Way back in 1994, I 'created' this story by using a Delete Method (tm?) I selected a chapter from James Joyce's book Ulysses, and cut characters, words, even sentences, until I got a prose piece of art (or so I thought). Hence the title of the story (and of this node). I tried to emulate Joyce's literary style, and I do love the expression 'Greekly perfect' that I came up with. I hope you like it, and can you guess from which part of Ulysses I cut the following story? (hint: it is one chapter in the book)
                          There's a story behind it
                          -------------------------

Summer evening in the west was fleeting day and not quiet stillness of the
sea.  The air was chilly.  The feminine baby Tomy, the name printed on four
spoiled castles with colour, was rocking in the car with delight.  He was a
babyish fat little baby, Ciss said. Prattle, cuddle, suffer, take his nose
and promise power: gold, perfect beauties, a lass, a laugh. Her lovable
laugh just then was a slight exception to this golden rule. Discord was a
castle which would have a front: selfwilled, true, little castle.  Grief.
The cries of attention. At once Tomy, his eyes full of sand, kissed her
hand, the culprit.  Far from him, the little mariner, name Boarman, said
none too amiably the pushcar was lost.  He was, in very truth, beautiful:
slight, graceful, fragil, spiritual, genuine--Greekly perfect.  Once
Boarman told her he'd never speak to her again.  An innate refinement,
hauteur, delicate, higharched degree of patrician love. Suppressed meaning,
a tendency to charm the Irish.  Silkily seductive, which gave that haunting
expression of wealth.  Words, delicate as lovely shyness, silent: words.
Speak out!  Be silent!  Lips laugh: a lovers' quarrel.  Her father was a
doctor like his brother; dull, but exquisite gentleman: nice perfume, good
cigarettes too, frightfully clever.  Her undies were the hopes and fears of
his heart. Blame her?  Stitchery, garments, nighties rosepink, mauve, and
blue--they came from washerwomen, as far as he knew.  Lovely evening: sad
and wistful.  A marriage would be fashionable, expensive.  He was too young
to love a woman.  Right: the party.  Long trousers.  An arm round her
waist--lips: a kiss (the first!); her strength of character would soon be
over.  No love but rather a strong ideal, who would understand?  Take her,
strain her, comfort her: a long, long kiss would be like heaven.  Summer
eve.  Her sickness, death.  To this day the pushcar was little, blue,
supple too.  She was wise, knew that fine eating made her shy and poetical.
Violets, roses, pictures, engravings, chairs, houses.  A husband.  Teeth,
moustache, a homely house.

Gaze for a moment into her eyes.  Done.  She, his little Tomy, wanted the
ball, his ball.  His ball?  No, no, off with my ball.  Anything for a quiet
life, laughed Ciss.  Everyone laughed merrily. Her head crimsoned,
unladylike--ashamed of her life.  She heard what he said.  Give him the
look, laugh at men's faces.  She wanted to forget the suit, hat, and
moustache--the sweet, wholesome, pealing organ, conducted by the missioner:
the old virgin.  Virgins.  How sad to avoid habit!  Cured, she now told
herself that.  She hated thinking, that vile decoction, shadow over her
childhood days.  Deeds of violence, intemperance, intoxication!  Kindness,
the lowest of the low.  Virgin.  Virgin!  Merciful gentleman.  Passing
along the strand, a father.  Old face, palpable pimples, moustache, a white
nose: she loved him.  He sang: how to stew lettuce with salad dressing for
supper.  He sang: The moon died and was buried.  God, her birthday, and,
and, and, and, and, and, and the end was so near!  Rest, rest.  The
funeral, bright and cheery, good daughter.  Mother, angel with a little
heart!  Mother splitting, was it her forehead?  She didn't like snuff, the
only single thing: snuff.  Her, her night it was: the place where (every
fortnight) the picture of a young gentleman, costume, hat, offering
flowers...there was a story behind it.  Colours, lovely, soft, white,
chocolate--she looked at them, felt.  White, soft--what they meant?

Now.  Bold as brass, the ball, hard as rocks--poor Tomy--flew, chimed,
leaned, breathed, cooed on the rocks

                   Cuckoo.

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