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. Crawford 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.
--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face
glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records.
Quicker, darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
--They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar.
They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They
shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies with
the blade of a knife.
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