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The Joyce Project : Ulysses : Nestor

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Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then? — I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C. — Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book. — Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done for. That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear. — You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus? — End of Pyrrhus, sir? — I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said. — Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus? A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the ti

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