".... He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled.
That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His
name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother
I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or
his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll tickle
his catastrophe, believe you me.
He cried above the clatter of the wheels.
-- I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not likely.
He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window, watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins."
Extrait d' Ulysse de James Joyce ( Ecrivain irlandais 1882-1941)