Chapter 2 Chapter two

"Tell me, Cochrane, which city hired him?" "Tarantum[2], teacher." "Excellent. What happened next?" "It was a battle, sir." "Excellent. Where?" The child's bewildered face turned to the bewildered window for advice. A fable by the daughters of memory[3].However, even if it is different from the fables compiled by memory, there must be some similarities.A word, then, from a restless heart, the flapping of Blake's excessive wings.[4]I heard the destruction of the whole space, glass shattered to pieces, masonry crumbling, time reduced to the ultimate gray flame[5].So what is left for us?

"I forget the place, sir. 379 BC." "Askrum," said Stephen, glancing at the place-name and date on the blood-stained book. "Yes, sir. And he said, one more win like this, and we're done." The world remembers this saying.The mood is in a state of numbness and relaxation.On a plain full of corpses, a general stood on a small hill, leaning on a spear and speaking to his subordinates.Any general to any subordinate.They are all ears. "You, Armstrong," Stephen said. "What about the end of Pyrrhus?" "The end of Peles, sir?" "I know, sir. Ask me, sir," said Comyn.

"Wait a minute. Tell me, Armstrong, what do you know about Peles?" A bag of fig-filled rolls sits quietly in Armstrong's satchel.From time to time, she rubbed it into small rolls with her palms and swallowed it gently.The crumbs were still on his lips.There was a sweet smell in the boy's breath.These wealthy men were proud that their eldest son had entered the navy.Wake Street in Dalkey[8]. "Pyrus, sir? Pyrrhus is the trestle." Everyone laughed.Not happy shrill sneer.Armstrong looked around at his classmates with a smirk profile.After a while, they will find out that I am not good at discipline, and they will laugh more and more loudly at the thought of their father's tuition.

"Now tell me," Stephen poked the boy's shoulder with a book, "What is the trestle?" "The trestle, sir," said Armstrong, "is what goes out into the sea. A kind of bridge. Kingstown Bridge, sir." Some people laughed again, unhappily, but with ulterior motives.The two sitting on the back stool were whispering something.Yes.They know, never learn, but have never been ignorant.That's all.He gazed enviously at the faces.Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily [11].People like them, their breath is sweetened by black tea and jam, and the bracelets on their wrists snicker as they twist.

"Kingstown Wharf," said Stephen, "yes, a bridge of disappointment." The words made their gaze look confused. "Teacher, how could it be?" Kemin asked. "The bridge is built over the river." Available in Haynes' pamphlet[13].But no one here listened.Tonight in drink and talk, the glib tongue will pierce the gleaming armor of his thoughts.and then?Zuo is just a jester in the master's court, pampered and despised, just to win a compliment from his generous master.Why did they all choose this role?The picture is not exactly a tender caress.For them, history is like any other tired tale, and their country is a pawn shop.[14]

What if Pyrrhus had not died at the hands of an old woman in Argos,[15] or Julius Caesar had not been stabbed to death with a dagger[16]?These things cannot be erased just by trying to erase them.Time has stamped them, bound them, shut them in a realm of infinite possibilities which they have excluded.[17]But since those possibilities have never been realized, are there any possibilities?Or is it possible only what has happened?Weave it, Windweaver[18]. "Tell us a story, teacher." "Please, sir. Tell a ghost story." "Where does this begin?" Stephen asked, opening another book.

"Stop crying," Comyn said. "Go on, then, Talbot." "What about the story, teacher?" "Stay a while," said Stephen. "Go on, Talbot." A dark-complexioned boy opened the book, and quickly propped it under the parapet of the schoolbag.From time to time, he glanced at the text and stuttered, reciting the lines: Weep no more, sad shepherd, weep no more, Lycidas you mourned was not dead, Although he has sunk under the water...[19] It must be a kind of movement, the possibility becomes reality because of the possibility[20].Amidst the rapid and inarticulate recitations, Aristotle's famous sayings appeared by themselves, drifting into the studious and quiet atmosphere of the library of Saint-Geneviève; where he retreated night after night to study[ 21], thus avoiding the evils of Paris.On the next seat, a slender Siamese was reading a manual on the art of war.Those minds around me are already stuffed and keep stuffing.Above the head are incandescent lamps surrounded by small iron bars, with slightly trembling tentacles.In the dark place of my mind, there is a slut of the underworld, timid, afraid of the light, wriggling the folds of the skirt like dragon scales[22].Thinking is thinking about thinking [23].Quiet light.In a sense, the soul is the whole being, and the soul is the form of the form[24].Abrupt, vast, fiery stillness: the form of form.

Talbot recited the same verse over and over again: By the gracious power of the One who walks on the waves[25], By being on the waves... "Turn it over," said Stephen quietly. "I don't see anything." "What do you say, sir?" asked Talbot innocently, leaning forward. He turned a page with his hands.Only then did he remember, so he straightened up and continued to recite.About the Lord who walked on the waves.His shadow is cast on these cowardly hearts, on the heart and lips of the mocker, and on my heart and lips.And projected on the earnest countenances of those who showed him a taxed silver coin.Give to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which is God's.[26]The dark eyes stared for a long time, and a riddle-like sentence was spun on the church loom without stopping.That's it.

Let me guess, let me guess, hi yo ho. My father gave the seeds and asked me to sow them. [27] Talbot put his closed book lightly into his bag. "Is it all finished?" Stephen asked. "Master, I'm done. Play hockey at ten o'clock, sir." "Half a day, sir. Thursday." "Who will solve the riddle?" Stephen asked. They creaked pencils, rattled pages, and stuffed books into schoolbags.They huddled together, strapped on their schoolbags, fastened them, and all shouted happily: "Solve the riddle, teacher. Let me solve it, teacher." "Oh, let me break it, teacher."

"Something's wrong, teacher." "It's such a mystery," said Stephen: The cock crowed, The sky was blue. the bells of heaven, It struck eleven. poor soul, It's time to go to heaven. [28] "what is that?" "What, teacher?" "Again, sir, we didn't hear you." Their eyes widened as they repeated the words.After a long silence, Cochrane said: "What is it, sir? We shall not guess." Stephen replied, his throat tickling: "It was the fox who buried his grandma[29] under the holly tree." He stood up and gave a nervous laugh, their yells reflecting frustration.

A stick knocked at the door, and another voice called from the corridor: "hockey!" They suddenly spread out, some squeezed sideways from the stool, and some jumped over it.They disappeared quickly, and then, from the shed, came the clink of sticks, the clatter of boots, and the sound of rapping. Sargent was left alone.He walked over slowly and showed an open exercise book.His tangled hair and thin neck indicated his clumsiness.Through the blurred lenses, he rolled up his weak-sighted eyes, begging.His gray and bloodless face was stained with a faint jujube-shaped ink stain, just after it was wiped off, it was still as wet as a snail's nest. He handed over the exercise book.The first line is marked Arithmetic.Beneath it were crooked numbers, and at the end a squiggly signature, filled with circled strokes, and a blotch of ink.Cyril Sargent: His Name and Seal. "Mr. Deasy told me to rewrite the whole thing," said he, "and show it to you, sir." Stephen touched the edge of the book.In vain. "Can you do this now?" he asked. "Items eleven through fifteen," Sargent replied. "Teacher, Mr. Deasy asked me to copy it from the blackboard." "Can you do this yourself?" Stephen asked. "No, teacher." Ugly and useless, with a thin neck, his messy hair, an ink stain, and a snail's nest.But there are still people who loved him, hugged him in his arms, and hurt him in his heart.If it weren't for her, in this world where no one would give in to anyone, he would have been trampled to a boneless snail pulp long ago.She loved his weak, thin blood that flowed from her own.So, is that real?Is it the only reliable thing in life[30]?Fiery Goronban[31] had stepped over his mother's recumbent form with a holy passion.She was gone, the quivering remains of a twig that had been burned in the fire, a smell of rosewood and warm ashes.She saved him from being trampled underfoot, while she herself went away without much life.A pair of poor souls ascended to heaven: under the twinkling stars, on the wilderness overgrown with heather, a fox with the red and smelly blood of marauders on its fur, with a pair of fierce and bright eyes, scratched the ground with its claws, listening He listened, digging the soil and listening again, digging, digging. Stephen sat next to him and solved the problem.He used algebra to calculate that Shakespeare's ghost was Hamlet's grandfather[32].Sargent squinted at him through his askew glasses.There was the clink of clubs in the pile, and the dull sound of hitting balls and shouts from the playground. Wearing fantastic square and cubic hats, these symbols pantomime letters on the page, dancing a solemn Morris to and fro.[33]Hold hands, switch positions, and bow to your partner.That's it, imps of Moorish fantasy.Gone are Averroes and Moses Maimonides[34], men of unfathomable voice and demeanor, who cast their mocking mirrors[35] upon the twilight of the world Ling [36].The darkness shines in the light, and the light cannot comprehend it[37]. "Do you understand now? Can you do the second one yourself?" "I will do it, teacher." Sargent copied the numbers with long, trembling strokes.While constantly looking forward to getting pointers, he faithfully traced those irregular symbols.Under his gray skin, there was a faint look of shame, flickering.Mother's love [38]: subject and accusative.She fed him with her feeble blood and sour milk, hiding his diapers from sight. I used to be like him: so thin shoulders, so unremarkable.My childhood is bent over beside me.It's so far away that I can't even touch it with my hands, even lightly.Mine are too far away, but his is as deep as our eyes.In the dark palaces of both of our minds swarmed silent secrets: secrets weary of their own tyranny, tyrants willing to be dethroned. The problem has been figured out. "It's very simple," Stephen said, standing up. "Yes, sir. Thank you," Sargent replied. He blotted the page dry with a thin piece of blotting paper, and carried the exercise book back to his desk. "Why don't you take your bat and go outside to find your classmates," Stephen said as he followed the vulgar figure of the boy towards the door. "Yes, teacher." In the corridor, I heard the voice calling his name from the playground: "Sargent!" "Run," said Stephen, "Mr. Deasy is calling you." He stood on the porch and watched the straggler hurry to the field, where there was a high-pitched brawl.They formed themselves into teams, and Mr. Deasy paced up and down through the tufts of grass on his boot-covered feet.He had just arrived in front of the school building when another debate called him.He turned away his angry white mustache. "This time, what's the matter?" He shouted over and over again, not listening to what everyone said. "Cochrane and Halliday are on the same team, sir," cried Stephen. "Wait a moment in my office, please," said Mr. Deasy. "I'll come as soon as I get things in order." He turned back to the playground in a serious manner, and sternly shouted in his old voice: "What's the matter? What's the matter this time?" Their high-pitched voices shouted at him from all directions, and the multitude of figures surrounded him, and the harsh sun bleached his undyed honey-colored hair. The air in the studio was stale and smoky, mingling with the worn salty ecru leather smell of the chairs.Just like the first day he and I were haggling here.As it was at the beginning, it is the same today [39].On the sideboard against the wall was a tray of Stuart coins, a shoddy collection dug out of the mud: Forever.In the faded crimson velvet spoon case lay comfortably the Twelve Apostles[42] who had preached to all Gentiles[43] and to the world[44]. There was a rush of footsteps along the flagstones of the porch and along the corridor.Mr. Deasy, blowing his wispy mustache, stopped at the table. "First, settle our little bill," he said. He took a leather wallet from his coat pocket.It snapped open, and he took out two bills, one of which was still joined in two halves, and spread them carefully on the table. "Two pounds," he said, fastening the wallet and putting it away. Now it's time to open the vault to get gold coins.Stephen's embarrassed hands caressed the shells piled in the cold stone bowl, moth shells, scallops, leopard shells, this one threaded like a chief's turban, and this St. James' scallop.An old pilgrim's collection, dead treasures, hollow shells. A gold pound, shiny and new, fell on the thick soft tablecloth. "Three pounds," said Mr. Deasy, turning his little money-box in his hands. "There's a thing like that. Look, here's the guinea. Here's the shilling, and the sixpence, and the half-crown. Here's the crown. Look." From it he poured two crowns and two shillings. "Three pounds twelve shillings," said he. "I think you'll find that you're right." "Thank you, sir," said Stephen, and hurriedly gathered the money together in embarrassment, and stuffed it all into his trouser pocket. "You're welcome at all," Mr. Deasy said. "You earned it." Stephen's hand was free again, and he returned to the hollow shell.It is also a symbol of beauty and power.I have a small cluster in my pocket.A symbol defiled by greed and poverty. "Don't carry money around like that," Mr Deasy said. "It will be lost somewhere. You will find it very convenient to buy such a machine." Answer something. "If I had the last one, it's usually empty," Stephen said. Same room, same moment, same intellect, I am the same me.This is the third time [46].There are two nooses around my neck.Well.I could snap them off at once if I wanted to. "Because you don't save," Mr. Deasy said, pointing. "You don't know what money means. Money is power, when you're my age. I know, I know. If a young man has experience... But what does Shakespeare say? Just put Put the money in your purse[47]. "Iago," murmured Stephen. He moved his eyes from the motionless shell to the old man's staring gaze. "He understood what money was," Mr Deasy said. "He made his money. A poet, and an Englishman. Do you know what the Englishman is proud of? Do you know the best thing he could ever hear from an Englishman?" Ruler of the sea.His eyes, as cold as the sea, looked out over the empty bay: history, it seemed, was to blame for looking at me and what I said, without disgust. "What in his empire," said Stephen, "the sun never sets." "No!" said Mr. Deasy. "That's not from an Englishman. It's from a French Celtic." He tapped his thumbnail lightly with his piggy bank. "I'll tell you," he said gravely, "what's his favorite boast. I'm never in debt." Good man, good man. "I've never been in debt. I've never owed anybody a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?" Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, a pair of brogues, some ties.Curran, ten guineas.McCann, a guinea.Fred Ryan, two shillings.Temple, two lunches.Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Keller, three guineas, Mrs McKennan, five weeks' meals.My little money is not worth it. "Not yet," Stephen replied. Mr. Deasy smiled heartily, and put the money box back. "I know you can't," he said cheerfully. "But you'll get it someday. We're a generous people, but we also have to be fair." "I'm afraid of that high-sounding word," said Stephen, "that makes us so unlucky." Mr. Deasy stared solemnly at the portrait above the fireplace for a long time.It was a well-proportioned, well-built man in a kilt, Albert Edward, Prince of Wales. "You think I'm old-fashioned, old Tory," said his thoughtful voice. "I've seen three generations since I fought O'Connell[51]. I remember the Great Famine[52]. Do you know that the Orange Ribbon[53] branch of the party agitated for the abolition of the United Parliament more than O'Connell Do, and the bishops and patriarchs of your denomination denounce him as a demagogue, twenty years too early! You Finneymen[54] are sometimes forgetful." Glorious, pious, and immortal memorial[55].In the diamond synagogue in glorious Armagh hung the corpses of Catholics.[56]Hoarse voice, mask, weapon in hand, colonist's oath[57].The deserted north is indeed the orthodox "Bible".The flat-headed faction fell down[58]. Stephen gestured briefly as if sketching. "I have rebel blood in me, too," Mr Deasy said. "On the mother's side. I am, however, descended from Sir John Blackwood who voted for the Union. We are both Irish, and sons of the King." "Oops," said Stephen. "Take the right road," said Mr. Deasy firmly, "that was his motto. He voted for it, and rode from Ards, Downshire, to Dublin in his high riding boots. " Call - Xiao Xiao, call - Dede, After a bumpy journey, I went to Dublin. [62] A rough gentleman, wearing high shiny riding boots, straddled the horse's back.Rainy day, Sir John.Rainy day, my lord... God... God... a pair of high riding boots swinging all the way to Dublin.Call-Xiao Xiao, call-Dede.Call-Xiao Xiao, call-Dede. "Now I remember," said Mr. Deasy. "You can do me a little favor, Mr. Dedalus, if you please find some literary friends. I have a letter here that I would like to submit to a newspaper. Please sit down a moment. I only need to copy the end of it." He went to the writing desk by the window, pulled his chair forward twice, and read a few words on the paper rolled on the typewriter cylinder. "Sit down. I'm sorry," he said, turning his face. "Common sense. Just a minute." He raised his bushy eyebrows, stared at the manuscript at his elbow, and muttered as he poked slowly at the stiff keys of the keyboard.Sometimes while blowing air, turn the roller to erase typos. Stephen sat down in silence before the imposing portrait of the Prince, and respectfully in frames on the surrounding walls stood the now-gone images of horses, their docile heads held high in the air. : "Frustration" by Lord Hastings, "Leap" by the Duke of Westminster, "Ceylon" by the Duke of Beaufort, Paris Prize in 1866[63].Elf-like riders straddled their horses, alertly waiting for the signal.He saw the speed of the horses bearing the emblems of the King, and cheered with the cheers of the long-gone audience. "Period," Mr. Deasy ordered at the typewriter keys. "However, immediately openly discuss this most important issue..." Cranly had brought me here once, to make an early fortune; we were among the big, mud-splattered touring wagons, and the yelling and eating stalls of the horse-racing brokers on each side. Amidst the strong smell of the horses, they scrambled across the mottled mud in search of a possible winning horse. "Beauty Rebel" [64](! "Beauty Rebel"! Big favorite][65] is one to one; Walking hurriedly in front of the booth and playing cup art[66], I met a woman with a big fat face—the butcher's wife. She was eagerly gnawing on an orange that had been peeled in half, piercing her nostrils. up. There were screams and grunting whistles from the teenagers on the playground. Another goal.I'm one of them too, caught in the middle of those fighting bodies, fighting for life, a struggle for life.Are you referring to that mother's favorite "bouche-legged"?He seemed to have a hangover.Fight hard.Time was bounced back by the collision, collision and collision.The fighting and the mud and the shouts of the battlefield, the vomit of the dying frozen to ice, the scream as spears pick up bloody entrails. "All right," said Mr. Deasy, getting up. He walked over to the table and pinned the typed letters together.Stephen stood up. "I keep it simple," Mr. Deasy said. "It's about foot-and-mouth disease. Just read it. Everyone will agree." May I borrow some valuable space from your newspaper.The principles of laissez-faire that have not been uncommon in the history of our country.Livestock trade in our country.The policy of various old industries in our country.The Liverpool Group, which deftly manipulated the Galway port plans[67].European war.[68] Food supplies through the narrow waterways of the straits.The Ministry of Agriculture is completely unmoved.Excuse me for borrowing an allusion.Cassandra.Because of a bad woman [69].Now to get down to business. "Am I straight-forward enough?" asked Mr. Deasy, as Stephen read on. foot and mouth disease.Commonly known as the Cork formula [70].Serum and virus.Percentage of immune horses.rinderpest.The royal herd of horses in Mursteig, Lower Austria.Veterinary Surgery.Mr. Henry Blackwood Price[71], I offer you a prescription for a trial.Just act on common sense.Incomparably important question.Literally grabbing the bull by the horns[72].Thank you for your generosity of space. "I'm going to put the letter in the paper for all to read," said Mr. Deasy. "You see, next time there's a sudden plague they'll put an embargo on Irish cattle. But there's a cure for it. There's a cure. My cousin Blackwood Price Write to me that in Austria there are veterinarians who are listed for rinderpest and are cured. They say they would like to come here. I'm trying to get a little influence over the people in the ministry. Now I'll start with the publicity. What I am facing is numerous difficulties, various conspiracies and schemes, manipulation behind the scenes, and..." He raised his index finger and wiggled it a few times in the air before continuing. "Mark my words, Mr. Dedalus," he said. "Britain is already in the hands of the Jews. They have taken all the top positions, finance, newspapers. And they are a harbinger of the decline of a country. Wherever they go, they swallow the country. In recent years Well, I've been watching this turn of events. The Jewish merchants have wreaked havoc, as surely as we stand here. Old England is dying." He walked briskly aside, his eyes returning to the vibrant blue as they stepped across a broad ray of daylight.He looked around, then walked back. "Nearly perishing," he added, "if not already perishing." Whores walk the streets shouting, Weaving the shroud of old England. [73] He stopped in that beam of light, his eyes widened as if seeing something in a trance, and he stared sternly. "A merchant," said Stephen, "is just buying cheap and selling dear. Jew or Gentile, it's all the same, isn't it?" "They have sinned against the light," said Mr. Deasy gravely. "You can see the darkness in their eyes. Because of this, they are still displaced on Earth to this day." On the steps of the Paris Stock Exchange, people with golden skin are extending their jewel-covered fingers to report the market.Quacking geese.They circled the temple in droves, loud and vulgar, with dubious top hats and heads full of intrigue.Not theirs, these clothes, this speech, these gestures.Their round, dull eyes were at odds with these words, these earnest, non-aggressive demeanors, yet they knew the grievances around them and the futility of enthusiasm.It is no use accumulating and hoarding patiently.Time must scatter everything.Treasure piled up by the wayside: Once plundered, it falls into the hands of others.Their eyes are familiar with the vagabond years, endured, and understand the insults their bodies have suffered. "Who isn't like that?" said Stephen. "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Deasy. He took a step forward and stood by the table.His chin tilted to one side, and he grinned uncertainly.Is this the wisdom of the old man?He is waiting to hear from me. "History," said Stephen, "is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake up[76]." From the playground came the shouts of children.There was a beeping whistle, and a goal was scored.What if that nightmare kicks you like a mare? "The Creator didn't do it the way we do," Mr. Deasy said. "All of human history has been moving toward one great goal, the embodiment of God." Stephen gave a thumbs up to the window and said: "That's God." Wow! Oops! Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr "What?" asked Mr. Deasy. "Screaming in the street," replied Stephen, shrugging his shoulders. Mr. Deasy looked down and pinched the wings of his nose for a moment with his fingers.He raised his head again and let go. "I'm happier than you," he said. "We have made many mistakes and sins of every kind. A woman[79] brought sin into the world. For a poor woman, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, Greek Ten years war against Troy. An unfaithful wife first brought strangers to our shores, McMurrow's wife and her concubine Aurourke, the Grand Duke of Breveni. Barbara Neil [81] also fell into the struggle because of a woman. Many mistakes, many failures, but only one that did not commit that crime. Now I am in my twilight years, but I still fight. I will fight for justice to the end .” For Ulster will fight, Ulster is on this side of justice. [82] Stephen held up the pages of the letter in his hand. "Here, sir," he began. "I reckon," said Mr. Deasy, "that you won't last long here. I don't think you're born to be a teacher. Maybe I'm wrong." "It's more like a student," said Stephen. So, what else can you learn here? Mr Deasy shook his head. "Who knows?" he said. "If you want to learn, you have to be modest. But life is a great teacher." Stephen rustled the pages of the letter again. "As for the letter," he began. "Yes," said Mr. Deasy. "You have two copies here. If only you could get them out right away." The Telegraph, The Irish Homeland [83]. "I'll try it out," said Stephen, "and get back to you tomorrow. I have casual acquaintance with the two editors." "That's all right," said Mr. Deasy briskly. "I wrote a letter to Mr. Field, Member of Parliament, last night. The Livestock Traders' Association is meeting today at the City Emblem. I entrust him to deliver my letter to the meeting. See if you can get it published in yours." Two papers. What paper is it?" "The Evening Telegraph..." "That's all right," said Mr. Deasy. "Not for a moment. Now I must answer my cousin's letter." "Good-bye, sir," said Stephen, putting the pages of the letter in his pocket. "thank you." "You're welcome," said Mr. Deasy, rummaging through the papers on the desk. "Despite my age, I still love to argue with you." "Good-bye, sir," repeated Stephen, bowing to his stoop. Strolling out of the open porch, he walked along the graveled tree-lined path, listening to the yells from the playground and the clatter of clubs.When he stepped out of the gate, a pair of lions crouched on top of the gateposts; toothless but still pompous.Still, I'm going to give him a hand in the struggle.Mulligan would have a new nickname for me: the "Great Poet" of the Ox-Friends.[85] "Mr. Dedalus!" It came after me.I hope that there will be no more letters. "Wait a minute." "Yes, sir," said Stephen, turning around at the gate. Mr. Deasy stopped, gasping for breath. "I'm just going to tell you," he said. "They say Ireland is glorious, the only country that has never persecuted the Jews. Do you know that? No. So, do you know why?" He frowned grimly into the bright air. "Why, sir?" Stephen asked, a smile beginning to form on his face. "Because she never let them in [86]," said Mr. Deasy solemnly. There was a cough in his laughter, and a long string of gurgling sticky phlegm spewed out of his throat.He turned around quickly, coughing, laughing, and waving his arms in the air. "It never let them in," he yelled again, laughing, as his hooded feet trod the gravel path. "That's why." Through the checkerboard grid of leaves, the sun cast flecks of glittering little round decorations, dancing gold coins, onto his wise shoulders.