Ulysses

0 Ulysses

LET US HOPE

J. J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Ste-

phen:

—I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one mo-

ment.

He went into the inner office, closing the door behind

him.

—Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine,

isn’t it? It has the prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The sack of

windy Troy. Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the

Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their

heels and rushed out into the street, yelling:

—Racing special!

Dublin. I have much, much to learn.

They turned to the left along Abbey street.

—I have a vision too, Stephen said.

—Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Craw-

ford will follow.

Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:

—Racing special!

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN

Dubliners.

—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious,

have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.

—Where is that? the professor asked.