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BuckMulligan

  1. From the window of the D.B.C. I gaily gaze down on the viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests. 8:00 AM Jun 16th from web
  2. From a long face, a beard and a gaze hang on a chessboard. 7:48 AM Jun 16th from web
  3. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- Ten years. He is going to write something in ten years. 7:45 AM Jun 16th from web
  4. I slit a steaming scone in two and plaster butter over its smoking pith. I bite off a soft piece hungrily. 7:44 AM Jun 16th from web
  5. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- The joy of creation... 7:41 AM Jun 16th from web
  6. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. 7:41 AM Jun 16th from web
  7. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- They drove his wits astray, by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. 7:41 AM Jun 16th from web
  8. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- You should see him, when his body loses its balance. Wandering Ængus I call him. 7:41 AM Jun 16th from web
  9. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. 7:40 AM Jun 16th from web
  10. I tell her to bring us two, and some scones and butter and some cakes as well. 7:40 AM Jun 16th from web
  11. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- Yes. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal. 7:39 AM Jun 16th from web
  12. We choose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hang intently down on a chessboard. 7:38 AM Jun 16th from web
  13. As we tread across the thick carpet, I whisper behind my Panama @HAINESINDUBLIN -- Parnell's brother. There in the corner. 7:38 AM Jun 16th from web
  14. From the window of the D.B.C. I gaily gaze down on the viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests. 8:00 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web
  15. From a long face, a beard and a gaze hang on a chessboard. 7:49 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web
  16. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- Ten years. He is going to write something in ten years. 7:45 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web in reply to HainesInDublin
  17. I slit a steaming scone in two and plaster butter over its smoking pith. I bite off a soft piece hungrily. 7:44 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web
  18. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- The joy of creation... 7:41 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web in reply to HainesInDublin
  19. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. 7:41 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web in reply to HainesInDublin
  20. @HAINESINDUBLIN -- They drove his wits astray, by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. 7:41 AM Jun 16th, 2008 from web in reply to HainesInDublin