--But he'll beat you here, said the little old man, tapping his
forehead and raising his glass to drain it.
--Well, I hope he'll be as good a man as his father. That's all I can
say, said Mr Dedalus.
--If he is, he'll do, said the little old man.
--And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long
and did so little harm.
--But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man gravely. Thanks
be to God we lived so long and did so much good.
Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his
father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss
of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed
older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and
regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in
him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of
companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial
piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and
loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul
capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren
shell of the moon.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless.
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