(Spits in their trail her jet of venom.) Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube. All
prick and no pence.
(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with Bertha Supple, draws her shawl
across her nostrils.)
(Bickering.) And say the one : I seen you up Faithful place with your
squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed hat. Did you, says
I. That’s not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the mantrap with a
married highlander, says I. The likes of her! Stag that one is. Stubborn as a
mule! And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kildbride the
enginedriver and lancecorporal Oliphant.
(Triumphaliter.) Salvi facti i sunt.
(He flourishes his ashplant shivering the lamp image, shattering light over
the world. A liver and white spaniel on the prowl slinks after him,
growling. Lynch scares it with a kick.)
(Looks behind.) So that gesture, not music not odours, would be a universal
language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first
entelechy, the structural rhythm.
Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburg street!
We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even the
allwisest stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.