"- Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?
Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light?
- Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering.
- Yes." (U9.331)
"Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks from hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives. Fox and geese." (U9.337)
"And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven." (U9.340)

In early 1597, Shakespeare bought 'New Place,' the second biggest house in Stratford (one of the purchase documents survives), and may have done some renovations to it.
"Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks.
They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.
- Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so much. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest." (U9.352)
"- But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind of private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean I don't care a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty...
He rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his defiance. His private papers in the original. Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim imo shagart. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.
Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:
- I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told us but I may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.
Bear with me.
Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes, glinting stern under wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca." (U9.362)
"Messer Brunetto, I thank thee for the word." ([U9.374])
"- As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my right breast is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time after time," (U9.376)
"- Yes, Mr Best said youngly, I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness might be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the son.
Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his son.
- That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.
John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow." (U9.387)
"- If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a drug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so much breathe another spirit.
- The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.
—There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering.
Said that." (U9.393)
"- If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the hell of time of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a man, Shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses," (U9.401)
"Pericles, prince of Tyre?" (U9.403)
"Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats. Cypherjugglers going the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What town, good masters? Mummed in names: A.E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the sun, west of the moon: Tir na n-og. Booted the twain and staved." (U9.410)
"- Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita, that which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter's child. My dearest wife, Pericles says, was like this maid. Will any man love the daughter it he has not loved the mother?" (U9.421)
"- The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. L'art d'Etre grandp..." (U10.425)

'L'Art d'Etre Grand-Père' (1877) is a collection of poems by Victor Hugo (1802 - 1885) celebrating the emotions of grand-fatherhood. It is his last book of poetry, written while in exile in Guernsey for his political views (against Napoleon). Victor Hugo dotes on his two grandchildren, Georges and Jeanne. He is acutely aware in his old age of childhood, as well as death and rebirth, springtime, innocence, love etc. Hugo had 5 children: Leopold-Victor (died in infancy), Leopoldine (drowned at 19), Charles-Victor, Francois-Victor, and Adèle; only Adèle outlived him.
"- Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added, another image?
Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all men. Amor hero a liquid alicui bonus vult unde et ea quad concupiscimus...
- His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The images of other males of his blood will repel him. He will see in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or repeat himself. " (U19.427)
"The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.
- I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of the public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His articles on Shakespeare in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that if the poet must be rejected, such a rejection would seem more in harmony with - what shall I say? - our notions of what ought not to have been." (U9.436)
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