This relation in light of the fact that copy functions in computing environments – e.g., in (scanned) PDF materials – where the different columns remain unrecognized by optical character recognition software. Again, the attribution of the grey text to the image – that is, the relation between the two – is a result of the lived work of. 'Trust Not Appearances': Political and Personal Betrayal in James Joyce's. On 22 March 1907 James Joyce published an article entitled 'Il Fenianismo: L'ultimo. Him of trying to seduce Nora Barnacle, Joyce's partner since 1904.2 The Italian was devastated. Formatted: Font: Not Italic.

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You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Ulysses Author: James Joyce Release Date: July, 2003 [EBook #4300] [This file was first posted on December 27, 2001] [Edition 12 posted June 30th, 2002] [Date last updated: November 26, 2004] Edition: 12 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII Please Note: This etext edition of the Project Gutenberg Ulysses by James Joyce is based on the pre-1923 print editions. Any suggested changes to this etext should be based on comparison to that print edition, and not to the new 1986 and later print editions. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULYSSES *** This etext was prepared by Col Choat. Ulysses by James Joyce -- I -- 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 out 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 land 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 preacher's tone: --For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all. 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. 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 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. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.

--My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't 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, isn't he dreadful? He said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're 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 can't make you out.

O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade. He shaved warily over his chin. --He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase? --A woful lunatic! Mulligan said.

Were you in a funk? --I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear.

Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off. Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily. He cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: --Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: --The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.

You can almost taste it, can't you? He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. 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. She is our great sweet mother. Come and look. Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. --Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face. --The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you. --Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. --You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you.

But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you.

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. Geometry Dash Free Download Pc No Password. A tolerant smile curled his lips. --But a lovely mummer! He murmured to himself.

Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all! He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously. 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. 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. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.

The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. 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. Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade. --Ah, poor dogsbody! He said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

--They fit well enough, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. --The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off.

I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch.

You look damn well when you're dressed. --Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey. --He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette.

He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. --That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane!

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk. --Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack.

As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin.

It asks me too. --I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.

Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula. Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes. --The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!

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

--It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? He said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them. Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steelpen.

--Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman.

His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it. Cranly's arm.

--And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears.

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me! Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.

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

--Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night. --Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now? They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale.

Stephen freed his arm quietly. --Do you wish me to tell you? --Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything. He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke.

A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes. Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said: --Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death? Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: --What? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. What happened in the name of God? --You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water.

Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room. Buck Mulligan said. What did I say?

--You said, Stephen answered, O, IT'S ONLY DEDALUS WHOSE MOTHER IS BEASTLY DEAD. A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek. --Did I say that? What harm is that? He shook his constraint from him nervously.

--And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom.

It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter.

You wouldn't kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly.

Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.

He had spoken himself into boldness. 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. --Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.

--Of the offence to me, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. --O, an impossible person! He exclaimed.

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. A voice within the tower called loudly: --Are you up there, Mulligan? --I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.

He turned towards Stephen and said: --Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

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. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. 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. Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed.

Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two.

A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Ps3 Controller Pcsx2 Mac Latest. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside.

She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. 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.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD. Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys.

Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

Her eyes on me to strike me down. LILIATA RUTILANTIUM TE CONFESSORUM TURMA CIRCUMDET: IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM CHORUS EXCIPIAT. Chewer of corpses!

Let me be and let me live. --Kinch ahoy! Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words. --Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready.

Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It's all right. --I'm coming, Stephen said, turning. --Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared. --I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever.

Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean. --I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

--The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. --If you want it, Stephen said. --Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns. He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent: O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY TIME, DRINKING WHISKY, BEER AND WINE!

ON CORONATION, CORONATION DAY! O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY TIME ON CORONATION DAY!

Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship? 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 to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. 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. --We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you? Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker.

A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. --Have you the key? A voice asked. --Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!

He howled, without looking up from the fire: --Kinch! --It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward. The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait.

Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief. --I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when. Not a word more on that subject!

Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where's the sugar?

O, jay, there's no milk. Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet. --What sort of a kip is this? I told her to come after eight. --We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily.

There's a lemon in the locker. --O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk. Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly: --That woman is coming up with the milk. --The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair.

Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs. He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying: --IN NOMINE PATRIS ET FILII ET SPIRITUS SANCTI. Haines sat down to pour out the tea.

--I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you? 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. And when I makes water I makes water.

--By Jove, it is tea, Haines said. Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: --SO I DO, MRS CAHILL, says she. BEGOB, MA'AM, says Mrs Cahill, GOD SEND YOU DON'T MAKE THEM IN THE ONE POT. He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

--That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind. He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows: --Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?

--I doubt it, said Stephen gravely. --Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?

--I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.

He said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf: --FOR OLD MARY ANN SHE DOESN'T CARE A DAMN. BUT, HISING UP HER PETTICOATS.

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

--The milk, sir! --Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug. An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. --That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God. Mulligan said, glancing at her.

Ah, to be sure! Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker. --The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces. --How much, sir? Asked the old woman.

--A quart, Stephen said. He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps.

She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times.

A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour. --It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups. --Taste it, sir, she said. He drank at her bidding.

--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. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. --Are you a medical student, sir? The old woman asked.

--I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered. --Look at that now, she said. Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights. 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. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

--Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her. --Is it French you are talking, sir? The old woman said to Haines. Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. --Irish, Buck Mulligan said.

Is there Gaelic on you? --I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir? --I am an Englishman, Haines answered. --He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland. --Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak the language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows.

--Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am? --No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go. Haines said to her: --Have you your bill?

We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we? Stephen filled again the three cups.

She said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling.

That's a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.

--Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling. Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried: --A miracle! He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying: --Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give. Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

--We'll owe twopence, he said. --Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Good morning, sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: --HEART OF MY HEART, WERE IT MORE, MORE WOULD BE LAID AT YOUR FEET. He turned to Stephen and said: --Seriously, Dedalus. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty. --That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.

--Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said. He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: --Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines: --The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month. --All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf. Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: --I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Yet here's a spot.

--That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth of tone: --Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

--Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in. --Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked. Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said: --I don't know, I'm sure. He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: --You put your hoof in it now.

What did you say that for? Stephen said.

The problem is to get money. From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think. --I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. --I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm. --From me, Kinch, he said.

In a suddenly changed tone he added: --To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip. He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly: --Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table. --There's your snotrag, he said. And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. --And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.

Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway: --Are you coming, you fellows? --I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: --And going forth he met Butterly. Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked: --Did you bring the key? --I have it, Stephen said, preceding them. He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. How dare you, sir! Haines asked: --Do you pay rent for this tower?

--Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said. --To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last: --Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it? --Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea.

But ours is the OMPHALOS. --What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen. --No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fifty-five reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first. He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat: --You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?

--It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. --You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox? Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It's quite simple.

He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father. Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear: --O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!

--We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell. Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands. --The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.

--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. THAT BEETLES O'ER HIS BASE INTO THE SEA, ISN'T IT? Buck Mulligan turned suddenly. For an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.

--It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again. Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail tacking by the Muglins. --I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father.

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice: --I'M THE QUEEREST YOUNG FELLOW THAT EVER YOU HEARD. MY MOTHER'S A JEW, MY FATHER'S A BIRD.

WITH JOSEPH THE JOINER I CANNOT AGREE. SO HERE'S TO DISCIPLES AND CALVARY. He held up a forefinger of warning. --IF ANYONE THINKS THAT I AMN'T DIVINE HE'LL GET NO FREE DRINKS WHEN I'M MAKING THE WINE BUT HAVE TO DRINK WATER AND WISH IT WERE PLAIN THAT I MAKE WHEN THE WINE BECOMES WATER AGAIN.

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! WRITE DOWN ALL I SAID AND TELL TOM, DIEK AND HARRY I ROSE FROM THE DEAD. WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE CANNOT FAIL ME TO FLY AND OLIVET'S BREEZY. GOODBYE, NOW, GOODBYE! He capered before them down towards the forty-foot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.

Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said: --We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?

--The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered. --O, Haines said, you have heard it before? --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.

--There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said. 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 don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't 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, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.

He wants that key. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. 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 all unkind. --After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me. --I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me. --And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs. 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 Stephen's 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 Christ's 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, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Prolonged applause. --Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one.

I don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now. Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. --She's making for Bullock harbour. The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain. --There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one.

It's nine days today. The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water. --Is the brother with you, Malachi?

--Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons. --Still there?

I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her. --Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure. Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots.

An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. 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. 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. --Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army. --Ah, go to God!

Buck Mulligan said. --Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily? --Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with money.

--Is she up the pole? --Better ask Seymour that.

--Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said. He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely: --Redheaded women buck like goats. He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt. --My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the UBERMENSCH. Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen.

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay. --Are you going in here, Malachi? Make room in the bed. The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking. --Are you not coming in?

Buck Mulligan asked. --Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. Stephen turned away. --I'm going, Mulligan, he said.

--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat. Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. --And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there. Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing.

Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly: --He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra. His plump body plunged. --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. --Good, Stephen said.

He walked along the upwardcurving path. LILIATA RUTILANTIUM. TURMA CIRCUMDET. IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM. The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly.

I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again.

A sleek brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round. * * * * * * * --You, Cochrane, what city sent for him? --Tarentum, sir. --There was a battle, sir. The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame.

What's left us then? --I forget the place, sir. --Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book. And he said: ANOTHER VICTORY LIKE THAT AND WE ARE DONE FOR. That phrase the world had remembered.

A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear. --You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus? --End of Pyrrhus, sir?

--I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus? A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly.

Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey. --Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay. --Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier. --A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge.

Kingstown pier, sir. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.

With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle. --Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge. The words troubled their gaze. A bridge is across a river. For Haines's chapbook.

No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress.

For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. 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. --O, do, sir.

A ghoststory. --Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book. --WEEP NO MORE, Comyn said. --Go on then, Talbot. --And the story, sir?

--After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel.

He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text: --WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE FOR LYCIDAS, YOUR SORROW, IS NOT DEAD, SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR. It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. 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. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

Talbot repeated: --THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM THAT WALKED THE WAVES, THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT. --Turn over, Stephen said quietly.

I don't see anything. Talbot asked simply, bending forward. His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute.

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. RIDDLE ME, RIDDLE ME, RANDY RO.

MY FATHER GAVE ME SEEDS TO SOW. Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

--Have I heard all? Stephen asked. Hockey at ten, sir. --Half day, sir. --Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: --A riddle, sir? --O, ask me, sir.

--A hard one, sir. --This is the riddle, Stephen said: THE COCK CREW, THE SKY WAS BLUE: THE BELLS IN HEAVEN WERE STRIKING ELEVEN. 'TIS TIME FOR THIS POOR SOUL TO GO TO HEAVEN. What is that? --Again, sir.

We didn't hear. Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said: --What is it, sir? We give it up. Stephen, his throat itching, answered: --The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush. He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called: --Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook.

His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed. He held out his copybook.

The word SUMS was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal. --Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. --Do you understand how to do them now? --Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir. --Can you do them. Stephen asked.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail.

She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. 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.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field. Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes.

Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. 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. --Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. AMOR MATRIS: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done. --It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up. Thanks, Sargent answered. He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench. --You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form. In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

--Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you. He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.

They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache. --What is it now? He cried continually without listening. --Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.

--Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here. And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: --What is the matter? What is it now? 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. 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. 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. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells. 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. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns.

And here crowns. He shot from it two crowns and two shillings. --Three twelve, he said.

I think you'll find that's 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. Stephen's 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 and misery. --Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it.

You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very handy. Answer something. --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.

I can break them in this instant if I will. --Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't 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 man's stare. --He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said.

He made money. A poet, yes, 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 Englishman's mouth?

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. --That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. Mr Deasy cried. That's 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. 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, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, 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 couldn't, 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 filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales. --You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine in '46. 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?

You fenians forget some things. 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 lie down.

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. LAL THE RAL THE RA THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!

Soft day, your honour! Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra.

Lal the ral the raddy. --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.

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, sometimes 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 Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, PRIX DE PARIS, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign.

He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. --Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant 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 the favourite: 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 butcher's 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 mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

--Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising. He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up. --I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's 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. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

--I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg, 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. 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 I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties,. Backstairs influence.

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 nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's 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 again, if not dead by now. THE HARLOT'S CRY FROM STREET TO STREET SHALL WEAVE OLD ENGLAND'S WINDINGSHEET. His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. --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. Gabble 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 their 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 me.

--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 human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God. Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: --That is God.

Mr Deasy asked. --A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile 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, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, 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. Stephen raised the sheets in his hand. --Well, sir, he began. --I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work.

You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.

--A learner rather, Stephen said. And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher. Stephen rustled the sheets again. --As regards these, he began. --Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there.

If you can have them published at once. IRISH HOMESTEAD. --I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly. --That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel.

I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they? --THE EVENING TELEGRAPH. --That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. --Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back. He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors.

Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

--Mr Dedalus! Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

--Just one moment. --Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. --I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air. Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

--Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly. A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.

--She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

* * * * * * * 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. By knocking his sconce against them, sure.

Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane 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. If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er 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 ends 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'. WON'T YOU COME TO SANDYMOUNT, MADELINE THE MARE? Rhythm begins, you see. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE. Open your eyes now. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane.

I will see if I can see. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. 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. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's 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. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting.

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 coupler's 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 upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. 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 round him, nipping and eager airs.

They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan. I mustn't forget his letter for the press. The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.

His pace slackened. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My consubstantial father's voice.

Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh?

And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things I married into!

De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player.

Highly respectable gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ! I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait.

They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage. --It's Stephen, sir. --Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. --We thought you were someone else. In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. He has washed the upper moiety.

--Morrow, nephew. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of DUCES TECUM. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's REQUIESCAT. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. --Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother.

Where is she? --Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love. --No, uncle Richie.

--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water.

--Uncle Richie, really. --Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Walter squints vainly for a chair. --He has nothing to sit down on, sir. --He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.

Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? So much the better.

We have nothing in the house but backache pills. He drones bars of Ferrando's ARIA DI SORTITA. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees. This wind is sweeter. 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. The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled.

The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,-- furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? DESCENDE, CALVE, UT NE AMPLIUS DECALVERIS. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (DESCENDE!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll! 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. And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.

And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain.

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. Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street.

Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! What about that, eh? What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! 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. 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? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, 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, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle 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. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's.

Am I not going there? No-one about.

He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. --QUI VOUS A MIS DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION? --C'EST 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 father's a bird, he lapped the sweet LAIT CHAUD with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. 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 JESUS by M. Lent it to his friend. --C'EST TORDANT, VOUS SAVEZ. MOI, JE SUIS SOCIALISTE. JE NE CROIS PAS EN L'EXISTENCE DE DIEU. FAUT PAS LE DIRE A MON P-RE.

--MON PERE, OUI. My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other devil's name?

N., you know: PHYSIQUES, CHIMIQUES ET NATURELLES. 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. 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, C'EST MOI. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Proudly walking.

Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. ENCORE DEUX MINUTES.

Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. O, that's all right. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right.

Shake a shake. O, that's 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!

Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. 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. That's why she won't.

THEN HERE'S A HEALTH TO MULLIGAN'S AUNT AND I'LL TELL YOU THE REASON WHY. SHE ALWAYS KEPT THINGS DECENT IN THE HANNIGAN FAMILEYE. 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. 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 wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's 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 printer's 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. DEUX IRLANDAIS, NOUS, IRLANDE, VOUS SAVEZ AH, OUI! She thought you wanted a cheese HOLLANDAIS. Your postprandial, do you know that word? 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 fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's son.

I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets.

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, Felix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men.

The froeken, BONNE A 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 wouldn't 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 tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide.

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. I'll 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 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.

Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won't 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, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes like this.

He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand. O, O THE BOYS OF KILKENNY. Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.

Remembering thee, O Sion. He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets.

The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes.

A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their--blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike. A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. UN COCHE ENSABLE Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. You have some.

Sands and stones. Heavy of the past.

Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear.

I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me?

Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries.

They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. He is running back to them. Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf.

Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat.

Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me. The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy.

I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. TERRIBILIA MEDITANS. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? 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. We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities.

Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. NATURLICH, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out.

I would want to. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured?

If I had land under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine.

A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. With him together down. I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost. A woman and a man. I see her skirties.

Pinned up, I bet. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull.

The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.

On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse.

They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path.

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. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Out of that, you mongrel! 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. 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 again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.

The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead. After he woke me last night same dream or was it?

Open hallway. Street of harlots.

Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke.

I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. Red carpet spread. You will see who. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.

His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back.

Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags.

Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells. WHITE THY FAMBLES, RED THY GAN AND THY QUARRONS DAINTY IS. COUCH A HOGSHEAD WITH ME THEN. IN THE DARKMANS CLIP AND KISS. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, FRATE PORCOSPINO. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.

Call away let him: THY QUARRONS DAINTY IS. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. A side eye at my Hamlet hat.

If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands.

She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, OINOPA PONTON, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. OMNIS CARO AD TE VENIET.

He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss. Put a pin in that chap, will you? Mouth to her kiss. Must be two of em. Glue em well.

Mouth to her mouth's kiss. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's letter.

Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter. His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending.

Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. 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. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words?

Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick.

You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls do you not think?

Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality.

She, she, she. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.

Talk about apple dumplings, PIUTTOSTO. Where are your wits? Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men?

I am quiet here alone. Touch, touch me. He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. ET VIDIT DEUS.

ET ERANT VALDE BONA. Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide.

AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD. His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs, NEBENEINANDER.

He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. TIENS, QUEL PETIT PIED! Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name.

His arm: Cranly's arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? All or not at all. In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing.

My ashplant will float away. I shall wait.

No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels.

And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

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. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, DIEBUS AC NOCTIBUS INIURIAS PATIENS INGEMISCIT. To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar.

Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean.

PRIX DE PARIS: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, LUCIFER, DICO, QUI NESCIT OCCASUM.

My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end.

By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder.

That one is going too. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money? Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? My handkerchief. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one. He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Perhaps there is someone. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship. -- II -- Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.

He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices 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 didn't like her plate full.

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.

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 writingtable. Scratch my head.

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. 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. Curious mice never squeal.

Seem to like it. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower?

No, she can jump me. --Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.

Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.

The cat said loudly. She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor. She cried, running to lap. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after.

They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps. He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no.

No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's.

While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough?

To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way.

He said softly in the bare hall: --I'm going round the corner. Be back in a minute.

And when he had heard his voice say it he added: --You don't want anything for breakfast? A sleepy soft grunt answered: --Mn. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled really.

All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Bought it at the governor's auction.

Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it.

Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing. His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.

The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper. On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. In the trousers I left off. Potato I have.

Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. All right till I come back anyhow.

He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's 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 couldn't go in that light suit.

Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's 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 day's 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 Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going. 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.

Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up.

A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from her doorway.

She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers.

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 north-west.

He approached Larry O'Rourke's. 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 M'Auley's down there: n. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot. Baldhead 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 I'm going to tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese.

Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: --Good day, Mr O'Rourke.

--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 thin of the competition.

General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can't. 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 you with the boss and we'll split the job, see?

How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off.

He passed Saint Joseph's National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps memory.

Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Boys are they? At their joggerfry. Slieve Bloom. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white.

Fifteen multiplied. 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: washingsoda.

And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.

Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. 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 whack. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.

Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer. He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias.

Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young white heifer.

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 switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. --Now, my miss, he said. She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. --Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please? Mr Bloom pointed quickly.

To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines.

She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands.

Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another: a constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage.

O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood. --Threepence, please. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the till.

--Thank you, sir. Another time. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time. --Good morning, he said, moving away.

--Good morning, sir. He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim: planters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction.

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

Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. Nothing doing.

Still an idea behind it. He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out.

Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair.

Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore.

His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. No, not like that.

A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters.

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

A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the neck.

The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now.

Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world. Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward.

Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down.

Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet.

Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath.

Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind. Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once.

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. --Who are the letters for? He looked at them. --A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you.

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees. --Do you want the blind up? Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow. He asked, turning. She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. --She got the things, she said.

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh. --Hurry up with that tea, she said. --The kettle is boiling, he said.

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed. As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: --Poldy! --Scald the teapot. On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw he took off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt.

While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they won't eat pork. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup.

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift.

Only five she was then. No, wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring. O, MILLY BLOOM, YOU ARE MY DARLING. YOU ARE MY LOOKINGGLASS FROM NIGHT TO MORNING.

I'D RATHER HAVE YOU WITHOUT A FARTHING THAN KATEY KEOGH WITH HER ASS AND GARDEN. Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous old chap.

Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we laughed. Sex breaking out even then.

Pert little piece she was. He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot on the tray.

Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle. Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.

--What a time you were! She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.

--Who was the letter from? --O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme. --What are you singing? --LA CI DAREM with J. Doyle, she said, and LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG. Her full lips, drinking, smiled.

Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.

--Would you like the window open a little? She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking: --What time is the funeral? --Eleven, I think, he answered.

I didn't see the paper. Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. --No: that book. Other stocking.

Her petticoat. --It must have fell down, she said. He felt here and there. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. Wonder if she pronounces that right: VOGLIO. Not in the bed. Must have slid down.

He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orangekeyed chamberpot. --Show here, she said. I put a mark in it.

There's a word I wanted to ask you. 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.

--Met him what? --Here, she said.

What does that mean? He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail. Who's he when he's at home? --Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls.

Tell us in plain words. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn.

He turned over the smudged pages. RUBY: THE PRIDE OF THE RING. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent. THE MONSTER MAFFEI DESISTED AND FLUNG HIS VICTIM FROM HIM WITH AN OATH.

Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they metamspychosis.

That we live after death. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul. --Did you finish it? --Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it.

Is she in love with the first fellow all the time? --Never read it. Do you want another? Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.

Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word. --Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.

The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. The BATH OF THE NYMPH over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of PHOTO BITS: Splendid masterpiece in art colours.

Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then. He turned the pages back.

--Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

--There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire? --The kidney! He cried suddenly. 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. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back.

Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf.

He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic?

He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing.

They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic.

Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday.

There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, MILLY. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home.

Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.

His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell.

Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. Twelve and six a week. Still, she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student.

He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again: twice. O, well: she knows how to mind herself. No, nothing has happened.

Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does.

A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Ripening now. He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window.

Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair.

ALL DIMPLED CHEEKS AND CURLS, YOUR HEAD IT SIMPLY SWIRLS. Seaside girls.

Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says.

Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, THOSE GIRLS, THOSE GIRLS, THOSE LOVELY SEASIDE GIRLS. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen, yes. Useless: can't move.

Girl's sweet light lips. Will happen too.

He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips. Better where she is down there: away. Wanted a dog to pass the time.

Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass.

Or through M'Coy. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out.

Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the fire too. He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up, undoing the waistband of his trousers.

The cat mewed to him. He said in answer. Wait till I'm ready. Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the landing. He liked to read at stool.

Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. In the tabledrawer he found an old number of TITBITS. He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed. Listening, he heard her voice: --Come, come, pussy. He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen towards the next garden.

Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine morning. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall. Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers.

Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur.

All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing.

Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Always have fresh greens then.

Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that.

Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters. Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brillantined hair over his collar.

Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say.

Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss. He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel.

Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows.

The king was in his countinghouse. Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy.

No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit: MATCHAM'S MASTERSTROKE. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London.

Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six. Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. 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.

Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. One tabloid of cascara sagrada.

Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season.

He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. MATCHAM OFTEN THINKS OF THE MASTERSTROKE BY WHICH HE WON THE LAUGHING WITCH WHO NOW. Begins and ends morally.

HAND IN HAND. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six. Might manage a sketch.

By Mr and Mrs L. Invent a story for some proverb.

Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt.

Did Roberts pay you yet? What had Gretta Conroy on? What possessed me to buy this comb? I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.

Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth.

That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking.

Is that Boylan well off? He has money. I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it.

Strange kind of music that last night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it.

Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then: black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.

There again: the overtone following through the air, a third. * * * * * * * By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.

Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there.

He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth.

And past Nichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's.

Singing with his eyes shut. Met her once in the park. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it.

Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair.

Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands.

The far east. 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. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in DOLCE FAR NIENTE, not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve.

Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Petals too tired to.

Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what?

Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second.

Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground.

It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight. He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. 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. Careless air: just drop in to see.

Per second per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. He handed the card through the brass grill.

--Are there any letters for me? 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. No answer probably. Went too far last time. The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. Westland Row, City. Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume.

No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs.

There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. That must be why the women go after them. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital.

Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. The King's own.

Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes. He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right.

Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket.

Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you. --Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

--Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular. --How's the body? --Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: --Is there any. No trouble I hope? I see you're. --O, no, Mr Bloom said.

Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today. --To be sure, poor fellow. A photo it isn't. A badge maybe. Eleven, Mr Bloom answered. --I must try to get out there, M'Coy said.

Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me?

You know Hoppy? Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change.

Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield.

The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her. --I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums.

Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Which side will she get up? --And he said: SAD THING ABOUT OUR POOR FRIEND PADDY!

POOR LITTLE PADDY DIGNAM, he said. Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling.

Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback.

Two strings to her bow. WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? Proud: rich: silk stockings. --Yes, Mr Bloom said. He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute.

--WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? HE'S DEAD, he said. And, faith, he filled up. IS IT PADDY DIGNAM? I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch.

YES, he said. HE DIED ON MONDAY, POOR FELLOW. Silk flash rich stockings white. A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Curse your noisy pugnose.

Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of.

ESPRIT DE CORPS. Well, what are you gaping? --Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone. --One of the best, M'Coy said. The tram passed.

They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick. --Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks. He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly: WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT PLUMTREE'S POTTED MEAT? INCOMPLETE WITH IT AN ABODE OF BLISS.

--My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet. Valise tack again. By the way no harm.

I'm off that, thanks. Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness. --My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Cat furry black ball.

Torn strip of envelope. LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG COMES LO-OVE'S OLD. --It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. SWEEEET SONG.

There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble. --O, well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go. --Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around. --Yes, Mr Bloom said. --Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see.

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. You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you? --I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right. --Right, M'Coy said brightly.

Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. M'Coy will do. --That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock.

Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this. Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an.

Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it.

You and me, don't you know: in the same boat. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit.

Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him.

I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife. Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. LEAH tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that.

HAMLET she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide. How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in.

Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.

Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father. Every word is so deep, Leopold. I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face.

Well, perhaps it was best for him. Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss.

Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way.

Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own.

VOGLIO E NON. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed: LA CI DAREM LA MANO LA LA LALA LA LA.

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. Meade's timberyard. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.

A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette.

He opened the letter within the newspaper. I think it's a.

A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say? Dear Henry I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps?

I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world.

Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy?

I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet?

I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you.

I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all.

Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. And write BY RETURN to your longing Martha P. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know. He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers.

They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. 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. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket. Weak joy opened his lips.

Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself.

Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect.

Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow.

A bit at a time. Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together.

Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns. Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head.

Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain. O, MARY LOST THE PIN OF HER DRAWERS. SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO TO KEEP IT UP TO KEEP IT UP. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing.

Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use.

Now could you make out a thing like that? TO KEEP IT UP. Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

TO KEEP IT UP. Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about.

Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Tell about places you have been, strange customs.

The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank. Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way.

Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter.

Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? About a million barrels all the same. An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth. He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows.

Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar. Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. On saint Peter Claver S.J. And the African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious.

The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. To the true religion.

Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Rank heresy for them.

Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo.

Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't.

They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere. Something going on: some sodality.

Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl.

Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass.

Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank.

Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. CORPUS: body.

Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places.

He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs.

Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Yes, bread of angels it's called.

There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity.

Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it.

Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain.

Wake this time next year. He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do to.

Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character.

That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home.

And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no, no.

By the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge. The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink.

Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Perfectly right that is. Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Who has the organ here I wonder?

Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the VIBRATO: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the STABAT MATER of Rossini.

Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate?

Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop.

I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up: QUIS EST HOMO. Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth mass: GLORIA in that. Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too.

They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Green Chartreuse.

Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs.

One way out of it. He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up.

Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card: --O God, our refuge and our strength. Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words.

Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul.

More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all.

Punish me, please. Great weapon in their hands.

More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to.

And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears.

Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep.

Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting.

Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation.

Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P.P. For the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors.

Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it. The priest prayed: --Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict.

Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off.

The women remained behind: thanksgiving. Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time? Women enjoy it.

Never tell you. Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon.

Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the light. 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. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: 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. He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too.

Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault.

When was it I got it made up last? I changed a sovereign I remember.

First of the month it must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book. The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have.

Shrunken skull. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists.

Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle.

Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck.

Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red.

Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.

--About a fortnight ago, sir? --Yes, Mr Bloom said. He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs.

Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains. --Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water. It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

--And white wax also, he said. Brings out the darkness of her eyes.

Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it?

Had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your?

PEAU D'ESPAGNE. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have.

Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it.

Also I think I. Do it in the bath.

Curious longing I. Water to water.

Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage.

Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum. --Yes, sir, the chemist said.

That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle? --No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?

--Fourpence, sir. Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax. --I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.

--Good, Mr Bloom said. He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: --Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute. Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip.

To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am. Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap?

Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling. --I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it? He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch.

Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him. --You can keep it, Mr Bloom said. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered.

Maximum the second. --I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said. Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly. --What's that? His sharp voice said. --I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. --I'll risk it, he said.

Here, thanks. He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence.

Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America.

Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt. He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets.

College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.

Something to catch the eye. There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir? Heavenly weather really.

If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades.

Over after over. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets.

Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream.

This is my body. He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. * * * * * * * Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.

Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care. --Come on, Simon. --After you, Mr Bloom said. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: Yes, yes. --Are we all here now?

Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom. Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping.

Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners.

Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it ready.

Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed.

Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet.

Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after.

Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard.

Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.

The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace. They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road.

The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes. --What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.

--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Brunswick street. Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out. --That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out. All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane.

Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat. --There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said. --Who is that? --Your son and heir. --Where is he?

Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across. The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr Dedalus fell back, saying: --Was that Mulligan cad with him? His FIDUS ACHATES! --No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone. --Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.

Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls the firm.

His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great card he was.

Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.

Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About six hundred per cent profit. --He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. He cried above the clatter of the wheels: --I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper's son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's.

Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. Something to hand on.

If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up.

Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. Me in his eyes.

Strange feeling it would be. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil.

And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life begins. Got big then.

Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.

I could have helped him on in life. Make him independent. Learn German too. --Are we late? Mr Power asked. --Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch. 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. Dearest Papli. Young student.

Yes, yes: a woman too. The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying. --Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said. --He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do you follow me?

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs. --What is this, he said, in the name of God?

--Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: --Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin?

--It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath.

Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. --After all, he said, it's the most natural thing in the world. --Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently.

--Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes. --And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.

--At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. --I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come. The carriage halted short. --What's wrong?

--We're stopped. --Where are we? Mr Bloom put his head out of the window. --The grand canal, he said. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got it.

Poor children! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.

Shame really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don't miss this chance.

Dogs' home over there. Poor old Athos!

Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Old men's dogs usually are. A raindrop spat on his hat.

He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now. --The weather is changing, he said quietly.

--A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said. --Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There's the sun again coming out. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky.

--It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said. --We're off again. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard. --Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said.

And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face. --O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of THE CROPPY BOY. --Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. HIS SINGING OF THAT SIMPLE BALLAD, MARTIN, IS THE MOST TRENCHANT RENDERING I EVER HEARD IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF MY EXPERIENCE.

--Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement. --Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked.

--I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. --In the paper this morning. Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her. --No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please. Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that?

Is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? No, Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper.

Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month's mind: Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

IT IS NOW A MONTH SINCE DEAR HENRY FLED TO HIS HOME UP ABOVE IN THE SKY WHILE HIS FAMILY WEEPS AND MOURNS HIS LOSS HOPING SOME DAY TO MEET HIM ON HIGH. I tore up the envelope? Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath?

He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled.

Before my patience are exhausted. National school. Meade's yard. Only two there now.

Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning.

People in law perhaps. They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. Or the LILY OF KILLARNEY? Elster Grimes Opera Company.

Big powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. FUN ON THE BRISTOL. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the Gaiety.

Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long. He's coming in the afternoon. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust.

--How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.

--He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do? Mr Dedalus asked. --Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff. Just that moment I was thinking.

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed.

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes.

Is there anything more in him that they she sees? Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a person is. But a type like that. I am just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone.

Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes that? I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Night of the dance dressing.

Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Mr Power asked: --How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?

--O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it.

It's a good idea, you see. --Are you going yourself? --Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the county Clare on some private business.

You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other. --Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.

Have you good artists? --Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said.

O yes, we'll have all topnobbers. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.

--And MADAME, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least. Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them. Smith O'Brien.

Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns.

The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening: oot. --Four bootlaces for a penny. Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street. Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since.

Relics of old decency. Mourning too.

Terrible comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake. O'Callaghan on his last legs.

Twenty past eleven. Mrs Fleming is in to clean.

Doing her hair, humming. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. VORREI E NON. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. MI TREMA UN POCO IL.

Beautiful on that TRE her voice is: weeping tone. There is a word throstle that expresses that. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears. MADAME: smiling.

I smiled back. A smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps. Who knows is that true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is no carnal.

You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it? They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.

--Of the tribe of Reuben, he said. A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his spine. --In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said. Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly: --The devil break the hasp of your back! Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. --We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly. His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes.

He caressed his beard, adding: --Well, nearly all of us. Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces.

--That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and the son. --About the boatman? Mr Power asked. Isn't it awfully good? --What is that? Mr Dedalus asked.

I didn't hear it. --There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to send him to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were both. Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried to drown. --Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did! Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. --No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself.

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: --Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on their way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey. --For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Martin Cunningham cried. A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.

--Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is.

--And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power's hand. --O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed.

A silver florin. --Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.

--One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily. Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar.

--Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny! --We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Dedalus sighed.

--Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself. --The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this.

He's gone from us. --As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went very suddenly. --Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. He tapped his chest sadly. Blazing face: redhot.

Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose.

Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it. Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. --He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said. --The best death, Mr Bloom said. Their wide open eyes looked at him. --No suffering, he said.

A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep. No-one spoke. Dead side of the street this.

Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the industrious blind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father Mathew.

Foundation stone for Parnell. White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach.

Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.

--Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays.

Penny a week for a sod of turf. Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother.

If not from the man. Better luck next time. --Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones.

Only a pauper. --In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said. --But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back. --The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added. --Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively.

We must take a charitable view of it. --They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said. --It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is.

Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already.

Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes.

He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning.

Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there.

Drunk about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. AND THEY CALL ME THE JEWEL OF ASIA, OF ASIA, THE GEISHA. He looked away from me. Rattle his bones.

That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table.

The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first.

Then saw like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. For my son Leopold. No more pain.

Wake no more. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones. --We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said. --God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said. --I hope not, Martin Cunningham said.

That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett. --Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said.

That will be worth seeing, faith. As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy.

Dead March from SAUL. He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. The MATER MISERICORDIAE.

Eccles street. My house down there. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging.

Our Lady's Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath.

Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.

The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. --What's wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.

--Emigrants, Mr Power said. The drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks. Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably.

Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla.

The carriage moved on through the drove. --I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats. --Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. They ought to. --Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all.

Don't you see what I mean? --O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. --A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.

Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast? --Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted. --And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road. --That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road. --First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.

--Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously.

A coffin bumped out on to the road. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now. Quite right to close it.

Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. The sphincter loose. --Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.

Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose.

Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze out of an artery.

It would be better to bury them in red: a dark red. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved. Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the BUGABU. Their eyes watched him. 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. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal.

Or cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day at the auction but a lady's.

Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Also hearses. To heaven by water.

Perhaps I will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. He lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

--I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said. --Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said. --How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose? --Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear.

The carriage steered left for Finglas road. The stonecutter's yard on the right. Crowded on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence: appealing. The best obtainable. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.

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. After life's journey. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses. Mr Power pointed. --That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.

--So it is, Mr Dedalus said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off. Murdered his brother. Or so they said. --The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. --Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added.

That's the maxim of the law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be wrongfully condemned.

Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell.

Wrongfully condemned. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They love reading about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of.

How she met her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out. Cramped in this carriage.

She mightn't like me to come that way without letting her know. Must be careful about women. Catch them once with their pants down. Never forgive you after. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze.

Dark poplars, rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the air. The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed. Change that soap now.

Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same. Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit.

Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the dead. Who ate them?

Mourners coming out. He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out the two wreaths. He handed one to the boy. Where is that child's funeral disappeared to? 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.

The waggoner marching at their head saluted. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye: collar tight on his neck, pressing on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know what they cart out here every day?

Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.

Mourners came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding the woman's arm, looking up at her for a sign to cry. Fish's face, bloodless and livid.

The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So much dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath.

First the stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law. All walked after. Martin Cunningham whispered: --I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

Mr Power whispered. --His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered.

Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare.

Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself? He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal's mausoleum. --Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked. --I believe so, Mr Kernan answered.

But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane. --How many children did he leave? Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's. --A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.

--A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added. --Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed. Has the laugh at him now. He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me.

One must outlive the other. Wise men say.

There are more women than men in the world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him. For Hindu widows only.

She would marry another. Yet who knows after. Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert.

Frogmore memorial mourning. But in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. 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. --Never better. How are all in Cork's own town? --I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said.

Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy. --And how is Dick, the solid man? --Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered. --By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder.

Dick Tivy bald? --Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull.

Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. --Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front? --Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid.

--I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world. --How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?

--Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh. They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Was he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and recognise for the last time.

All he might have done. I owe three shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand?

The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head? After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel.

The mourners knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book?

I, said the rook. They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak.

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Bully about the muzzle he looks.

Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter.

Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a poisoned pup.

Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways. --NON INTRES IN JUDICIUM CUM SERVO TUO, DOMINE. Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers.

Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist.

Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too.

What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks.

Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a doner.

My kneecap is hurting me. That's better. The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and shook it again.

Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it. --ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM. The server piped the answers in the treble.

I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course. Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.

--IN PARADISUM. Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody.

Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something. The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server.

Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here. --The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone. --He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!

--Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched beside her.

Let Him take me whenever He likes. Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took his arm. --She's better where she is, he said kindly. --I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven. Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod.

--Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely. Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head. --The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.

They covered their heads. --The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? Mr Kernan said with reproof. Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes.

Secret eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We are the last. In the same boat.

Hope he'll say something else. Mr Kernan added: --The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must say. Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing. Mr Kernan said with solemnity: --I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.

That touches a man's inmost heart. --It does, Mr Bloom said.

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart.

A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea.

Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull.

Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. --Everything went off A1, he said. He looked on them from his drawling eye.

Policeman's shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom. --As it should be, Mr Kernan said.

Corny Kelleher said. Mr Kernan assured him. --Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan?

John Henry Menton asked. I know his face. Ned Lambert glanced back. --Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife. --O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time.

He was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown.

And a good armful she was. He looked behind through the others.

--What is he? What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls. Ned Lambert smiled.

--Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for blottingpaper. --In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her then. --Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.

John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps. --John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend.

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said: --I am come to pay you another visit. --My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your custom at all. Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back. --Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe? --I did not, Martin Cunningham said.

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watchchain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. --They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After traipsing about in the fog they found the grave sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He resumed: --And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, NOT A BLOODY BIT LIKE THE MAN, says he. THAT'S NOT MULCAHY, says he, WHOEVER DONE IT. Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked. --That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. --I know, Hynes said.

--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out.

No passout checks. HABEAS CORPUS. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard.

That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her.

It might thrill her first. Courting death. Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark.

Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost?

Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards.

Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Spice of pleasure.

In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window.

Eight children he has anyway. He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't.

His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well, so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me.

The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails.

Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher.

Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically.

Nothing to feed on feed on themselves. But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls.

He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. This morning.

(closing time). Not arrived yet. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in HAMLET. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least.

DE MORTUIS NIL NISI PRIUS. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral.

Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life. --How many have-you for tomorrow?

The caretaker asked. --Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven. The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.

We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?

Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd give a trifle to know who he is.

Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave.

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? His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way.

Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means.

To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin.

Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same idea. Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. I'm thirteen. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number.

Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple.

I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once.

Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias.

His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him. The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered.

If we were all suddenly somebody else. Far away a donkey brayed. Never see a dead one, they say.

Shame of death. Also poor papa went away. Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next.

Well, it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned unpleasant.

Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened deathchamber.

Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest?

Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural.

Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of LUCIA. SHALL I NEVERMORE BEHOLD THEE?

Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him.

Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other. 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.

Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor mamma, and little Rudy. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin.

Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all the time? By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course.

Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no. The clay fell softer.

Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.

The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.

Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all.

No: coming to me. --I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your christian name?

I'm not sure. --L, Mr Bloom said.

And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He asked me to. --Charley, Hynes said writing. He was on the FREEMAN once.

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know.

He died of a Tuesday. Levanted with the cash of a few ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged.

Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. --And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the. He looked around. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said.

Where is he now? --M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his name? He moved away, looking about him. --No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping.

I say, Hynes! Where has he disappeared to? Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell.

Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him? A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade. --O, excuse me!

He stepped aside nimbly. Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades.

All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump.

The gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord.

The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. For yourselves just.

The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. --Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.

--Let us, Mr Power said. They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: --Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will come again. Hynes shook his head. --Parnell will never come again, he said.

He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes. Mr Bloom walked un.

Focusing on those animals that have been overlooked in reading Joyce’s work opens up new perspectives for understanding his writing. One of his earliest essays, “Force” (1898), written at the age of sixteen, shows his so far unexplored concern about the domestication of animals and extinction of species, and develops a theory of subjugation.

The essay provides a useful mainstay for considering the “tuskers,” (the mammoth and mastodon, the elephants, their tusks, and ivory) in the context of the cultural discourses of modern society. The game-changer discovery of the notion of extinction; representation of mammoths and mastodons as fearful creatures; the novelty of elephants exposed to curious gaze on exhibition; the sculpture of Elvery’s Elephant House in Sackville street; a circus elephant and “terrible queer creature” episode in Stephen Hero; the forced labor perpetrated in the Congo Free State to exploit rubber and the ivory of wild elephants. These seemingly disparate topics deeply wedded to modernity will be interrelated with each other in “Force,” shaping a constellation of “Joyce’s tuskers.”. Readers of James Joyce’s works come upon a multitude of animals, birds, and insects, and this diversity holds great allure for current criticism. According to Robert Haas’s tabulation, there are “over a thousand animal images” in Ulysses—“dogs, cats, cows, pumas, alligators, horses, whales, camels, bees, flies, elephants.” ().

Haas lists the “major animal symbols” in each episode and explores their expression of “traits and forces both within and outside of his heroes Stephen and Bloom” (). Maud Ellmann, focusing on animality in the “Circe” episode, takes up a wide range of issues including human superiority over animals, “pets or animaux familiers” like Bloom’s cat and Giltrap’s “Garryowen,” and the “foot and mouth disease” among cattle. She discusses these issues specifically to elucidate the encroachment of animals onto the anthropocentric fortress, drawing on what she calls the “beast-admiring philosophical tradition” () of Montaigne, Giovannni Battista Gelli, Rousseau, and Voltaire, as well as on Jacques Derrida’s seminal work L’Animal que donc je suis. The plentiful supply of animals in Ulysses has occasioned a number of previous studies analyzing and annotating individual creatures, but attention seems to be skewed toward either living animals or animal symbols. For example, almost all the favored animals to be examined in Ulysses are symbols or appear alive, and except for cattle and the black panther, they often have owners and names—the Blooms’ cat “pussens,” “Garryowen,” a Proteus dog called “Tatters,” and the racehorse “Throwaway” in the Ascot Gold Cup race.

This also may be the case with Finnegans Wake. When Margot Norris attempts to evaluate the ecological aspect of the work, she begins her argument by questioning whether Joyce refers to an animal “as a living thing” or merely “as a symbol or figurative abstraction” () before emphasizing the interplay between the two. Confining the concept of “animals” to living creatures or animal symbols can narrow our awareness of the diversity of animals found in Joyce’s works and underestimate the significance of many other animals that lack names, human owners, or the kind of description that makes them distinct characters. For this reason, one of the aims in this paper is to broaden such awareness by looking at minor animals which neither appear alive nor are conspicuous, but have significant roles.

Joyce’s Dublin is populated not only with live animals, but also those that are dead or extinct, as well as those “reincarnated” as commodities. Some of these animals do not appear as living characters, but are only talked about or described in scientific and popular discourses, drawn in posters and pictures, and consumed as commodities. This study focuses on the extinct proboscideans (mammoths and mastodons), extant elephants, their tusks, and ivory, all of which are important in considering the subject of “Joyce and animals.” These can be gathered together under the rubric of tuskers, based on the word mistakenly used by the character Boyle in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (hereinafter A Portrait), in which he says that an elephant had “two tuskers instead of two tusks” (). Along with the pared fingernails reminding Stephen of Eileen’s ivory-like hands, the tuskers serves in this paper as a useful umbrella term to observe specific aspects of the cultural, social, and commercial value of animals in the modern society in which Joyce lived. In order to emphasize the significance of these elements of Joyce’s writing, this paper will also use the term modern animals, by which I wish to highlight the newness or conspicuousness of animals that evoke excitement, curiosity or marketability stemming from their frightening, queer, or exotic images, zoological peculiarity, and not-yet-fully controllable ferocity. These terms and the perspective they highlight is based on my assumption that the gaze to which the animals depicted in Joyce’s texts were exposed was rather different from that of today.

Therefore, another aim of this paper is to “unearth” these tuskers within the discourses of the time and examine them as they are shaped by the cultural forces or by human violence. What is revealed is an important association of the tuskers with the “fearfully unknown,” the newly discovered and curiously gazed at, and the violently consumed. “Force,” an early essay Joyce wrote at the age of sixteen and the theory of subjugation that he developed therein, will serve as a mainstay for the overall discussion, suggesting many animal-related issues as well as key terms and platforms for analysis. Summarizes the subjugation theory and considers Joyce’s peculiar concern with the extinct mammoth and mastodon as exemplifying the unsubjugated along with his knowledge about them at the time.

Looks at elephants, or more broadly, at “queer creatures,” as they illustrate his theory. After historicizing the experience of seeing the pachyderm exposed to curious gaze, I turn to an elephant episode in a Mullingar fragment of Stephen Hero, which not only reveals the elephant as the subjugated but also has a curious connection with “Force.” The last tusker to be examined is elephant tusks themselves and processed ivory as the consumed. In the same manner that Leopold Bloom sees the donkey in a drum (the “[a]sses skin. Welt them through life, then wallop after dead”; ), here we will find the elephant in ivory. Through the gaze of Bloom, who sees “[c]ruelty behind it all” (), the reader will obtain a different perspective of Dublin located in the broader map of the turn-of-the-twentieth century world. Finally, these tuskers will signal the author’s developing concern with animals and the theme of subjugation. Joyce’s “Force” and Fear of Extinct Monsters.

At first glance, one might think that Joyce had little to say about animal issues in the early stage of his writing, but my pursuit of the subject of animals in his writings brought me back to one of his earliest essays, now entitled “Force,” written in September 1898 for his matriculation course at University College Dublin. Fragmental and premature as it is, the essay should be considered the first source to examine because it concerns the subjugation or domestication of the kingdom of animals and vegetation, and even the extinction of certain species, foreshadowing several motifs developed in Joyce’s later writing. Especially useful for the purpose of this paper is that the essay mentions both extant and extinct proboscideans. A brief outline of the essay might be necessary as it is still considered a minor work. The surviving manuscript begins in the middle of a statement that all subjugation by force produces a repetitive cycle of rebellion, violence, and bloodshed. To his argument about “an oppressing force,” Joyce adds the effective use of “influence.” The example given is the “diplomatic” use of nature or the elements, like a gardener trimming trees and shrubs into a neat garden or a sailor steering a ship using the force of the wind.

Human technology, such as miller’s wheels, can harness the “fierce power” of water for commercial uses such as making flour and bread. Joyce then proceeds to the second category of subjugation, the domestication and taming of animals, which he describes as the human mission since the time of Adam, and then to the third subjugation of other races by white men, “the predestined conqueror” (). One-half page is missing, and then Joyce introduces another form of subjugation, the control of a great artistic gift. Having pointed out the virtue of controlling prolific or explosive imagination and the benefit of avoiding extremes, he moves to the topic of subduing passion and reason, and somewhat abruptly reaches his conclusion: “The essence of subjugation lies in the conquest of the higher” (). The desire to overcome the higher is inherent in the human spirit, Joyce argues, and it can flourish politically in imperialism or national issues, and individually exercise “a great influence.” His long-winded style, compounded by the missing sections, makes his conclusion rather obscure, but considering his concern about the vicious cycle of oppressive forces and violence, the last sentence of the essay seems to welcome power, persuasion, and kindness as a new form of subjugation.

Let me examine the second category of subjugation more in detail. Here Joyce starts his argument from the opening of human mastery over animals beginning with Adam’s mission in Eden where “every animal,” including even the lion, “was his willing servant.” After Adam disobeyed his Creator by committing the sin, however, “the unknown dregs of ferocity” spread among the beasts, changing them from friendly servants to bitter enemies, and thereafter humans were destined to struggle against them for superiority (). Successful domestication can be seen in the case of dogs guarding their owner’s property or horses and oxen working as farming or industry draft animals. Yet among the beasts, some could not be subjugated, and the young author here names the mammoth and the mastodon. The Zoo elephants are the sorry descendants of those mighty monsters [mammoth and mastodon] who roamed in hordes, tameless and fearless, proud in their power, through fruitful regions and forests.who spread themselves over whole continents and carried their terror to the north and south, bidding defiance to man that he could not subjugate them; and finally in the wane of their day, though they knew it not, trooped up to the higher regions of the Pole, to the doom that was decreed for them.

There what man could not subdue, was subdued, for they could not withstand the awful changes that came upon the earth. Emphasis mine “[T]he lord of the creation,” Joyce suggests, seemed to protect human dignity from the unsubjugated, “the fear of mammoth and of mastodon,” driving the great beasts to extinction in the “unkind” climates of frigid regions. Joyce then envisions the remnants of their bodies as they appeared in the New Siberian Islands where “colossal tusks and ivory bones are piled up in memorial mounds” (). He describes how they were doomed to utterly awful and complete subjugation, vanishing from the earth with no trace save for their fearful tusks, which were destined to be greedily gathered up as lucrative commodities.

He concludes his explanation of the second category of subjugation by saying that all common animals are subjugated to human force, and that even those that are now free from human mastery will eventually be driven out of their habitats and threatened with extinction like the American bison. He described how domestic cats, the despised pig, poisonous snakes, lions with their spirits broken in shows and circuses, and “the ungraceful bear” in the streets—all are cowed into proving the power of man.

Strangely, “Force” has been slipping away from critical attention, perhaps because of the youth of the author when it was produced or the fragmental quality of the manuscript. Indeed, Mason and Ellmann note its immaturity, saying “he [Joyce] had not yet liberated his language, and could still use conventional rhetoric in a classroom exercise” (). Notwithstanding, it can be argued that the essay provides a major source for speculation on the significance of animals in Joyce’s works, especially to gauge his early knowledge and concern with animals. Below, I discuss his reference to mammoths and mastodons as “what man could not subdue” and examine what constitutes the fear and terror in these extinct creatures. By 1800 many kinds of huge, unspecified fossils had been unearthed in the vast frigid-zone areas of Siberia, northern parts of Europe, and America, but discoveries of mere bones and teeth without remains of bodies stimulated mainly fear, excitement, and curiosity, spinning superstitions and producing inaccurate restorations as well as faulty hypotheses. In the New World, for example, the mastodon was known as an incognitum and considered to be carnivorous judging from the bumpy molar teeth that were excavated, and was even envisioned to have “claws” (). The unknown animal thus signified “a symbol of both the violence of the newly discovered prehistoric world and the emerging nation’s own dreams of an empire in the western wilderness” (; emphasis mine).

The American Founding Father Thomas Jefferson, famously counters Buffon’s assertion of a degenerated America, denying the concept of extinction and siding with the belief that the extinct animal “still exists in the northern and western parts of America” (). Even if it was extinct, some believed “it was providentially so because God had cleared those dangerous animals away to allow the nation to prosper” (; ). Interestingly, the American discourse echoed in young Joyce’s description of extinction by the “lord of the creation,” a forced effort to include the newly discovered prehistoric creatures in the existing epistemological framework.

Of the two extinct animals, it is mammoths that Joyce seemed to find most fearful. Mammoths, in fact, had been embellished with ominous and horrible images. Some natives in Siberia called the supposed animal “Momont” or “Mamot,” and believed that it looked like a big rat living underground and avoiding sunlight, and that exposure to light caused it to die. In addition, the “holy terror” inspired by their excavated remains was enough at the time to discourage the cossacks from hunting their tusks (). The fear was dramatic in its representation when the huge remains of their bodies and colossal tusks were unearthed in the permafrost.

Based on the specimen that was discovered in 1799 near Lena River in Siberia (wrongly reconstructed with regard to the direction of the tusks), the French painter Paul Joseph Jamin made a sketch version, Le Mammouth (1885), and a painted version, La Fuite devant un mammouth (1906), which depicts four hunters desperately fleeing from an approaching mammoth in the snowy hills (). The “sense of desolation and terror” () emanating from the giant quadrupeds illustrates the way Joyce defines in “Force” the two monsters as those “who.carried their terror to the north and south, bidding defiance to man that he could not subjugate them” (; emphasis mine). It seems likely that Joyce’s fear of the prehistoric animals was colored by popular discourse at a time when the whole picture about them had yet to be brought to light.

At least to the sixteen-year-old student, the mammoth and mastodon were what a human “was not able to make his slaves when they lived,” and a symbol of the unsubjugated. A march of the mighty; compounded by Bloom’s concern about “cows that are to be butchered along of the plague [foot and mouth disease]” (), and embellished by a De Quincy-like phantasmagorical style as well as a Homeric parallel of this episode, the passage brings the cattle heading for Liverpool that Bloom saw in the daytime into an imagery of merciless slaughter. Mammoths and mastodons are conjured up in an ominous vision of slaughter on a greater scale, the “unkind” extinction that can be considered Joyce’s enduring anxiety about violent force and the unsubjugated. Here “Force” turns out to be not simply the idle scribbles of a young student, but something in the process of developing. If we regard the style as “[c]onventional rhetoric in a classroom exercise,” his incipient concern with animals would be overlooked. Among the key terms that we have so far “unearthed” and purveyed are subjugation, domestication, extinction, terrible prehistoric creatures, greed for ivory, and the New Siberian Islands; these will be further examined and connected with each other in the following sections. Elephants, or Queer Creatures, as the Subjugated.

Harriet Ritvo’s influential book The Animal Estate is devoted to a detailed analysis of the aspects of human-animal relationships that experienced radical change in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; she deals with scientific stock and pet breeding, the rabies panic, the English anti-cruelty movement, zoos as imperial institutions of domination, and big game hunting (). The historical approach in her investigation on animal-related rhetorical strategies and metaphors is helpful for understanding how the elephant was represented in themes of domination and exploitation in the Victorian age. Among the natural history and popular zoology discourses on animals she quotes, there is a summary of one writer’s comment: “The ‘perfect subjugation’ of the elephant by ‘a creature so inferior in bodily strength as man’ was a powerful confirmation of the natural hierarchy, in which the human ‘head and hand subdue all living things, however enormous, to his will’” (). The pachyderm was easy prey to the urge to prove mastery, superiority, and manliness, being the ultimate game in the sport of hunting (), the super-star of circuses (like the celebrated “couple” of Jumbo and Alice; ), or the lucrative cynosure of menageries and zoos.

Therefore, when Joyce pities the zoo elephants as “sorry descendants” of extinct fearful proboscideans, and remembers “broken-spirited lions” in “shows and circuses before large crowds,” he recognizes the modern forces of exhibition (). Here let me examine elephants as the subjugated. After historicizing the experience of “seeing elephants” in the nineteenth century, we discover how the subjugation theme emerges in an elephant episode in Stephen Hero. Once again, it is better to bear in mind the risk of projecting what we see today onto a text produced a century ago.

A short poem of recent authorship entitled “At Dublin Zoo” by Irish Poet Paula Meehan, included in Painting Rain (2009) (), highlights the contrast with seeing elephants in the Victorian age. • A four-year-old • Seeing elephants • For the first time • ‘But they’re not blue.’ The poem portrays a twenty-first-century child’s first experience of seeing an elephant in the zoo at the Phoenix Park (first established in 1831 as Zoological Garden Dublin; hereinafter “Dublin Zoo”). Into the blank space in the middle is inscribed the cognitive fissure that mercilessly severed the actual and the surrogate, bringing home the child’s disappointment that the color of an actual elephant is not blue—perhaps, neither the beautiful blue in a picture book nor the blue with which it was recreated in drawings. Seeing actual animals, after having first been exposed to their surrogates, may be a crucial experience that could be shared across time. We will recall the little boy who in A Portrait once enjoyed the “moocow” in a fairy tale, grew up to change not only the way he saw the animals but also its products: “the first sight of the filthy cowyard at Stradbrook.sickened Stephen’s heart.

The cattle which had seemed so beautiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could not even look at the milk they yielded” (). However, what is important in reading Meehan’s poem is to recognize the fact that in the nineteenth century, seeing elephants for the first time meant something completely different. Susan Nance, in her excellent book on the heyday of the American circus-elephant industry (1796–1907), emphasizes the initial novelty of seeing elephants. For example, when a ship named The America carrying the first elephant to come into the United States arrived at port on April 1796, a New York newspaper reported under the headline: “ The America has brought home an ELEPHANT, from Bengal, in perfect health. It is the first ever seen in America and a great curiosity,” and the reason for the novelty was that “in all probability, almost no one in the country knew in detail what a wild young elephant looked, moved, or sounded like” (; emphasis mine). The curiosity to see the modern animal was also shared in London and Dublin.

Lord Byron noted in a November 1813 diary entry the regular trick performed by the intelligent animal in a menagerie at Exeter Change (). At the London Zoo in the 1850s, an elephant calf from Calcutta attracted attention, since “so small an elephant had rarely been seen in Europe” (). Meanwhile, the first elephant to appear in the Dublin Zoo arrived in 1835, on loan for £100 a month from a travelling animal keeper.

After that, several elephants were housed in the Albert Tower (set aside to house exotic animals), and their popularity was tremendous. An elephant on loan from a circus that stayed during only the summer months in 1871 was said to attract “huge numbers of visitors” (). What is notable is that their newness or conspicuousness was so consumable. Jones describes the strategies of zoos in the Victorian age as wedded to the British imperial endeavor in displaying “the sight of creatures strange to our clime and notions”; the exotic animals became commodities displayed “to be looked at, to be consumed, as a sign of pleasurable difference” (). The pachyderm on exhibition is only a de-tusked beast. In fact, at the Dublin Zoo, the points of the elephant tusks were capped so that they could not hurt the visitors and trainers.

See photographs in (). As for seeing an elephant in Dublin, another example would be of interest to Joycean readers. When the funeral carriage “in Hades” moving along Sackville street passes the two statues of Daniel O’Connell and Sir John Gray, Bloom and others see the figure of Leuben J.

Dodd “stumping around the corner of Elvery’s elephant house,” (). Elvery’s was Ireland’s oldest sports shop, founded in 1847 or 1850, and dealing in waterproof clothing and sportswear. One other statue that the occupants of the funeral carriage must have been able to see may well be mentioned. Brenda Malone’s blog (), which displays objects and photographs from the Historical Collections of the National Museum of Ireland, shows us that Elvery’s building once had a rubber statue of an elephant above the front door. As to this sculpture, an intriguing 1954 article in the Irish Times reports on the origin of the “elephant house”. As far as the origin of the name is concerned, there are several stories in existence. The most widely accepted one is that the building got its name from a tea importer’s shop which used to be either next door to the present building, or in the building itself.

This enterprising tea importer attracted visitors to his shop, they say, by keeping a live elephant in it. The elephant was, it seems, a retired circus animal, and accounts differ on the question of whether the tea importer charged admission to view it, or whether it was simply a publicity stunt. At any rate, when Elvery’s bought the building, so the story goes, it was already known to Dubliners as Elephant House, and the firm decided to retain the name and give it official backing by building a statue of an elephant over it.

Considering that its business was selling durable rubber goods like galoshes and mackintoshes, Elvery’s elephant sculpture would have been entirely suitable in light of its catchy alliteration and the marketing function the elephant icon had acquired by then (). Notable here is the cultural aspect of seeing an exotic animal at the time. The elephant remains exposed to curious gaze, first when performing in the circus, then before the crowds visiting the tea importer’s shop, and finally is reincarnated into a rubber sculpture: it exists to be seen—always serving as a commodity to catch the eye, in life and after death. Having pointed out the novelty of the elephants, I would now like to move on to an episode included in Stephen Hero () that underpins the points observed above. The extant parts of the novel, set in a period of Stephen’s university life around 1898–99, consist of several pages (supposed to be Chapter XIII) describing his short trip to a village in Mullingar in County Westmeath, a suburban rural area to the northwest of Dublin. There, Stephen has a chance to listen to an officer named Captain Starkie narrate a “humorous episode.” One day, the officer and his friend, “a learned young lady,” seeking cover from rain, find shelter in the cabin of an old peasant. While drying herself before the fireplace, the woman notices an unintelligible chalk scrawl on the wall and asks the old man what it is.

He explains that it is a drawing by his grandson Johnny. The old man explains that the boy saw a circus poster on the walls in the town, and went to the venue “to see th’ elephants.” To his disappointment, however, there was no elephant in the circus, and the boy came home discouraged and drew a scribble of the animal instead. The old man then proceeds to talk about the genial, even pious quadrupeds, and compares the tasks of imposing discipline upon elephants and children.

Amused by the tale, “the learned lady” shows her knowledge of “the animals of prehistoric times,” and then the old man replies with his surprise: “—Aw, there must be terrible quare craythurs [queer creatures] at the latther ind [latter end] of the world.” Stephen praises the punchline and joins in the laughter at the ignorance of the old man who still believes—like Thomas Jefferson—that prehistoric animals survive on the earth. Meanwhile, indignant Mr. Fulham, Stephen’s nationalist godfather, insists that Irish peasants should have a truer ideal of the Christian life than Captain Starkie, calling them “the backbone of the nation.” The word “backbone” gives Stephen the chance to insert his derision of the physical traits of the peasants in Mullingar, but, at the same time, they are portrayed as also gazing at the young man with metropolitan features “as if he were some rare animal.” This episode is immediately followed by another incident of a lame beggar with a stick, who threatens the children with curses.

The beggar’s malicious visage reminds Stephen of those “pandied” boys and the prefects with broad leather bats in Clongowes Wood College; especially the beggar’s “sharp eyes” leave him with “a fine chord of terror” (). Reading “Force” before revisiting this episode, narrated in just four pages, sheds light on so-far invisible themes. One of the themes is subjugation by means of one disciplinary stick or other. That the grandson could not see an elephant and ended up drawing its surrogate sustains the novelty of the animal and its cultural status exposed to a curious gaze. The drawing reminds the old man of “a picture of niggers riding on” elephants beaten by a stick (or maybe “a hendoo,” the hook-like implement wielded by a mahout), which he immediately links to the disciplining of one’s child. One page later, the sharp-eyed beggar intimidates the children with his stick, saying “I’ll cut the livers and the lights out of ye.” This evokes the castrating eagle and the voice in A Portrait () repeating “[p]ull out his eyes,” foreshadowing the theme of subjugation. In fact, the beggar’s malicious expression reminds Stephen of another “civilizing” stick, the punishing pandybats and floggings of his school days.

Here Joyce connects the subjugation of animals to that of children, juxtaposing the images of the elephant beaten with a stick and Stephen on his knees being beaten by the pandybat as one among the subjugated. This theme of subjugation also unveils the unsubjugated in the conversation carried on in the old man’s cabin. When Johnny’s drawing reminds the learned lady of “animals in prehistoric times,” the old man’s replies to her, saying that “terrible quare craythurs” still survive in “the latther ind [latter end] of the world.” We who have reread “Force” have ample reason to believe that what the woman and the old man are talking about is the fearsome mammoths (which she might have referred to as untamable with a stick). And the specific location of “the latther ind [latter end] of the world” is presumably some islands near the North Pole, or possibly the New Siberian Islands. The adjective “terrible” that the old man used to describe the animals echoes Joyce’s terror explained in the previous section, and “quare craythurs” is loosely related to the “rare animals” mentioned soon after, making both the elephants and Stephen exposed to curious gaze.

Thus, “Force” illuminates the references to the more “terrible tuskers” that appear in Stephen Hero. Ivory as Colonial Commodity. The last section is also concerned with seeing, but more specifically, with the perspective to see elephant tusks and ivory. It is no doubt that “the white thing” plays a significant role in A Portrait, serving to evoke Stephen’s memory and senses. The soft-hued, white, smooth, and cold texture of the material, and the easily rhymed sound of the word are employed to express the hands of Eileen and Emma and the thighs of the bird-girl on the seashore. Stephen’s earlier repulsion of real cows and the milk they yield () may have prompted him to prefer metaphysical to physical ivory, as manifested in his search for poetic diction: “The word [ivory] now shone in his brain, clearer and brighter than any ivory sawn from the mottled tusks of elephants” (). This is ivory processed for poetry so that the elephants killed for the purpose can be rendered invisible.

What this section will try to do, on the contrary, is to see ivory as the very material “sawn from the mottled tusks of elephants.” Leopold Bloom, as noted in the introduction, is the character that offers us this gaze. He reflects on the vegetarian advice not to eat beefsteak, warning that you will be followed by “the eyes of that cow.” And seeing branded cattle brings to his mind their slaughter and byproducts: “Roastbeef for old England.all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns.Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine” (). His gaze goes beyond what he sees before his eyes, and penetrates beneath what is on the surface.

Especially in the case of animals, he sees “[c]ruelty behind it all” (). The aim of this section is to see what is behind the ivory products that appear in Joyce’s novels. In A Portrait, young Stephen recalls Eileen’s hands: “.long and white and thin and cold and soft. That was ivory: a cold white thing” (). Such descriptions presuppose that he previously had the experience of touching ivory products.

Unlike today, when there are few chances to touch a material now banned in international trade, a wide variety of ivory goods were part of daily life. For example, an 1882 article “The World Ivory Trade” that appeared in the New York Times—the year when Joyce was born—mentions the differences among Indian and East/West African ivory and lists various common ivory items. The differences which exist in the quality and color of various assortments of ivory are great, and vary according to the producing country. Not only is there a marked difference between Indian and African Ivory, but East African ivory is readily distinguishable from West African. East African ivory, known in the trade as “soft, white ivory,” is the product of Eastern Africa from Egypt down to the Cape. It is particularly well adapted for use in the manufacture of piano-forte keys, billiard balls, and combs.The coarser variety of ivory from these regions is chiefly used for knife, cane, and umbrella handles, while the finer portions are used for prayer book covers, the backs of brushes, and fans. It is tempting to imagine that either Dante’s two brushes or the knife with (not yet broken) ivory handle is the item from which Stephen had learned what ivory is ().

But the most likely item will be the piano keys in the Dedaluses. Several words indicate the close relationship among hands, ivory, and the instrument. In chapter five, when Stephen plays “chords softly from the speckled piano keys” in Emma’s house, his hands seem to remember “a soft merchandise,” i.e., “her hand lain in his” during the carnival ball (; emphasis mine). In fact, certain adjectives match the characteristics of “tripy ivory,” as it is called in trader’s parlance, which, Clive Spinage explains, is ivory with “a mottled or speckled appearance” as the sign of a deficiency [of calcium] ().

Ivory products depicted in a novel set at the turn of the twentieth century merit special attention. Based on the data of Martin and Vigne (1989), Raman Sukumar gives a graph plotting the two centuries from 1803–1986, showing the annual quantity of ivory that India imported (; see the top graph, Figure 8.11 on p. While the quantity for the period of the 1800s-70s fluctuated between almost 200 to 400 tonnes, the figures show the literally skyrocketing increase in the period of the 1880s to 1900s from 800 to 1200 tonnes, suddenly plunging to approximately 100 tonnes at the end of the 1900s. What was happening in that period? Sukumar explains the sharp rise by ascribing it to the new regime in Africa: “the volumes of ivory emanating from Belgian Congo were especially large at 352 tonnes per year (during 1888–1909), representing about half of Africa’s total exports at this time” (). As has been well documented, the Congo Free State was governed by the cruelest of methods. King Leopold II of Belgium, after elaborate preliminary investigations in the name of “humanitarian” philanthropy and under the flag of the International Association of the Congo (with yellow star representing civilization against a blue background signifying the dark continent), founded the Free State in 1885, and the private colonization of what was still terra incognita to Europeans at that time began.

In 1888, in order to exploit Congolese natural resources, the king set up the Force Publique, which organized the systematic use of indigenous forced labor for the supply of what was soon to be explosive demand for rubber to make pneumatic bicycle tires. As their atrocious deeds are told in the “Cyclops” episode, the soldiers were not only “[r]aping the women and girls and flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can out of them” (), but also mutilating body parts (including genitals) as punishment for unsatisfactory fulfilment of quotas imposed on them. But what symbolized the atrocities in the Congo most was “severed hands,” which “served as proof that the Force Publique soldiers were doing their job” and even “became a sort of currency” (; ). This colonial regime was soon to be denounced by journalists and writers, as seen in George W. Williams’s “An Open Letter” to Leopold II (1890), Joseph Conrad’s three-parts serialization of “The Heart of Darkness” (1899) in Blackwood’s Magazine, E. Morel’s King Leopold’s Rule in Africa (1904) and Red Rubber (1906), Roger Casement’s report (1904), Mark Twain’s King Leopold’s Soliloquy (1905), Conan Doyle’s The Crime of the Congo (1909), and other works.

The appearance of these works of the anti-Congo movement makes more significant the year 1904 setting of the world of Ulysses, in which Father Conmee keeps an “ivory book mark” in his red-edged breviary for ecclesiastical use, and Phantom Rudy wears a suit with diamond and ruby buttons and has “a slim ivory cane,” showing the symbolic trappings of the wealthy (). While “red rubber” was the most infamous item in the Congo regime, ivory continued to be the most profitable item exported by the Free State until the mid-1890s. In fact, consumption of ivory for a variety of uses in the latter half of the nineteenth century was so lavish that extinction of the African elephant became a matter of international concern. As the above-mentioned figures attest, the major reason for its endangerment was the exports of the Congo Free State. An article in the Irish Times in June 1897 warned of the probable extinction of elephants, quoting an expert as saying, “[a]t present the natives, actuated by the high price for ivory or by the cruelties of Belgian officials, devote themselves more and more to elephants hunting” ().

The following year, the New York Times reported on the same issue with the striking title of “To Save the Elephants: The African Animals Nearly All Killed off by the Ivory Traders—Their Brutal Massacre.,” and predicted that the merciless slaughter of the tusker in the Congo would lead to its extinction “in less than ten years” (). In this regard, Conrad did not exaggerate in creating ivory-obsessed character Krutz, inscribing the image of the volumes of stacked ivory so copious that “[y]ou would think there was not a single tusk left either above or below the ground in the whole country” (). Krutz’s “appetite for more ivory” () itself is an example of a greedy force driving elephants to the verge of extinction. Seeing this tremendous consumption of tusks and ivory in the period through Bloom’s gaze at the “[c]ruelty behind it all,” the goods so commonplace in Joyce’s texts—”knife handles, billiard balls, combs, fans, napkin rings, piano and organ keys, chess pieces, snuffboxes, brooches, and statuettes” and even “false teeth” ()—may look rather different. Though it is not written whether or not the items are made of ivory, they now signal the reader to imagine the tusker and the violence that was perpetrated to produce them.

By revisiting Joyce’s “Force” and utilizing his subjugation theory, this paper has demonstrated a way to locate minor animals in Joyce studies and examine their significance in the historical context and in the discourse of the time. As observed in the first section, Joyce’s reference to the extinct, and fearful mammoth and mastodon monsters is never whimsical but is an indication of his concern about extinction and his anxiety about what human beings cannot subdue. Meanwhile, he was aware of the forces being inflicted upon the proboscideans of his time. As I have illustrated, elephants were once a rarity and a cynosure in circuses and zoos, and even a shopping establishment like Elvery’s heavily preyed upon them with the curious gaze of shoppers and exhibition-goers. This analysis allows us to see Joyce’s recurrent theme of his subjugation theory, which not only connects the episode in Stephen Hero to “Force,” but also discovers the “terrible tuskers.” As the final tusker, section four looks at ivory as a colonial commodity.

Normally, the raw materials from which consumer goods are made leave scant trace of the living creatures from which they came, and therefore are hardly recognizable as animals. However, with an attempt to “unearth” such buried items, the section employs Leopold Bloom’s gaze to expose the greed of the King Leopold II’s imperial system, its cruelty to the Congolese population and to elephants, and the all-too-violent consumption of ivory. What is betrayed there is the human greed for more and the violence that causes certain species of animals to be extinguished. Through these analyses, we can now see the mammoth and mastodon as the unsubjugated, elephants as the subjugated, and ivory as the consumed, each revolving around modernity, and gravitating toward each other to form the constellation of “Joyce’s tuskers.”. Joyce failed to predict the future of the slavery system, and yet his insight into the phenomenon of extinction and the insatiable desire for the subjugation of the higher turns out to be valid today, and it is helpful in detailing modern animals.

We will recall the dinosaurs, “the terrible lizards,” in film Jurassic World (2015), where the DNA scientists possess the advanced technology of de-extinction for resurrecting lost species and create new creatures by genome editing to attract more visitors. At the beginning of the film, recollecting the excitement of the days of Jurassic Park (1993), operations manager Claire Dearing points out the new demand on the park and introduces their cutting-edge method to the funders. Emphasis mine Note the indifferent gaze of the children, not at Stegosaurus, but at elephants.

Consumers’ or visitors’ desire for more renders the animal that was the star two centuries before a mediocre creature. What the scientists created instead is Indominus rex (“untamable king”). The contradictory name given to the product of that desire would endorse Joyce’s formula: “[t]he essence of subjugation lies in the conquest of the higher” (). As the terrible lizard-like creature exemplifies, modern animals are those that are newly discovered or newly focused on by the society and members within, and therefore show the use of newness or conspicuousness to mirror the desire or mentality of people of a certain time. Considering that Joyce mentions the endangerment of the American bison and the phenomenon of extinction, and ascribes the disappearance of mammoth and mastodon to both “the lord of creation” and the cold climate, “Force” may be able to attract more critical attention in view of the recently popularized notion of the “Anthropocene,” the newly proposed geological epoch when human beings have become the telluric force that changes the natural environment or entire Earth’s system (). As unstable and disputable as the definition of Anthropocene is, the idea does sensitize us not only to Joyce’s ecological concerns but also to his anxieties about extinction, which we can find even in that oft-cited statement: “I want.to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book [ Ulysses]” (). Yet, if Dublin were reconstructed literally or mechanically from the text of Ulysses, the city would never be as lively as expected, but would be quite boring owing to many omissions and deficiencies.

Responsible in that rich and colorful reconstruction will be the readers themselves, those who will be capable of seeing “behind it all”—noticing what remains inconspicuous or buried under the surface of the literary text—and those who will see something new and still unknown. The author declares no conflict of interest. References • Anonymous.

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• Whitley, D. The Ivory Islands in the Arctic Ocean. Journal of the Philosophical Society of Great Britain XII: 35–57. 2 In 1885–86, the first scientific expedition to the New Siberian Islands was organized for the topographical surveys of the archipelago. In 1892, the Academy dispatched another expedition led by Baron Edward von Toll (1858–1902), a Russian geologist and explorer, “for the description and transportation of a mammoth’s body, which was discovered near the Cape of Svyatoy Nos in 1889 to Petersburg” (). An enormous volume of fossil ivories was found in the islands, described in a 1910 account of the expedition as “such.that the island [Great Lyakhovsky Island] was actually composed of the bones and tusks of elephants [to be precise, of mammoths]” (). 10 The idea of “religious elephants” can be traced back to Pliny the Elders ().

In addition to Pliny, as Buffon wrote, the Roman scholars and writers like Aelian, Solinus, and Plutarch “have given to these animals rational manners, a natural and innate religion” (). But more likely is Montaigne’s “Apology for Raymond de Sebonde” in Essays where the author wrote “elephants have some notion of religion” based on the observation that the animals after bathing seem to pray as they hold their trunks high toward the morning sun (). Montaigne’s essay is often mentioned in connection with Bloom’s cat. See also Maud Ellmann (). 12 India mittit ebur (“India sends ivory”), the Latin sentence Stephen first learned, tells of the historical truth in that the country had been major hub for importing African ivory from the early nineteenth century until its independence in 1947 (). According to a 1914 newspaper article, “It [unmanufactured African ivory] was brought to India to be carved, and finally be sold either in the form of individual ivory articles or as combined with other substances in jewelry, furniture, brushware, and so forth” ().