Ulysses - The Original Classic Edition. James Joyce

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       Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish

       In lean unlovely English.

       --The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.

       We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.

       --People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an

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       exploitable ground but the living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to the poor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeacians.

       From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.

       --Mallarme, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose poems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about Hamlet. He says: il se promene, lisant au livre de lui-meme, don't you know, reading the book of himself. He describes Hamlet given in a French town, don't you know, a provincial town. They advertised it.

       His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. HAMLET

       ou

       LE DISTRAIT

       Piece de Shakespeare

       He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown: