Ulysses quotes

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

―God, he said quietly.

Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea.

Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve.

Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.

Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

―

It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.

―

Look at the sea. What does it care about offences?

Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes.

I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned form moved briskly about the hearth to and fro, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans:

―

Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.

―You’re not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.

―

You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeeeeeeephen. A wavering line along the path.

―We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish.

Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.

―The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.

―

Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

The words troubled their gaze.

Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?

Weave, weaver of the wind.

―Tell us a story, sir.

―

I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.

―

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.

Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How?

Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door.

Shut your eyes and see.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly:

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all.

You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas.

Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce’s brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York’s false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings’ sons.

Paradise of pretenders then and now.

He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur’s yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of … We don’t want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did?

He slunk back in a curve. Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.

The simple pleasures of the poor.

His hindpaws then scattered sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.

He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

They call them stupid.

They understand what we say better than we understand them.

She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.

a widow in her weeds. Notice because I’m in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place.

Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.

Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

―Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.

Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down.

Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she’s a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too. Life. Life.

―

It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.

The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.

―

One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.

Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.

Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It never comes.

One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.

―How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.

―

Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.

―By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?

We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him.

Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

O, poor Robinson Crusoe, How could you possibly do so?

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.

We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and not in hell. Nice change of air.

Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory.

Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy’s warning. Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor mamma, and little Rudy.

More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of.

Does anybody really? Plant him and have done with him.

Like down a coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. All souls’ day. Twentyseventh I’ll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death’s door.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them.

A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk.

I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime fever pits to eat them.

I do not like that other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.

Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well.

Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everyone else. That’s what life is after all.

How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.

―We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said.

Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination.

We were never loyal to the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time is money. Material domination. Dominus! Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus!

Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside?

Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.

Links with Bygone Days of Yore

Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness.

Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. Still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore’s cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family.

One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on.

Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit.

Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I?

Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy.

Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser’s eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us.

Hungry man is an angry man.

Working tooth and jaw. Don’t! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn’t swallow it all however.

Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged.

Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.

―Have you a cheese sandwich?

With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom kippur fast spring cleaning of inside.

Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion.

Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.

Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy; take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber. Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion.

God made food, the devil the cooks.

Devilled crab.

God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man’s blood they creepycrawl after Blake’s buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow.

Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.

―Bosh! Stephen said rudely.

A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.

―

The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done.

Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram! Malachi Mulligan, the Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you priestified kinchite!

On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood.

Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life.

Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?

Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction.

Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?

What the hell are you driving at?

No. The corpse of John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to hour it rots and rots. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio’s Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child.

Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man.

It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten.

―In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Where is your brother? Apothecaries’ hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on.

Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days, day after day.

We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.

The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is doubtless all …

Come, Kinch, you have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts and offals.

Life is many days. This will end.

―We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.

―

Our father who art not in heaven.

Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed:

Saw him looking at my frockcoat.

Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy appearance. Bowls them over.

―Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?

Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary’s fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.

Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil lights shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.

Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil lights shining in the darkness.

Where fallen archangels flung the stars of their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest them.

―I’m sorry, he said.

Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:

The last night pa was boosed he was standing on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to Tunney’s for to boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never see him again. Death, that is.

Pa is dead. My father is dead.

He told me to be a good son to ma. I couldn’t hear the other things he said but I saw his tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam, my father.

―Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded.

Mrs Marion Bloom has left off clothes of all descriptions.

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres.

Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn all. Believes his own lies. Does really.

Wonderful liar. But want a good memory.

―Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.

Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling. Full it throbbed. That’s the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.

Words? Music? No: it’s what’s behind.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The night Si sang.

The human voice, two tiny silky cords. Wonderful, more than all the others.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It’s in the silence you feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now.

It’s in the silence you feel you hear.

Vibrations. Now silent air.

Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven.

Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find out this equal to that, symmetry under a cemetery wall.

He doesn’t see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think you’re listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat.

Instance he’s playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like till you hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks over barrels, through wirefences, obstacle race.

Time makes the tune. Question of mood you’re in.

Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos for that. Blumenlied I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl, night I came home, the girl.

The priest’s at home. A false priest’s servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. Curlycues of chords.

Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their days in.

Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.

Told her what Spinoza says in that book of poor papa’s. Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle, staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was worth.

Beauty of music you must hear twice.

Nature woman half a look. God made the country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!

Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes all women. Goddess I didn’t see. They want it: not too much polite. That’s why he gets them.

Gold in your pocket, brass in your face.

With look to look: songs without words. Molly that hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.

But for example the chap that wallops the big drum. His vocation: Micky Rooney’s band. Wonder how it first struck him. Sitting at home after pig’s cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair. Rehearsing his band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife.

Asses’ skins. Welt them through life, then wallop after death.

Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate.

… old guard and the men of sixtyseven and who fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were hanged, drawn and transported for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new Ireland and new this, that and the other.

Talking about new Ireland he ought to go and get a new dog so he ought.

Mangy ravenous brute sniffling and sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs and round be goes to Bob Doran that was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could get.

… was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in Irish and a lot of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and selling medals and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob, flahoolagh entertainment, don’t be talking.

Ireland sober is Ireland free.

And then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of.

―I will, says he, a chara, to show there’s no ill feeling.

Gob, he’s not as green as he’s cabbagelooking.

Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to your own honour, with old Giltrap’s dog and getting fed up by the ratepayers and corporators. Entertainment for man and beast. And says Joe:

What’s your programme today? Ay. Humane methods. Because the poor animals suffer and experts say and the best known remedy that doesn’t cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot administer gently.

Gob, he’d have a soft hand under a hen.

Ga Ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for us. When she lays her egg she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then comes good uncle Leo.

―

Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse.

Throwaway, says he. Takes the biscuit and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre.

―

And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it.

The unfortunate yahoos believe it.

―Tell that to a fool, says the citizen.

There’s a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo.

Edward Guelph-Wettin!

―

Considerations of space influenced their lordship’s decision.

―Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.

―A nation? says Bloom.

A nation is the same people living in the same place.

―By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years.

―

That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.

―And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun.

Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him.

And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.

―But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that.

That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred.

And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.

―

Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred.

I must go now, says he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.

―That chap? says the citizen.

Beggar my neighbour is his motto.

Love, Moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person.

And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

―Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power, citizen.

Loans by post on easy terms. Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No security.

Gob he’s like Lanty MacHale’s goat that’d go a piece of the road with every one.

―Well, it’s a fact, says John Wyse. And there’s the man now that’ll tell you about it, Martin Cunningham.

―

Well, they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that matter so are we.

―Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may be their Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.

―And who does he suspect? says the citizen.

Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest.

One of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I’m telling you?

―Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your God was a jew.

Christ was a jew like me.

Gob, the citizen made a plunge back into the shop.

The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace.

Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along …

Would you mind, please, telling me the right time? I’ll tell you the right time up a dark lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips. Caressing the little boy too.

Onlookers see most of the game.

Of course they understand birds, animals, babies. In their line.

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks.

Up like a rocket, down like a stick.

And the children, twins they must be, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in mother’s clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And the dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth.

Hands felt for the opulent. Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some kind of a nondescript, wouldn’t know what to call her.

Always see a fellow’s weak point in his wife.

Still there’s destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the dogs if some woman didn’t take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies.

Still there’s destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the dogs if some woman didn’t take them in hand. Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies.

As God made them He matched them.

Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May and repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach.

Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them He matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride.

Marry in May and repent in December.

This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach.

Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don’t mock what matter? That’s the way to find out.

Ask yourself who is he now. The Mystery Man on the Beach, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom.

Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp.

Nightstock in Mat Dillon’s garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length oilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I’m with you once again.

Life, love, voyage round your own little world.

And now? Sad about her lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take advantage.

All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps.

He gets the plums and I the plumstones.

Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change: that’s all. Lovers: yum yum.

Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only child. So it returns.

Think you’re escaping and run into yourself.

Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle’s overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles.

Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only child. So it returns. Think you’re escaping and run into yourself.

Longest way round is the shortest way home.

And just when he and she. Circus horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle’s overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the sideboard watching.

Howth settled for slumber tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake.

And far on Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.

Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish Lights board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat.

Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of the Gold Cup races! and from the door of Dignam’s house a boy ran out and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the sands the coming surf crept, grey.

Howth settled for slumber tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns.

He lay but opened a red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.

Some good matronly woman in a porkpie hat to mother him. Take him in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies’ grey flanelette bloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and loved, loved for ever, they say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is.

Love, lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die.

See him sometimes walking about trying to find out who played the trick. U. p.: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish.

Same style of beauty. Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of the wild man of Borneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morning at close range.

Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow.

But Dignam’s put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must call to those Scottish widows as I promised. Strange name. Takes it for granted we’re going to pop off first.

They all admired to see the foresaid riches in such dearth of money as was herebefore. His words were then these as followeth: Know all men, he said, time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions. What means this?

Desire’s wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.

Mark me now. In woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation. Omnis caro ad te veniet.

Young Stephen said indeed to his best remembrance they had but the one doxy between them and she of the stews to make shift with in delights amorous for life ran very high in those days and the custom of the country approved with it.

Greater love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his wife for his friend.

Go thou and do likewise. Thus, or words to that effect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regius professor of French letters to the university of Oxtail nor breathed there ever that man to whom mankind was more beholden.

For this relief much thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited. No soul will live there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude. The nocturnal rat peers from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted. Murderer’s ground.

What is the age of the soul of man?

As she hath the virtue of the chameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood.

Calf covers of pissedon green. Last word in art shades. Most beautiful book come out of Ireland my time. Silentium! Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp the boys are (atitudes!) parching.

Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.

Whether on the scaffold high. Beerbeef trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep the durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt? Most amazingly sorry!

The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o’-the wisps and danger signals.

Rows of flimsy houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fans.

Round Rabaiotti’s halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coal and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly. Children. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse.

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.

So you notice some change? Her hands passing slowly over her trinketed stomacher. A slow friendly mockery in her eyes.

O Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world.

I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But the first thing in the morning. He pats divers pockets. This moving kidney. Ah!

In workman’s corduroy overalls, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.

Mankind is incorrigible.

Sir Walter Raleigh brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will, understanding, all.

Peep! Bopeep! He wheels twins in a perambulator. Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? He performs juggler’s tricks, draws red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his mouth. Roygbiv. 32 feet per second. He consoles a widow.

Absence makes the heart grow younger.

He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics. Leg it, ye devils! He kisses the bedsores of a palsied veteran. Honourable wounds! He trips up a fat policeman. U. p: up. U. p: up.

Solemnly.

You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament.

When will we have our own house of keys?

All parks open to the public day and night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival, with masked licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

Free money, free love and a free lay church in a free lay state.

Free fox in a free henroost.

Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival, with masked licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free money, free love and a free lay church in a free lay state.

Free fox in a free henroost.

Mixed races and mixed marriage.

Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindorée, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vice chairmen of hotel syndicates.

Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?

Darkly. You have said it.

Bitterly.

Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.

In sudden sulks. I hate a rotter that’s insincere. Give a bleeding whore a chance.

With a cry of stormbirds. Shakti, Shiva! Dark hidden Father! He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the zodiac. He wails with the vehemence of the ocean. Aum! Baum! Pyjaum!

I am the light of the homestead, I am the dreamery creamery butter.

A skeleton judashand strangles the light. The green light wanes to mauve. The gasjet wails whistling.

I am going to scream. I beg your pardon. Ah? So. He repeats. Spontaneously to seek out the saurian’s lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction. Ant milks aphis. Profoundly.

Instinct rules the world. In life. In death.

Head askew, arches his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a horning claw and cries. Who’s Ger Ger? Who’s dear Gerald? O, I much fear he shall be most badly burned.

Tears open the silverfoil.

Fingers was made before forks.

She breaks off and nibbles a piece, gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch. No objection to French lozenges? He nods. She taunts him. Have it now or wait till you get it? He opens his mouth, his head cocked.

Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some days ago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless inoffensive vent. He sighs.

’Twas ever thus. Frailty, thy name is marriage.

Her fingers in her ears. And words. They are not in my dictionary.

Quickly. Yes, yes. You mean that I …

Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted.

I know I fell out of my bed or rather was pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some days ago, incorrectly addressed. It claims to afford a noiseless inoffensive vent.

Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains, with poor papa’s operaglasses. The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled downhill at Rialto Bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She climbed their crooked tree and I …

A saint couldn’t resist it. The demon possessed me. Besides, who saw?

Staggering Bob, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with humid nostrils through the foliage.

Composed, regards her.

Passée. Mutton dressed as lamb.

Lone in the tooth and superfluous hairs. A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. And take some double chin drill. Your eyes are as vapid as the glass eyes of your stuffed fox.

Hands him all his coins.

Be just before you are generous.

I will but is it wise? He counts. One, seven, eleven, and five. Six. Eleven. I don’t answer for what you may have lost.

Brings the match nearer his eye. Lynx eye. Must get glasses. Broke them yesterday. Sixteen years ago. Distance. The eye sees all flat. He draws the match away. It goes out. Brain thinks. Near: far.

Ineluctable modality of the visible.

He frowns mysteriously. Hm. Sphinx. The beast that has two backs at midnight. Married.

Tragically.

Hamlet, I am thy father’s gimlet!

She takes his hand. Blue eyes beauty I’ll read your hand. She points to his forehead. No wit, no wrinkles. She counts. Two, three, Mars, that’s courage. Stephen shakes his head. No kid.

In dignified ventriloquy.

’Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.

To Bloom. Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Gaze. He crows with a black capon’s laugh. Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!

Comes nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of wetted ashes.

All must go through it, Stephen. More women than men in the world. You too. Time will come.

Choking with fright, remorse and horror. They said I killed you, mother. He offended your memory. Cancer did it, not I. Destiny.

He lifts his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the chandelier.

Time’s livid final flame leaps and, in the following darkness, ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.

Stop!

Looks up in the sky. How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of selfpretence.

Personally, I detest action.

He waves his hand. Hand hurts me slightly. Enfin, ce sont vos oignons. To Cissy Caffrey. Some trouble is on here. What is it, precisely?

Turns. Eh? He disengages himself.

Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange?

He points his finger. I’m not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. Retaining the perpendicular.

My centre of gravity is displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Struggle for life is the law of existence but modern philirenists, notably the tsar and the king of England, have invented arbitration. He taps his brow.

But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.

Did you hear what the professor said? He’s a professor out of the college.

This is the age of patent medicine. A discussion is difficult down here. But this is the point. You die for your country, suppose. He places his arm on Private Carr’s sleeve. Not that I wish it for you.

But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so.

I don’t want it to die. Damn death. Long live life!

You die for your country, suppose. He places his arm on Private Carr’s sleeve. Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I don’t want it to die.

Damn death. Long live life!

Levitates over heaps of slain in the garb and with the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face. My methods are new and are causing surprise. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.

―Needs, Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least surprise at the intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he invariably does.

Everyone according to his needs and everyone according to his deeds.

But talking about things in general, where, added he with a smile, will you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is out of the question and, even supposing you did, you won’t get in after what occurred at Westland Row station.

―

To seek misfortune, was Stephen’s answer.

―I met your respected father on a recent occasion, Mr Bloom diplomatically returned. Today, in fact, or, to be strictly accurate, on yesterday. Where does he live at present? I gathered in the course of conversation that he had moved.

―

To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.

―Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined pensively, at the inward reflection of there being more languages to start with than were absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that surrounds it.

… him to admit that he had washed his wife’s undergarments when soiled in Holles Street and women would and did too a man’s similar garments initialled with Bewley and Draper’s marking ink (hers were, that is) if they really loved him, that is to say.

Love me, love my dirty shirt.

Still, just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired the female’s room more than her company so it came as a genuine relief when the keeper made her a rude sign to take herself off.

―In this country people sell much more than she ever had and do a roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the body but have not power to buy the soul.

She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap.

The elder man, though not by any manner of means an old maid or a prude, said that it was nothing short of a crying scandal that ought to be put a stop to instanter to say that women of that stamp (quite apart from …

… the other hand he might be only bluffing, a pardonable weakness, because meeting unmistakable mugs, Dublin residents, like those jarvies waiting news from abroad, would tempt any ancient mariner who sailed the ocean seas to draw the long bow about the schooner Hesperus and etcetera.

And when all was said and done, the lies a fellow told about himself couldn’t probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.

―Mind you, I’m not saying that it’s all a pure invention, he resumed. Analogous scenes are occasionally, if not often, met with. Giants, though, that is rather a far cry you see once in a way. Marcella, the midget queen.

―

But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me.

―What belongs? queried Mr Bloom, bending, fancying he was perhaps under some misapprehension. Excuse me. Unfortunately I didn’t catch the latter portion. What was it you? …

―

We can’t change the country. Let us change the subject.

At this pertinent suggestion, Mr Bloom, to change the subject, looked down, but in a quandary, as he couldn’t tell exactly what construction to put on belongs to which sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some kind was clearer than the other part.

At the same time he inwardly chuckled over his repartee to the blood and ouns champion about his God being a jew.

People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.

The most vulnerable point too of tender Achilles, your God was a jew, because mostly they appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhere about in the county Sligo.

―

Our lives are in peril to night. Beware of the steamroller.

They thereupon stopped.

He reflected that the progressive extension of the field of individual development and experience was regressively accompanied by a restriction of the converse domain of interindividual relations.

From inexistence to existence he came to many and was as one received: existence with existence he was with any as any with any: from existence to nonexistence gone he would be by all as none perceived.

What action did Bloom make on their arrival at their destination?

Why was he doubly irritated?

Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded himself twice not to forget.

What were then the alternatives before the, premeditatedly (respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple?

What were then the alternatives before the, premeditatedly (respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple?

To enter or not to enter. To knock or not to knock.

A stratagem.

… and contraction of the muscles with rapid splashing of the face and neck and thoracic and epigastric region in case of sea or river bathing, the parts of the human anatomy most sensitive to cold being the nape, stomach and thenar or sole of foot?

The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.

What additional didactic counsels did he similarly repress?

Why did absence of light disturb him less than presence of noise?

Because of the surety of the sense of touch in his firm full masculine feminine passive active hand.

What quality did it (his hand) possess but with what counteracting influence?

… difficulties of interpretation since the significance of any event followed its occurrence as variably as the acoustic report followed the electrical discharge and of counterestimating against an actual loss by failure to interpret the total sum of possible losses proceeding originally from a successful interpretation.

He had not risked, he did not expect, he had not been disappointed, he was satisfied.

To have sustained no positive loss. To have brought a positive gain to others. Light to the gentiles.

What, reduced to their simplest reciprocal form, were Bloom’s thoughts about Stephen’s thoughts about Bloom and Bloom’s thoughts about Stephen’s thoughts about Bloom’s thoughts about Stephen?

He thought that he thought that he was a jew whereas he knew that he knew that he knew that he was not.

What, the enclosures of reticence removed, were their respective parentages?

Which domestic problem as much as, if not more than, any other frequently engaged his mind?

What to do with our wives.

What had been his hypothetical singular solutions?

What system had proved more effective?

She disliked umbrella with rain, he liked woman with umbrella, she disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman with new hat, he bought new hat with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat.

Accepting the analogy implied in his guest’s parable which examples of postexilic eminence did he adduce?

What was Stephen’s auditive sensation?

He heard in a profound ancient male unfamiliar melody the accumulation of the past.

What was Bloom’s visual sensation?

What was Bloom’s visual sensation?

He saw in a quick young male familiar form the predestination of a future.

What were Stephen’s and Bloom’s quasisimultaneous volitional quasisensations of concealed identities?

With mixed feelings. Unsmiling, he heard and saw with wonder a jew’s daughter, all dressed in green.

One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined. Once by inadvertence, twice by design he challenges his destiny.

It comes when he is abandoned and challenges him reluctant and, as an apparition of hope and youth, holds him unresisting. It leads him to a strange habitation, to a secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable, immolates him, consenting.

Did that first division, portending a second division, afflict him?

Less than he had imagined, more than he had hoped.

What second departure was contemporaneously perceived by him similarly if differently?

Why might these several provisional contingencies between a guest and a hostess not necessarily preclude or be precluded by a permanent eventuality of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew’s daughter?

Because the way to daughter led through mother, the way to mother through daughter.

To what inconsequent polysyllabic question of his host did the guest return a monosyllabic negative answer?

What spectacle confronted them when they, first the host, then the guest, emerged silently, doubly dark, from obscurity by a passage from the rere of the house into the penumbra of the garden?

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.

With what meditations did Bloom accompany his demonstration to his companion of various constellations?

And the problem of possible redemption?

The minor was proved by the major.

Which various features of the constellations were in turn considered?

With indirect and direct verbal allusions or affirmations: with subdued affection and admiration: with description; with impediment; with suggestion.

Silent, each contemplating the other in both mirrors of the reciprocal flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces.

At Stephen’s suggestion, at Bloom’s instigation both, first Stephen, then Bloom, in penumbra urinated, their sides contiguous, their organs of micturition reciprocally rendered invisible by manual circumposition, their gazes, first Bloom’s, then Stephen’s, elevated to the projected luminous and semiluminous shadow.

How did these beliefs and practices now appear to him?

Not more rational than they had then appeared, not less rational than other beliefs and practices now appeared.

What first reminiscence had he of Rudolph Bloom (deceased)?

What universal binomial denominations would be his as entity and nonentity?

Assumed by any or known to none. Everyman or Noman.

Honour and gifts of strangers, the friends of Everyman. A nymph immortal, beauty, the bride of Noman.

Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear?

Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from land to land, among peoples, amid events.

Somewhere imperceptibly he would hear and somehow reluctantly, suncompelled, obey the summons of recall.

What selfevident enigma pondered with desultory constancy during 30 years did Bloom now, having effected natural obscurity by the extinction of artificial light, silently suddenly comprehend?

Where was Moses when the candle went out?

What imperfections in a perfect day did Bloom, walking, silently, successively, enumerate?

If he had smiled why would he have smiled?

To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas, he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.

Assuming Mulvey to be the first term of his series, Penrose, Bartell d’Arcy, professor Goodwin, Julius Mastiansky, John Henry Menton, Father Bernard Corrigan, a farmer at the Royal Dublin Society’s Horse Show, Maggot O’Reilly, Matthew Dillon, Valentine Blake Dillon (Lord Mayor of Dublin), Christopher Callinan, …

As not more abnormal than all other altered processes of adaptation to altered conditions of existence, resulting in a reciprocal equilibrium between the bodily organism and its attendant circumstances, foods, beverages, acquired habits, indulged inclinations, significant disease.

As more than inevitable, irreparable.

Why more abnegation than jealousy, less envy than equanimity?

From outrage (matrimony) to outrage (adultery) there arose nought but outrage (copulation) yet the matrimonial violator of the matrimonially violated had not been outraged by the adulterous violator of the adulterously violated.

Assassination, never, as two wrongs did not make one right.

Duel by combat, no. Divorce, not now. Exposure by mechanical artifice (automatic bed) or individual testimony (concealed ocular witnesses), not yet. Suit for damages by legal influence or simulation of assault with evidence of injuries sustained (selfinflicted), not impossibly.

An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a gradual elevation: a tentative revelation; a silent contemplation.

He kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each plump melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation.

The visible signs of postsatisfaction?

Narrator: reclined laterally, left, with right and left legs flexed, the indexfinger and thumb of the right hand resting on the bridge of the nose, in the attitude depicted on a snapshot photograph made by Percy Apjohn the childman weary, the manchild in the womb.

He rests. He has travelled.

Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad …

… greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit telling me all her ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes and the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first

God help the world if all the women were her sort

down on bathingsuits and lownecks of course nobody wanted her to wear I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice I hope Ill never be like her a wonder she didnt want us to cover our faces but she was …

… want you to be so nice about it I noticed the contrast he does it and doesnt talk I gave my eyes that look with my hair a bit loose from the tumbling and my tongue between my lips up to him the savage brute

Thursday Friday one Saturday two Sunday three O Lord I cant wait till Monday

frseeeeeeeefronnnng train somewhere whistling the strength those engines have in them like big giants and the water rolling all over and out of them all sides like the end of Loves old sweet sonnnng the poor men that have to be out all the night …

… bottom on the chair when I stood up they were so fattish and firm when I got up on the sofa cushions to see with my clothes up and the bugs tons of them at night and the mosquito nets I couldnt read a line

Lord how long ago it seems centuries of course they never come back

and she didnt put her address right on it either she may have noticed her wogger people were always going away and we never I remember that day with the waves and the boats with their high heads rocking and the swell of the ship …

… to be looked at and a daughter like mine or see if they can excite a swell with money that can pick and choose whoever he wants like Boylan to do it 4 or 5 times locked in each others arms or the voice either

I could have been a prima donna only I married him

comes looooves old deep down chin back not too much make it double My Ladys Bower is too long for an encore about the moated grange at twilight and vaunted rooms yes Ill sing Winds that blow from the south that he gave after the …

… he couldnt count the pesetas and the perragordas till I taught him Cappoquin he came from he said on the Blackwater but it was too short then the day before he left may yes it was May when the infant king of Spain was born

Im always like that in the spring Id like a new fellow every year

up on the tiptop under the rockgun near OHaras tower I told him it was struck by lightning and all about the old Barbary apes they sent to Clapham without a tail careering all over the show on each others back Mrs Rubio said she …

… what was his name Jack Joe Harry Mulvey was it yes I think a lieutenant he was rather fair he had a laughing kind of a voice so I went around to the whatyoucallit everything was whatyoucallit moustache had he he said hed come back

Lord its just like yesterday to me

and if I was married hed do it to me and I promised him yes faithfully Id let him block me now flying perhaps hes dead or killed or a Captain or admiral its nearly 20 years if I said firtree cove he would if …

… you were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever they got a chance of walking down the Alameda on an officers arm like me on the bandnight my eyes flash my bust that they havent passion God help their poor head

I knew more about men and life when I was 15 than theyll all know at 50

they dont know how to sing a song like that Gardner said no man could look at my mouth and teeth smiling like that and not think of it I was afraid he mightnt like my accent first he so English all father left me …