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Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile
to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go
to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled
by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the
shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on gaurd by the barrels of pigs'
cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about
O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These
noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that
I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my
lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand.
My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a
flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought
little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her
or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.
But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers
running upon the wires.
~ James Joyce
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