A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer.  Wall, tarnation strike me!

—­The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely.  Aristotle was once Plato’s schoolboy.

—­And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately said.  One can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.

He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.

Formless spiritual.  Father, Word and Holy Breath.  Allfather, the heavenly man.  Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment.  This verily is that.  I am the fire upon the altar.  I am the sacrificial butter.

Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name Ineffable, in heaven hight:  K.H., their master, whose identity is no secret to adepts.  Brothers of the great white lodge always watching to see if they can help.  The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light, born of an ensouled virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi.  The life esoteric is not for ordinary person.  O.P. must work off bad karma first.  Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious sister H.P.B.’s elemental.

O, fie!  Out on’t!  PFUITEUFEL!  You naughtn’t to look, missus, so you naughtn’t when a lady’s ashowing of her elemental.

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light.  He bore in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

—­That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet’s musings about the afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato’s.

John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth: 

—­Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.

—­Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his commonwealth?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions.  Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.  Streams of tendency and eons they worship.  God:  noise in the street:  very peripatetic.  Space:  what you damn well have to see.  Through spaces smaller than red globules of man’s blood they creepycrawl after Blake’s buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow.  Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.

—­Haines is gone, he said.

—­Is he?

—­I was showing him Jubainville’s book.  He’s quite enthusiastic, don’t you know, about Hyde’s lovesongs of connacht.  I couldn’t bring him in to hear the discussion.  He’s gone to Gill’s to buy it.

    Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick
    to Greet the callous public. 
    Writ, I ween, ’twas not my wish
    in lean unlovely english.