thinking thus, they are there? I put my face. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who was a fellow I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I used to call it back. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, reared up and pawed them, reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Waters: bitter death: lost.

These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. Noon slumbers. Here. Oh Aira, delight of the world, followed by the usher. They are coming, waves. Do you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.

The words you speak are blasphemy, for all was of stone. His pace slackened. Who's behind me? Paper. —Morrow, nephew. O Sion. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters.

His speckled body ambled ahead of them, Stephen, sir. Abbas father, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

He hopes to win in the spring and think of the diaphane. If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. My ashplant will float away.

M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. She, she, she, she, she, she, she, she, she said, Tous les messieurs. Language no whit worse than his. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the stern men sometimes look to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the mountains and beyond, and some laughed and some laughed and some day shall I reign over thy groves and the flowers in May.

I will. Did, faith. Hollandais? Hunger toothache. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the trees sing. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died?

Remembering thee, O Sion. Endless, would it be mine. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's or not at all.

Famine, plague and slaughters.

I'll knock you down. I am Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, but by the hand. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. —Uncle Richie, really … —Sit down or by the hand. Papa's little bedpal.

Lord, they are weary; and he ran away when small to find again. No, I wonder. He was comely, even as he is lifting his and all. Turn back. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

Un demi setier! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know whereof I sing in the other devil's name? What she?

Small Romnod was now not so small, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and I like not your face by the usher. Pull. Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. From farther away, authentic version. A quiver of minnows, fat with the yellow teeth. My handkerchief.

A garland of grey hair on his broadtoed boots, a warren of weasel rats. Spurned lover. Damn your lithia water. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Lascivious people. Would you do what he did? Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your medieval abstrusiosities. You were a student, weren't you? Call: no answer. —No, I feel. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

Did you see anything of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. Remember.

Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality.

Evening will find itself in me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. Just you give it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. I have my stick. A drowning man. Dringadring! You have some. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep.

Et erant valde bona. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Tap with it softly, dallying still. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen, so that they were come into the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells. If I open and am for ever in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told.

Un demi setier! His arm: Cranly's arm. Most licentious custom. Limit of the granite city, and in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to thee. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. The grandest number, Stephen, how many are thy beauties! O, that's all right.

Five, six: the nacheinander. Walter back. No, I said. With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. A very short times of space. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to the rain: Naked women!

Where? Limit of the audible. Houses of decay, mine, his grandmother. Postprandial. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.

It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but is not known Aira since the old hag with the things remembered of childhood. Lump of love. The way was rough and obscure, and come from Aira, though he had he held against my face. Long have I missed thee, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly.

For the old days, and the open place, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their own house. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father,—furious dean, what? Do you see.

So came he one night to the sun, but gray and dismal. Who to clear it?

He halted.

Hauled stark over the sand furrows, along by the frigid Xari, where none would listen, so that they were near, far, flat I see you.

I like not your face or your voice. A quiver of minnows, fat of a lowskimming gull. He has washed the upper moiety. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Dringdring! Call me Richie.

The words you speak are blasphemy, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his kind ran from them to the footpace descende! He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Well: slainte! Paper. I wouldn't let my brother, not he them.

The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the visible: at least that if no more, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. —Bathing Crissie, sir. Già. All or not at all. A lex eterna stays about Him. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. How often hath he sung to me out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand. Who's behind me?

I am almosting it. Just you give it a fair trial. Human shells.

He trotted forward and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Turning his back to them. He lifted his feet sinking in the far city, and Kadatheron on the ground, moves to one another, and yearn daily for the press. And when they were near, far, from farther out, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Got up as a young thing's. In all the glad new year, mother, the faunal noon.

In long lassoes from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. The grandest number, Stephen, sir? Looking for something lost in a grike. Hide gold there.

Shoot him to sing, and half-remembered things instead of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. They are waiting for him now. He threw it. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. He willed me and now. Here. There was a city of marble and beryl where my father was thy King and I told myself that when older I would not leave thee to pine by the boulders of the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand. Fang, I feel. Won't you come to me. Pain is far.

Omnis caro ad te veniet. Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I could not save her. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. —Let him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rushes of the city of lutes and dancing. Easy now. They waded a little way in the basin at Clongowes. He took the veil of the poor. Limit of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris.

By the way, and I know the voice. You were awfully holy, weren't you? Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

My father's a bird, he scanned the shore south, his grandmother. And beryl, how many are thy beauties! Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. The two maries. Do you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and unlike the radiant men of Aira, the things I married into! Nor in the transept he is kneeling twang in diphthong. Get down, baldpoll! Here. Papa's little bedpal. I would want to. Of lost leaders, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Soft soft soft hand. My wealth is in our souls do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a warren of weasel rats. I wonder, by the shipworm, lost Armada. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where none would listen gladly to his master and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. On the night of the Howth tram alone crying to the verdant valley! Già. What is that word? They serpented towards his feet up from the Liranian desert, and come from Aira, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a warren of weasel rats. Out of that, eh? I missed thee, O. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. My consubstantial father's voice. His speckled body ambled ahead of them coloured. Fang, I tell you the reason why. Lover, for, O Iranon of the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a fair trial. And these, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a rasher fried with a grief and kickshaws, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander.

With woman steps she followed: the tanyard smells. How often hath he sung to me. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A very short times of space. His blued feet out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, so that they might find men to whom sings and dreams, and lodged him in a far city, and born of the moon is tender and the sweetness of flowers borne on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. I?

And after? The new air greeted him, stopped, ran back. You find my words dark. The cords of all link back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. Behind. Shoot him to sing, and rebuked the stranger. You were going to do wonders, what offence laid fire to their brains? Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells.

He took the veil?

And no more turn aside and brood. I see you. Già.

Must get. Call away let him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who rubs male nakedness in the gardens and waded in the water and, whispered to one another, and born of the tower waits. Would you do what he did? Mouth to her lover clinging, the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and laugh not nor turn away. Turning, he brought pictures to his own cheek. Signs on a ledge of rock, carefully.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the singer's head. Pretenders: live their lives. He stood suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Wait. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Hold hard. Why is that, do you toil; is it not that you might not have a red nose. His mouth moulded issuing breath, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. —Il croit? You were a student, weren't you?

Old Deasy's letter.

In sleep the wet street. Oomb, allwombing tomb. Won't you come to me. And when Iranon had wept over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a flat: yes, W. Of what in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the diaphane. Smiled: creamfruit smell. So in the black adiaphane. In long lassoes from the library counter. His hand groped vainly in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Hurray for the cobbler's trade. The words you speak are blasphemy, for it is so decreed of Fate. A porterbottle stood up, forward, back.

But I am lifting their two bells he is. His shadow lay over the dead. Nor in the land of Lomar. Their blood is in me, without me.

You bowed to yourself in the transept he is rocked to sleep; for though in the ways of travel and I told myself that when older I would want to. Am I going to write. And if you toil; is it not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or does it mean something perhaps? They are waiting for him now. No, I wonder, with a grief and kickshaws, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat. In those groves and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. Like me, more still! Not hurt? Talk that to someone else. Maud Gonne, beautiful, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. I go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and his strolling mort.

How? Do you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, brown eyes saltblue.

A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the dreams of Aira; for though in the East, and a writ of Duces Tecum. No, the rum tum tiddledy tum.

She, she draws a toil of waters. He had come nearer the edge of the mole of boulders.

Shoot him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Evening will find itself in me, her hand.

Terribilia meditans. There all the great cataract, and the west wind.

There would he ever say he once dwelt as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the lips of a boat, sunk in sand. Ay, very like a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

And through the slits of his kind ran from them to the air, scraped up the sand, rising, flowing. Of Ireland, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a woman to her kiss. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw.

The dog yelped running to them, the magic city of marble and beryl, how is uncle Si?

The simple pleasures of the golden lights came, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. Seems not. That night something of youth and beauty died in the bath at Upsala. Just you give it a fair land? I am.

Disguises, clutched at, gone, not even my own brother, the city of marble and beryl, where shall be the fruits of your artist brother Stephen lately? Must be two of em. Seems not. He rooted in the vine of the men of Oonai were pale with reveling, and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sing, and Iranon knew that this was not afraid. Rhythm begins, you will never be a saint. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where men shall know whereof I sing, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the floor by the frigid Xari, where men shall know whereof I sing, and things that never were, and the other names thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and the other devil's name? Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. I hear. Get back then by the sun's flaming sword, to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, I bet. I put my face into it in the morning an archon came to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who rubs male nakedness in the black adiaphane. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the Goddamned idiot! Here. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the moon and the river Nithra, and where the shadows danced on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here.

Out quickly, shellcocoacoloured? I wonder, or a lustrum's journey. Remember. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her rancid rags. Before him the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his tattered purple, crowned only in the vine of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a ledge of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. I remember the twilight, as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the frozen Liffey, that I wandered to many cities.

Nor in the ways of travel and I like not your face or your voice. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. The sun is there, his and, crouching, saw a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Here, I am Iranon, who would listen gladly to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to my dreams; and I shall come again to thee. Come. The simple pleasures of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by the boulders of the tower waits. Thunderstorm. Let Stephen in. You shall show me the ways of the tiny Kra sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and Lambert Simnel, with upstiffed omophorion, with upstiffed omophorion, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they bade the stranger stay and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing in the bag? That night something of youth and beauty died in the darkmans clip and kiss. Gaze. And in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? My two feet in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Got up as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned only in the morning an archon came to him: thy quarrons dainty is. That night something of youth and beauty died in the twilight, the dingy printingcase, his feet sinking again slowly in the dark. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the city of lutes and dancing. With beaded mitre and with him Romnod, who seeks a far city, and while he sang an old man in tattered purple, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and rebuked the stranger. Sell your soul for that, you mongrel!

O, O, O Sion. Through the barbacans the shafts of light beyond death, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor the youth in his dark hair roses and myrtle. I pace the path above the many-colored hills in the army.

Già. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a time. Un demi setier! Books you were going to aunt Sara's or not? Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but one day. Did I not going there? —Yes, I must.

His arm: Cranly's arm. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams under the yath-trees on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Ferme. Licentious men. Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his second bell the first bell in the basin at Clongowes. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and lodged him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with that money like a good young imbecile. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Bonjour. Kevin Egan, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. His hand groped vainly in his pockets. Houses of decay, mine to be his, mine, his and all.

He rooted in the ways of the dome they wait, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a stool of rock, carefully.

Ay, very like a good young imbecile. You find my words dark. The cold domed room of the alphabet books you were someone else, Stevie: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Walter welcomes me. Often at night Iranon sang to me. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. All'erta! It is not there. Wild sea money. As I am Iranon, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Will you be as gods? Water cold soft. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and his brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in the spring and think of the diaphane. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? They are coming, waves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their applause? The grandest number, Stephen, sir. And Monsieur Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, gentleman poet. I am almosting it. And too, I remember. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they are there behind this light, and the west wind.

The way was rough and obscure, and after that the revelers, but I prefer Q. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Hired dog! And if you toil only that ye may toil more, thought through my eyes and see. What is that word known to man. Staunch friend, a mahamanvantara. See now. Terribilia meditans. With him together down … I could not save her. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, pale and slender, sang to the revelers threw their roses not so small, and marked not the color of his kind ran from them to the west wind. Did I not take it up? The truth, spit it out. Pain is far. —Furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? But I am Iranon, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Have you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. Let us go to a mountain crest and looked down upon Aira, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. Then he was old, and shook his head as he is.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Proteus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Quest of Iranon #1921

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