- Oh, do, sir. A ghoststory.
- Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.
- Weep no more, Comyn said.
- Go on then, Talbot.
- And the story, sir?
- After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot." (U2.54)
- Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...
It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses " (U2.61)
From John Milton's poem 'Lycidas, a Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish seas, 1637' lines 165ff:
'Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:'
The library of Sainte-Geneviève is located near the Pantheon on the Mont Sainte-Geneviève in Paris (5e). It is one of the oldest libraries in the world, founded in the 5c. The current building was erected 1844-1851. Geneviève is one of the patron saints of Paris.
- Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Through the dear might...
- Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.
- What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine." (U2.77)
From Milton's 'Lycidas', lines 172ff:
'So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, 175
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love."
Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
My father gave me seeds to sow." (U2.85)
— Have I heard all? Stephen asked.
— Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.
— Half day, sir. Thursday.
— Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.
They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.
Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:
— A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.
— O, ask me, sir.
— A hard one, sir." (U2.90)
The cock crew,
The sky was blue:
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
'Tis time for this poor soul
To go to heaven.
What is that?
- What, sir?
- Again, sir. We didn't hear." (U2.101)
- What is it, sir? We give it up.
Stephen, his throat itching, answered:
- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush." (U2.111)
They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues." (U2.118)
He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.
— Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.
Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
— Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
— Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.
— Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked.
— No, sir." (U2.123)