James Joyce's "Ulysses" Part 1

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell.

To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.

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

Your postprandial, do you know that word?

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

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

God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain.

He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs.

His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.

And Mastiansky with the old cither.

The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls.

A _lex eterna_ stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial?

Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper.

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.

One tabloid of cascara sagrada.

--I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons.

--I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.

A throstle.

Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.

What was the end of Pyrrhus?

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor.

The king was in his countinghouse.

Rinderpest.

Whispering gallery walls have ears.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

Making his day's stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone.

One tabloid of cascara sagrada.

Scarlet runners.

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.

You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons.

Lap, _lapin._

Mercurial Malachi.

The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

God speed scut.

--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...

Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing.

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

Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief.

Crush, crack, crick, crick.

He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain.

Scarlatina, influenza epidemics.

They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will.

On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.

Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America.

In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels.

Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

Something going on: some sodality.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel.

As he walked he took the folded _Freeman_ from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles.

I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life.

A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's _Requiescat_.

And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.

Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.

--But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself.

_Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris_.

Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself.

The sphincter loose.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides.

She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

--The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: --When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said.

Sleeping draughts.

Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.

He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm.

I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping.

So. Ah! Costive.

The body to be exhumed.

Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.

Not like Ecce Homo.

His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

That doctrine of _laissez faire_ which so often in our history.

Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the _vibrato_: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street.

A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (_descende_!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed.

His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees.

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said: --I don't know, I'm sure.

Chummies and slaveys.

Dead March from _Saul._

They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear.

A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope.

Test: turns blue litmus paper red.

Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.

To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church's looms.

That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.

Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.

--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...

Sensitive plants.

Crusted toenails too.

Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.

But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon.

Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls.

--Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...

Dander along all day.

Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.

Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse.

Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled.

Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.

Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the industrious blind.

Sleeping sickness in the air.

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.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, _Frauenzimmer_: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand.

--I'm giving you two lumps each, he said.

Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes.

Hail Mary and Holy Mary.

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet.

Overdose of laudanum.

A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls.

A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers.

Sunburst on the titlepage.

A server of a servant.

Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up.

Reincarnation: that's the word.

A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: _And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery For Fergus rules the brazen cars._

Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: --The bard's noserag!

_His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience._

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, _Frauenzimmer_: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor.

Whooping cough they say it cures.

Veterinary surgeons.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: --Come up, Kinch!

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.

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.

Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: --You put your hoof in it now.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points.

Enough stuff here to chloroform you.

Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore.

Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes.

Lollipop.

Thus spake Zarathustra.

Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait.

The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane.

The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand?

O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?

Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall.

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame.

Pirouette!

He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me.

I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, _Frauenzimmer_: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand.

A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.

There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer.

His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last.

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale.

No good eggs with this drouth.

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: --It is a symbol of Irish art.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

--Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

Electuary or emulsion.

He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.

For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.

A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

Aha. Eating your groatsworth of _mou en civet_, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen.

He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs.

Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.

Condole with her.

A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain.

Redcoats.

That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

Chemists rarely move.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: --When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said.

Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

Piebald for bachelors.

Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

--The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses.

Kosher.

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.

Lethargy.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another.

Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.

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.

Not a bit funky.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband.

Wallace Bros: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly.

Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles.

The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing.

A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing.

The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Not like Ecce Homo.

Test: turns blue litmus paper red.

Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic).

Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

Could meet one Sunday after the rosary.

He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.

Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue?

--Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys.

--No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Anemic a little.

Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street.

Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

She liked mignonette.

Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls.

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet.

Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

Licentious men.

Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet.

The banknotes, blast them.

He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder.

About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade.

Springers.

An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: _I am the boy That can enjoy Invisibility._

Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

Like through a colander.

Ghoul!

Open hallway.

His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief.

He has washed the upper moiety.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.

Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock.

Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right.

Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in _dolce far niente_, not doing a hand's turn all day.

A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags.

How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure.

Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up.

--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.

--I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.

He strolled out to the doorway.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides.

A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

They have no mercy on that here or infanticide.

Then the insides decompose quickly.

Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.

She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word.

His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.

A raindrop spat on his hat.

A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill.

Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.

Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.

The shadows of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up.

Overdose of laudanum.

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes.

He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping.

To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter.

Can become ideal winter sanatorium.

Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly: --I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

No browbeating him.

Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the serpent's prey.

About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets.

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups.

Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. --There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

Still life.

Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.

Black conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat.

Mortar and pestle.

The _Bath of the Nymph_ over the bed.

Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland.

--I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said.

Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley.

Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.

They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel.

Prr. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly the lithe black form.

He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel.

By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs.

Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign.

--I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when...

--Scald the teapot.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data.

Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.

Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

The college curriculum.

They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

--I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.

Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

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.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers.

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping.

Dear Henry I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it.

A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly.

Given away with the Easter number of _Photo Bits_: Splendid masterpiece in art colours.

He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell.

There again: the overtone following through the air, third.

Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry.

--Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier.

Sir Lout's toys.

--If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts.

First communicants.

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.

To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees.

With turf from the midland bogs.

With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Veterinary surgeons.

He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.

He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats.

The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning.

Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter.

A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron.

There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found.

Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.

Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork.

Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.

A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.

No use canvassing him for an ad.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.

There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted: _--Goodbye, now, goodbye!

Gluttons, tall, long legs.

Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

Better get that lotion made up.

Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money?

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.

There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers.

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.

A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (_descende_!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed.

A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning.

Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America.

Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot.

By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy.

No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon.

There he is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket.

_Amor matris:_ subjective and objective genitive.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was.

Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.

Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume.

--Snapshot, eh?

Or a lilt.

Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt.

Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell!

The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet.

Today the bards must drink and junket.

Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly: _What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat?

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block.

Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other.

Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.

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

Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

Is it some paradox?

Ruins and tenements.

God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain.

Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: _And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery For Fergus rules the brazen cars._

A sleek brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices.

Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges.

Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches.

The alchemists.

For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy.

Death by misadventure.

And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.

The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides.

Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night.

Pure curd soap.

Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.

A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill.

--Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box.

--In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.

She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth.

More than doctor or solicitor.

Womb of sin.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript.

_That beetles o'er his base into the sea,_ isn't it?

Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets.

Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat.

Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit.

Were you in a funk?

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death.

His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade.

--The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.

One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life.

He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his.

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight.

Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.

_Tiens, quel petit pied!_

You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street.

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

Out of that, you mongrel!

He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof: --Don't mope over it all day, he said.

He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.

Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain.

Much better to close up all the orifices.

Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere.

Salvation army blatant imitation.

The froeken, _bonne a tout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala.

Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom.

Music hall stage.

He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water.

--There's five fathoms out there, he said.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.

With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort.

--He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said.

Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner.

Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs.

Elixir of life.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.

He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal's mausoleum.

They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will.

On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.

Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade.

And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.

To lap better, all porous holes.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse.

Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.

--It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last: --Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say.

Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments.

Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue?

He's rather blasphemous.

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach.

Funeral be rather glum.

A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords.

Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs.

So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

Again: a goal.

--Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

Scarlatina, influenza epidemics.

Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle.

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.

The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player.

Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel.

Her cerebral lobes are not functioning.

I'm not a believer myself, that is to say.

So here's to disciples and Calvary._

He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly.

Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

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

Switch off the current, will you?

They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out.

I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires.

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.

It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.

A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

Benedictine.

Cassandra.

Prolonged applause.

The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.

Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, _Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum_.

And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.

Bought it at the governor's auction.

You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose.

Windows open.

The best obtainable.

A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters.

The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors.

--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.

The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood.

Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.

The froeken, _bonne a tout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala.

Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

And the retrospective arrangement.

A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.

A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly.

A gruesome case.

A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and the

His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of saint James.

Pert little piece she was.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine.

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question...

--You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably.

The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switc

Is there Gaelic on you?

With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher.

Bald he was and a millionaire, _maestro di color che sanno_.

Serum and virus.

His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.

Valuation is only twenty-eight.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.

Thunderstorm.

Must get those settled really.

He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight.

A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise.

Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, _the dictates of common sense._

--Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach.

You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose.

Refuse christian burial.

On the spindle side.

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, _frate porcospino_.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points.

Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.

Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.

Sounds solid: made by the mallet of _Los Demiurgos_.

A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars.

He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs.

Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

The priest prayed: --Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: _And no more turn aside and brood Upon love's bitter mystery For Fergus rules the brazen cars._