Ulysses( 1922) - Teaching extracts for OHP: 1/3
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:
- Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:
- Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit.
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. 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.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
- Back to barracks, he said sternly.
He added in a preachers tone:
- For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.
He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
- Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.
- The mockery of it, he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek.
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily half way 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.
Buck Mulligans gay voice went on.
- My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasnt it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
- Will he come? The jejune jesuit.
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
- Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
- Yes, my love?
- How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
- God, isnt he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks youre not a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus; you have the real Oxford manner. He cant make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green
stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.
- Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his sidepocket
and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too,
and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen
in the shell of his hands.
- Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe
or you dont, isnt it? Personally I couldnt stomach that
idea of a personal God. You dont stand for that, I suppose?
- 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 Steeeeeeeeeephen. A wavering line along
the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants
that key. It is mine, I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give
him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.
- After all, Haines began
Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not
- After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are
your own master, it seems to me.
- I am the servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an
- Italian? Haines said.
A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.
- And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.
- Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?
- The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising,
and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.
Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.
- I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think
like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather
unfairly. It seems history is to blame.
The proud potent titles clanged over Stephens memory the triumph
of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam:
the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts,
a chemistry of stars. 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. 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 Christs terrene body, and the subtle African
heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son.
Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle
mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace,
a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church,
Michaels host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with
their lances and their shields.
Hear, hear. Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!
- Of course Im a Britisher, Haines voice said, and I
feel as one. I dont want to see my country fall into the hands of
German jews either. Thats our national problem, Im afraid,
Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather
of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was
in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base
treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple
plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles:
world without end.
A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his
rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.
- First, our little financial settlement, he said.
He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped
open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them
carefully on the table.
- Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.
And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephens embarrassed hand moved
over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money, cowries
and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emirs turban, and this,
the scallop of Saint James. An old pilgrims hoard, dead treasure,
A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.
- Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his
hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This
is for shillings, sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.
He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.
- Three twelve, he said. I think youll find thats right.
- Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with
shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.
- No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.
Stephens hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols
too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket. Symbols soiled by greed
- Dont carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. Youll pull
it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. Youll
find them very handy.
- Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.
The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now.
Three nooses round me here. Well. I can break them in this instant if
- Because you dont save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger.
You dont know yet what money is. Money is power, when you have lived
as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare
say? Put but money in thy purse.
- Iago, Stephen murmured.
He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old mans stare.
- He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet but
an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you
know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishmans
The seas ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: history
is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.
- That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.
- Ba! Mr Deasy cried. Thats not English. A French Celt said
that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
- I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.
Good man, good man.
- I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can
you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?
Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran,
ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two
lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half
a guinea, Kohler, three guineas, Mrs McKernan, five weeks board.
The lump I have is useless.
- For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
- I knew you couldnt, he said joyously. But one day you must
feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
- 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.
- You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice
said. I saw three generations since OConnells time. I remember
the famine. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of
the union twenty years before OConnell did or before the prelates
of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some
Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the
splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the
planters covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies
Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
- I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side.
But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We
are all Irish, all kings sons.
- Alas, Stephen said.
- Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He
voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of
Down to do so.
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft
day, sir John. Soft day, your honour
jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra, lal the ral the raddy.
||Lal the ral the ra
The rocky road to Dublin.
- That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me
a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends: I have a letter
here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair
twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
- Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment.
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, some times blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely
presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage,
their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings Repulse, the duke
of Westminsters Shotover, the duke of Beauforts Ceylon, prix
de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw
their speeds, backing Kings colours, and shouted with the shouts
of vanished crowds.
- Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt
ventilation of this important question
Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners
among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches
and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel:
ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the
hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butchers
dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
Shouts rang shrill from the boys playfield and
a whirring whistle.
Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling
bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mothers
darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds,
shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew
of the slain, a shout of spear spikes baited with mens bloodied
- Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen
- I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy
said. Its about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it.
There can be no two opinions on the matter.
May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine
of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade.
The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway
harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow
waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department
of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who
was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
- I dont mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked
as Stephen read on.
Foot and mouth disease. Known as Kochs preparation.
Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperors
horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry
Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial, Dictates of common sense.
Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the
horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
- I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said.
You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle.
And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to
me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there.
They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the
department. Now Im going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties,
backstairs influence, by
He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before
his voice spoke.
- Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is
in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her
press. And they are the signs of a nations decay. Wherever they
gather they eat up the nations vital strength. I have seen it Coming
these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already
at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.
He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life
as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.
- Dying, he said, if not dead by now.
His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the
sunbeam in which he halted.
||The harlots cry from street to
Shall weave old Englands winding sheet.
- A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap
and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?
- They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely.
And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers
on the earth to this day.
On the steps of the Paris Stock Exchange the goldskinned
men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabbles of geese. They swarmed
loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit
silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. 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. Vain
patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped
by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew the years of
wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
- Who has not? Stephen said.
- What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.
He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw
fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from
- 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?
- The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy
said. All history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
- That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
- What? Mr Deasy asked.
- A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging
Mr Deasy looked down and held for a while the wings of
his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.
- I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors
and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. 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. A faithless wife first brought the strangers
to our shore here, MacMurroughs wife and her leman ORourke,
prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures
but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will
fight for the right till the end.
||For Ulster will fight
And Ulster will be right.
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? By knocking
his sconce against them, sure. 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: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your
eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles oer his base,
fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely
in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two
feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds
solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity
along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie
Deasy kens them a. 
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter
of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.
||Wont you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished
since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta!
I will see if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall
be, world without end.
They came down the steps from Leahys terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily their splayed
feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our
mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwifes bag, the others
gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence
MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street.
One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing.
What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed
in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all
flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos.
Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought,
Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve.
She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler
of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from
everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.
Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.
By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes
on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the couplers will.
From before the ages  He willed me and now may not will me away or
ever A lex eterna stays about him. Is that then the divine substance
wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to
try conclusions? Warring his life long on the con-ztransmagnificandjewbangtantiality.
Illstarred heresiarch. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia.
With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of
a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.
Airs romped around him, nipping and eager airs. They
are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled,
the steeds of Mananaan.
I mustnt forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half
twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes,
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You
bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly,
striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one.
Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his
F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your
epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died
to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was
to read them there after a few thousand year, a mahamanvantara. Pico della
Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages
of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots
trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that
on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward
sewage breath. He coasted them, walking warily. A porter-bottle stood
up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of
dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark
cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach
a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen
and master mariners. Human shells.
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Saras.
 Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast
and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.
- Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?
- Cest le pigeon, Joseph.
Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in
the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My fathers
a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue,
plump bunnys face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros
lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send
me La Vie de Jésus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
- Cest tordant, vows savez. Moi je suis
socialiste. Je ne crois pas en lexistence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire
à mon père.
- Il croit?
- Mon père, oui.
Schluss. He laps.
My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character.
I want puce gloves. You were a student, werent you? Of what in the
other devils name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques,
chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en
civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in
the most natural tone: when I was in Paris, boul Mich,
I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they
arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth
of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow
did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, cest moi.
You seem to have enjoyed yourself.
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget:
a dispossessed. With mothers money order, eight shillings, the banging
door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache.
 Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé.
Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered
walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not
hurt? O, thats all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O,
thats all right. Shake a shake. O, thats all only all right.
You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe
after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven
spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending
to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence,
across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought
back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte
Rouge, a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:
- Mother dying come home father.
The aunt thinks you killed your mother. Thats why she wont.
His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand
furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly,
piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The
sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.
||Then heres a health to Mulligans
And Ill tell you the reason why.
She always kept things decent in
The Hannigan famileye.
Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets.
Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense,
court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wifes lovers
wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her
hands. In Rodots Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their  tumbled
beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their
mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of Paris
men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.
Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes
through fingers smeared with printers ink, sipping his green fairy
as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron.
She serves me at his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage.
Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez? Ah oui! She thought you
wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that
word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer
fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte! Around
the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His
breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairys fang
thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies,
of Arthur Griffith now. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common
cause. Youre your fathers son. I know the voice. His fustian
shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets.
M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria?
Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents
jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye,
Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne à tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said. Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur,
I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldnt
let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green
eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people. 
The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.
Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner.
Raw facebones under his peep of day boys hat. How the head centre
got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil orangeblossoms,
drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed,
wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.
Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you,
Ill show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love
he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls
of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward
in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides,
Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his days stations,
the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps
short night in, rue de la Goutte-dOr, damascened with flyblown faces
of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without
her outcastman, madame, in rue Gît-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers.
Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young things. Spurned and
undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, wont you? I wanted to get poor
Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to
sing. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old
lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbows
castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy,
by the hand.
Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten  Kevin Egan, not he them.
Remembering thee, O Sion.
||O, O the boys of
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.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didnt like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
- Milk for the pussens, he said.
- Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
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.
He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number
seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of Georges church.
Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more.
Black  conducts, reflects (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldnt
go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often
as he walked in happy warmth. Bolands breadvan delivering with trays
our daily but she prefers yesterdays loaves turnovers crisp crowns
hot. Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off
at dawn, travel round in front of the sun, steal a days march on
him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along
a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker
too, old Tweedys big moustaches leaning on a long kind of a spear.
Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet
shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged smoking a coiled
pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel,
sherbet. Wander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet
him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques along the pillars:
priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening
wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches from her doorway. She
calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings
twanged. Night sky moon, violet, colour of Mollys new garters. Strings.
Listen. A girl playing one of these instruments what do you call them:
dulcimers. I pass.
Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track
of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What
Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader:
a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the
bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule
sun rising up in the northwest. 
He approached Larry ORourkes. From the cellar grating floated
up the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted
out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just
the end of the city traffic. For instance MAuleys down there:
n. g. as position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular
from the cattle market to the quays value would go up like a shot.
Bald head over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an
ad. Still he knows his own business best. 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. Simon Dedalus takes him
off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what Im going
to tell you? Whats that, Mr ORourke? Do you know what? The
Russians, theyd only be an eight oclock breakfast for the
Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam,
Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway:
- Good day, Mr ORourke.
- Good day to you.
- Lovely weather, sir.
- Tis all that.
Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county
Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold,
they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think of the
competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without
passing a pub. Save it they cant. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down
three and carry five. What is that? A bob here and there, dribs and 
drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the
town travellers. Square it with the boss and well split the job,
How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels
of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Ten. Fifteen. He passed
Saint Josephs, National school. Brats clamour. Windows open.
Fresh air helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee
double you. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their
joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.
He halted before Dlugaczs window, staring at the hanks of sausages,
polonies, black and white. Fifty multiplied by. The figures whitened in
his mind unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links packed
with forcemeat fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm
breath of cooked spicy pigs blood.
A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He stood
by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the
items from a slip in her hand. Chapped: washing soda. And a pound and
a half of Dennys sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.
Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldfish. New blood. No
followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline.
She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each