You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering �ngus I call him.

I am sure he has an id�e 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.