FLORRY TALBOT, A BLOND FEEBLE
GOOSEFAT WHORE IN A TATTERDEMALION GOWN OF MILDEWED STRAWBERRY, LOLLS
SPREADEAGLE IN THE SOFACORNER, HER LIMP FOREARM PENDENT OVER THE BOLSTER,
LISTENING. A HEAVY STYE DROOPS OVER HER SLEEPY EYELID.)
KITTY: (HICCUPS AGAIN WITH A KICK OF HER HORSED FOOT) O, excuse!
ZOE: (PROMPTLY) Your boy's thinking of you. Tie a knot on your shift.
(KITTY RICKETTS BENDS HER HEAD. HER BOA UNCOILS, SLIDES, GLIDES OVER HER
SHOULDER, BACK, ARM, CHAIR TO THE GROUND. LYNCH LIFTS THE CURLED
CATERPILLAR ON HIS WAND. SHE SNAKES HER NECK, NESTLING. STEPHEN GLANCES
BEHIND AT THE SQUATTED FIGURE WITH ITS CAP BACK TO THE FRONT.)
STEPHEN: As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto
Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest. It may be an
old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate COELA ENARRANT GLORIAM DOMINI. It
is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and
mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's
that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the
stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his almightiness.
Pages:
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863