Out of Context

It’s Leap Day Eve, the penultimate day of February this year.

Ulysses
James Joyce

–Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I’m telling you? It’d be an at of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye.

–Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can’t wait.

–A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen. That’s what he is. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.

–Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.

–Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.

–You, Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.

–Saint Patrick would want to land again at Ballykinlar and convert us, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores.