Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:
--And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of WILHELM MEISTER. A great
poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn
by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.
He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step backward a
sinkapace on the solemn floor.
A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck.
--Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who
comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true.
True in the larger analysis.
Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by the door he gave his large
ear all to the attendant's words: heard them: and was gone.
--Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.
--Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to write
PARADISE LOST at your dictation? THE SORROWS OF SATAN he calls it.
Smile. Smile Cranly's smile.
FIRST HE TICKLED HER
THEN HE PATTED HER
THEN HE PASSED THE FEMALE CATHETER.
FOR HE WAS A MEDICAL
JOLLY OLD MEDI ...
--I feel you would need one more for HAMLET. Seven is dear to the mystic mind. The
shining seven W.B. calls them.
Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought the face bearded
amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He laughed low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity:
ORCHESTRAL SATAN, WEEPING MANY A ROOD
TEARS SUCH AS ANGELS WEEP.
ED EGLI AVEA DEL CUL FATTO TROMBETTA.