Saturday, June 16, 2012

Happy Bloomsday!



Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling about.

― Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among nations.

― But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.

― Yes, says Bloom.

― What is it? says John Wyse.

― A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place.

― By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for living in the same place for the past five years.

So of course everyone had a laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck out of it:

― Or also living in different places.

― That covers my case, says Joe.

― What is your nation if I may ask, says the citizen.

― Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.

The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.

‘Cyclops’, Ulysses (1922) by James Joyce


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