Page 450 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

Buck Mulligan’s primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his
laughter.
—You should see him, he said, when his body loses its
balance. Wandering Aengus I call him.

—I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, pinching
his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I
am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons
always have.
Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.
—They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell.
He will never capture the Attic note. The note of
Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy
birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The joy
of creation ...
—Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I
see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was
something on his mind, I saw. It’s rather interesting
because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting
point out of that.
Buck Mulligan’s watchful eyes saw the waitress come.
He helped her to unload her tray.
—He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth,
Haines said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems
lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution. Rather strange

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