Asked me was it true I was going away and why.
Told him the shortest way to Tara was via Holyhead.
James Joyce: A Portrait of the Artist as a
- Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?
- Yes, sir.
In long shady strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a
word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint
hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Armor matris: subjective
and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she
had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.
Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My
childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once
or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony
sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their
tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.