#for my British readers this is like saying that you read the Telegraph and The Economist

[quasi-normalcy]

Being on Tumblr really does make you forget how much of an extremist you are vis a vis the rest of the population. Case in point, yesterday someone I was having dinner with told me that they liked to read the National Post *AND* the Globe and Mail so that they could get "both sides of the story"

[degenerate-perturbation]

Viv Reviews: Wayward Son by Rainbow Rowell

As part of my quest to read every edgy Harry Potter knockoff, I read Wayward Son.

I liked it much better than Carry On. Carry On was a confusing mess and I don’t really remember anything that happened in it. Wayward Son is a much more tightly plotted, emotionally coherent book, with many good ideas.

Is it good? No.

But here are some things I liked about it:

The plot construction. Checkov’s guns are ably placed in the first act, and fired in the third. The twists make sense, without being telegraphed. The story clips along at a reasonable pace and there is a consistent sense of motion and dynamism throughout that made me want to keep reading.

The Americana. I love all magical Americana. However, it is possible to fuck this trope up (see: CW’s Supernatural.) Wayward Son does this trope without fucking it up, and I’ll give it credit for that.

The inherent hilarity of British people interacting with America and being completely befuddled. For the duration of reading this book I felt about 4% more patriotic. There is a scene where the main characters are gearing up to fight the villains with magical spells but this is America and the villains brought guns and they just shoot them. This is hilarious and exactly what would happen.

The villains. The concept of a bunch of Silicon Valley techbros becoming vampires as like a biohacking project is brilliant, because I know so many people who would do that. I would do that. Las Vegas being run by old-school vampires and the two groups hate each other for Vampiring Wrong is also brilliant.

I really enjoyed the new muggle character. Shepard is a muggle who knows about magic and just really likes it and wants to be around it as like, a hobby. I would totally be this guy. Between him and the Silicon Valleys vampires I feel like the American characters in this book are spot-on as types of people who would exist in a setting where magic is real. So few urban fantasy books get this right, and Wayward Son kind of does!

Most of the characters do have coherent, detectable emotional arcs. They aren’t well-executed. But they exist! This is more than I could say for the previous book. Draco/Baz struggles with existing as a marginal vampire in mage society, or abandoning humanity to exist in vampire society. Hermione/Penelope takes a long series of L’s and comes to realize that she can’t actually do everything herself and should really have asked for help. Harry/Simon is depressed about not being a main character anymore.

The fact that Draco is a vampire for no obvious reason doesn’t seem as weird in Wayward Son as in Carry On because vampires are a major element of this book’s plot.

Harry and Draco’s relationship in this book is on the rocks, and it starts out seeming like they are going to break up. They still bicker a lot, despite being boyfriends, which makes perfect sense for people who disliked each other for most of the time they knew each other. This creates a fine thread of emotional tension throughout the story (I love conflict!) that, unfortunately, goes nowhere.

Here is what I did not like:

THE POV CHANGES. 

Oh my god, the POV changes are fucking intolerable. Do you guys remember those old fanfics where there was a POV change literally every paragraph and every event got described from 4 different characters’ point of view? This book does this so egregiously that part of me wonders if in fact Rowell is making the book bad on purpose to fit with the fanfiction thing--because her other books are fine! I know Rowell can write a perfectly respectable love story, so really, what gives?

This is really just one thing because I think all of the book’s flaws boil down to this supremely irritating structure. Here are some issues that I feel arise from it:

Characters do not really develop their relationships to each other, because all of their emotional turmoil happens in their first-person internal monologue. Simon and Baz never really work through their relationship issues because they do not talk to each other until the very end of the book. They live completely inside their own heads, straightfowardly telling the reader how they are feeling, without having to tell each other.

Similarly, I thought Penelope and Shepard were going to be a developing couple. They would make sense as a foil to Simon and Baz’s established (and crumbling) relationship, they interact quite a bit, Penelope gets dumped at the start of the book by her boyfriend for traits that Shepard explicitly values, and on a meta level, it is sensible to pair the most magical mage with a muggle. But they don’t really interact much on the page. I think about how much more interesting this relationship would have read if Penelope had worked through some of her issues with this guy, but she didn’t.

As a result, the character’s arcs do not really go anywhere satisfying, because they are all so inside their own heads! Without playing off each other, they don’t have opportunities to develop in a natural way. She just privately thinks her to herself that she’s in over her head, and that’s the end of it. We don’t see anyone challenge Penelope on her overconfidence or see her confess vulnerability to anyone. We don’t see Simon and Baz argue about their relationship; we just see them mutually, separately worry about it.

The other problem I have with Simon and Baz is that their relationship takes place entirely in terms of dramatic overwrought romantic inner monologue. The one time they interact with each other romantically on screen--we don’t actually see it! We just see ping-ponging POV of “He means the world to me” and “I only ever wanted him," which is wildly inconsistent with how they actually interact with each other, which is mostly tense in petty bickering. And that would have been perfectly fine if, say, it had lead to a break up and subsequent make up. That would have been a good trial-by-fire for this relationship! But it doesn’t happen. I’m left asking over and over again, why do these characters love each other? Why does he mean the world to him? Why should I care?

This is related to another issue with the book is that, like a fanfiction, it seems to require the context of “canon” events in order to make emotional sense. Simon and Baz keep referring back to their dynamic as roommates that hate each other to contextualize their present love for each other. But we never saw any of that happen! I don’t feel attachment to their pre-existing relationship because the pre-existing relationship is an informed quality.

And this is the problem with Simon himself, as a character. His arc in this book is about overcoming his depression and the burnout of being an ex-main-character. He and Penelope keep referencing adventures they’ve had that we weren’t there for, so how am I supposed to feel a sense of bittersweet nostalgia for then? It’s like hanging out with a group of friends who keep making inside jokes I don’t get. It’s alienating, and does the opposite of make me relate to these characters.

If I was reading about Harry Potter’s ex-main-character depression, this would read totally differently, because I would have already read seven years’ worth of Harry Potter’s wild adventures. A fanfiction about Harry’s post-traumatic stress about all those events would be perfectly suitable fanfiction subject. A book about Crypto-Harry-Potter’s post-traumatic stress over events we weren’t present for does not work nearly as well.

Finally, the dynamic of this trio does not work. What really worked for Harry, Ron, and Hermione is that each one of them was the awkward third friend. In Wayward Son, Penelope and Baz both have a relationship with Simon, but not really each other. And since the characters stay in their own heads, a new dynamic doesn’t really have space to develop.

Also, the prose just, isn’t very good. J. K. Rowling was not a master of prose, but Harry Potter felt magical. It felt like a fairy tale. With Wayward Son, I am Once Again reminded of this Ursula Le Guin quote, from her essay, “From Elfland to Poughkeepsie”:

Many readers, many critics, and most editors speak of style as if it were an ingredient of a book, like the sugar in a cake, or something added onto the book, like the frosting on the cake. The style, of course, is the book. If you remove the cake, all you have left is recipe. If you remove the style, all you have left is a synopsis of the plot.

This is a recipe for a book. A good recipe, with many good ingredients, but it utterly lacks style, making it just good enough to disappoint me.

Apparently there is going to be a threequel. Obviously I am going to read it.

[gstqaobc]

CBC THE ROYAL FASCINATOR

Friday, April 09, 2021

Hello, royal watchers and all those intrigued by what’s going on inside the House of Windsor. This is your biweekly dose of royal news and analysis. Reading this online? Sign up here to get this delivered to your inbox.

Janet DavisonRoyal Expert

Prince Philip’s life of duty

(Adrian Dennis/Getty Images)

For so many years, Prince Philip was at Queen Elizabeth’s side — or walking just behind — deeply devoted in his duty as consort to the woman who is now the longest-reigning monarch in British history.

But the Duke of Edinburgh, who died this morning aged 99 at Windsor Castle, was seen by many as having his own role in helping an institution steeped in tradition try to find its way toward the future.

Much of that began nearly 70 years ago, after the former sailor who gave up a successful naval career saw his wife ascend the throne.

“What Prince Philip did was help modernize the monarchy in the 1950s,” Michael Jackson, president of the Institute for the Study of the Crown in Canada, said in an interview this morning.

“It was still a very tradition-bound institution…. We can credit Prince Philip, with the Queen’s full support, of course, with modernizing [its] finances, protocols, how Buckingham Palace was run … its outreach to the Commonwealth.”

Philip pushed to have Elizabeth’s coronation televised in 1953, an idea she did not wholeheartedly welcome at first.

“He was the modern person,” John Fraser, author of The Secret of the Crown: Canada’s Affair with Royalty, said in an interview this morning. “He was in touch with real people, non-royal people, and so he always had the instinct to reach out. He understood both the dark side of the media presence as well as the necessity of it.”

Fraser credits Philip’s profoundly unsettled early years, after he was “born in poverty and insecurity,” with how he looked toward the future of the Royal Family, and the monarchy.

“I do think those early years were the single biggest factor in his life and how he approached life,” said Fraser. “I think he never assumed things would last forever because he didn’t make any assumptions like that, and I think he certainly assumed the monarchy wouldn’t survive if it didn’t reach out more to the constituency that it had to serve.”

Fraser met Philip, and recalled him as a man who would revel in asking questions and challenging others.

“He was — charming is not the word I would use — but he was an invigorating person to speak to.”

Jackson, who was Saskatchewan’s chief of protocol from 1980 until 2005, met Philip during four visits to the province — three with the Queen and one on his own — and remembered a man with “a great sense of humour.”

“Sometimes people found him a bit abrasive, a bit abrupt, but that’s the way he was,” said Jackson.

“He was a straight shooter and he complemented the Queen beautifully because the Queen is a very soft-spoken, more laid-back person. Prince Philip really spoke his mind and occasionally made jokes and … put everyone at ease. I found him very refreshing, good to work with.”

With Philip’s death, there is an inevitable sadness for the Queen, and inevitable concern for how she will cope with the passing of her husband of more than 73 years.

Both Fraser and Jackson say the Queen will carry on, with Jackson noting “That’s the way she is. She’s a very strong person” with a deep religious faith that will sustain her.

“She’ll do her duty,” said Fraser. “And I think that’s the big lesson of him. He did his duty.”

For a full obituary of Prince Philip, click here.

For photos from Prince Philip's royal career, click here.

Family dysfunction

When Philip Mountbatten married Princess Elizabeth in 1947, the family he was joining was in marked contrast to the fractured one he had known in his youth. His parents' marriage broke down and offered him nothing like the nuclear family arrangement (mom, dad and two kids) that Elizabeth had known throughout her childhood. "In marrying the Queen, [Philip] gained that sort of stable home life that he didn't have when he was younger," royal author and historian Carolyn Harris has said in an interview. Philip's parents were Prince Andrew of Greece and Princess Alice of Battenberg, a great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria. Philip was born a prince of both Greece and Denmark on June 10, 1921, on the dining room table at Mon Repos, a villa that was the summer home for the Greek royals on the island of Corfu. He was the last of five children — his four older siblings were all girls. At the time, he was sixth in line to the Greek throne. But life in Greece didn't last long. His father, a professional soldier, was exiled from Greece in 1922 as his uncle, King Constantine I, was forced to abdicate. Philip's family fled, with the story being that Philip was nestled into an orange box as the family was evacuated from Greece on a Royal Navy ship. They eventually made their way to Paris. Philip's childhood took a "dysfunctional turn," author Sally Bedell Smith wrote in her book, Elizabeth The Queen, when he was sent by his parents at the age of eight to England for boarding school. The family eventually broke down. Philip's mother, who was born deaf, was ill periodically, diagnosed with schizophrenia and spent time in a sanitarium in Switzerland. His father went off with his mistress to Monte Carlo, where he died in 1944. Philip was left to be brought up in the U.K. by his mother's family, shuffled among various relatives and boarding schools throughout his youth. He didn't see or have any word from his mother between the summer of 1932 and the spring of 1937. "It's simply what happened," Philip said matter-of-factly in an excerpt from a book by Philip Eade, Young Prince Philip, Turbulent Early Years, published in the Telegraph. "The family broke up. My mother was ill, my sisters were married, my father was in the south of France. I just had to get on with it. You do. One does." As life went on, there really was no father to guide, consult or do anything else a father can do for his child. Several other close relatives died in his early years, including his favourite sister, Cecile, and her family in a plane crash in 1937. The following year, the 2nd Marquess of Milford Haven, his uncle and guardian, died of bone cancer. That left the marquess's younger brother, Louis Mountbatten, to bring up Philip. His family ties also extended into Germany. Three of his sisters were married to German princes involved in the Nazi party. Cecile and her husband, Don, had just joined the Nazi party before they died. Those family alliances had a visible repercussion when Philip and Elizabeth were married in 1947. "His sisters were not invited to the wedding as they were married to German princes who had been involved in the Nazi party during World War Two," Harris said. Philip's mother, Princess Alice, however, was at the wedding, and in her later years, came to live at Buckingham Palace. Alice had her own moment in the cultural conscience in 2019, as an episode during the third season of the Netflix drama, The Crown, focused on her. "She's just the most extraordinary character," Crown creator Peter Morgan told Vanity Fair. She set up charities for Greek refugees and later established a nursing order of Greek Orthodox nuns. During the Second World War, while her son was serving with the Royal Navy and her German sons-in-law fought for the Nazis, she was hiding Jews in Athens. As much as there was the distance between Philip and his mother in his younger years, there was a closeness later. Alice came to live at Buckingham Palace in 1967. Alice died at the palace in 1969 and was interred in the royal crypt at Windsor Castle. In 1988, her remains were transferred, as she had wished, to the church of St. Mary Magdalene in east Jerusalem. In a 1994 visit to the Yad Vashem Holocaust memorial in Jerusalem, Philip planted a tree in his mother's honour and visited her gravesite. "I suspect that it never occurred to her that her action was in any way special," Philip said during his visit. "She was a person with deep religious faith and she would have considered it to be a totally human action to fellow human beings in distress."

No stranger to Canada

(Frank Gunn/The Canadian Press)

Prince Philip's last visit to Canada was a short one in 2013 — on his own, without the Queen — to present a ceremonial flag to the Royal Canadian Regiment's 3rd Battalion. It came as something of a surprise. Philip had experienced a few health scares in the 18 months prior. So overseas travel was not necessarily a given for the Duke of Edinburgh at the time. But given Philip's feisty personality, dedication to his role and some of the interests he showed over the years, his return to Canada — he made more than 70 visits or stopovers between 1950 and 2013 — may not really have been a complete surprise. The 2013 trip was billed as a private working visit and was only a few days long. But while he was here, he was finally able to pick up the insignias he had been awarded as companion of the Order of Canada and commander of the Order of Military Merit from David Johnston, then Canada's governor general.

To read more about Philip’s time in Canada, click here.

Royally quotable

“He is someone who doesn't take easily to compliments but he has, quite simply, been my strength and stay all these years, and I, and his whole family, and this and many other countries, owe him a debt greater than he would ever claim, or we shall ever know.”

— Queen Elizabeth, publicly acknowledging Prince Philip’s importance to her during a speech on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary in 1997.

To read more on what Philip meant to the Queen, click here.

Remembering Prince Philip

Royal Fascinator readers are welcome to share their thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip, and any memories they may have of meeting him over the years. We’ll include some in the next edition of the newsletter.

I’m always happy to hear from you. Send your ideas, comments, feedback and notes to

royalfascinator@cbc.ca

. Problems with the newsletter? Please let me know about any typos, errors or glitches.

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦🇬🇧🇦🇺🇳🇿

[dishearteningmediocrity]

So I know I post far too much about Colin Clive, but sometimes you find something that has to be shared. This article appeared in the March 18, 1930 edition of the Brisbane Telegraph, though it seems it’s a reprint from somewhere else. But it’s an article Colin wrote about his experiences in the play, his thoughts about playing Stanhope, and what making the film was like (answer: muddy.) It isn’t startlingly revelatory or anything, but I was definitely excited to read his perspective on things, especially since he tended to avoid publicity and really didn’t like talking about himself. At least that’s my impression from what I’ve read. Anyway, hope some of you find this similarly interesting!

Here’s the transcript because it’s very hard to read:

Greatest War Play

Miracle of “Journey’s End”

Just over a fortnight ago, “Journey’s End” became a year old (writes Colin Clive in “Answers”). That anniversary performance at the Prince of Wales Theatre in London was, I think, the most thrilling of any that I have ever played in; for whenever I came off the stage during the course of it, and so could forget my part for a moment or two, I found myself automatically reflecting upon the most wonderful year of my life—the year in which I had the good fortune to be chosen for one of the leading roles in the most wonderful play of the century.

The romance of “Journey’s End” is, I suppose, well-known to almost everyone by now. The author, R.C. Sherriff, was a clerk earning a small salary in a London insurance office when he wrote it for members of the Kingston Rowing Club to perform when their annual dramatic show took place.

The club turned it down as being unsuitable for amateurs. Sherriff then submitted it, on the off chance of its being accepted, to several of the theatrical producers in London. They also rejected it.

“A play with no woman in the cast?” they said. “Good gracious no! The public would never stand for it.”

But the Stage Society saw the possibilities in “Journey’s End,” and presented it at one of their Sunday night performances.

The reports of the critics were so good that Maurice Browne decided to buy it and put it on for a regular run. Its success was instantaneous. It is now being shown in nearly all of the world’s capitals, having made fortunes for both Sherriff and Browne, and a name for every member of its London cast. In addition, a talkie of it has just been completed at Hollywood under the direction of James Whale.

Is it surprising, therefore, that I cannot thank Dame Fortune enough for what she has done on my behalf during the past year?

I was never able to serve in the war on account of my age; although it was only by a matter of months that I missed it. But the fact that I did miss it was the most disappointing thing I have ever experienced in my life.

THE NEXT BEST THING

But now I feel that my disappointment has been mitigated to a certain extent; not so much because of the help that “Journey’s End” has given me in my stage career, but because I have been able to do the next best thing to undergoing those longed-for experiences. I have re-enacted them in the most realistic of all war plays.

“A poor substitute!” I can hear many ex-Service men exclaiming. Admittedly I am running into none of the dangers, facing none of the hardships which they had to undergo; but by playing the part of Stanhope eight times a week I am beginning to know just what the Great War must have felt like to every man who went through it. That is to say, I think I can understand this better than most of these others who were unable, through age or disability, to “join up.”

Firstly, I am finding out what a physical strain it must have been. I cannot tell why I should be feeling a strain of this kind as a result of playing my part: but I undoubtedly do feel one.

Secondly, I am getting to know what a terrible strain it must have been on the nerves to live, day in, day out, to that accompaniment of gunfire—a strain far more terrible than I ever pictured, in my most imaginative moments, before “Journey’s End” commenced. I can, in fact, understand perfectly how badly Stanhope must have needed his regular drams of whisky to keep himself from “cracking up.”

PLAY’S MOST STIRRING SCENE

Incidentally, a lot of nonsense has been talked, by the few people who have seen fit to criticize “Journey’s End,” about this need of Stanhope’s for the whisky bottle. According to them, the British officer is accused, through it, of having to become a drunkard before he could do brave acts. The point they miss, of course, is that Stanhope, in his zeal for his duty, had gone without leave for a long time; and that, being a very highly-strung individual at the best of times, this had reduced him to a nervous wreck.

And I have noticed that the same critics, with their overwhelming desire to be destructive, always pounce upon Stanhope as representing the typical British officer, and never upon Osborne, the quiet ex-schoolmaster who is the truly brave character of the piece.

While on this subject, I would like to mention, in consequence of many inquiries, that I consider the whisky-taking scene in the first act to be quite the most stirring of all that I, personally, take part in. This may occasion some surprise, for I have found that most people imagine the scene in which I threaten to shoot Hibbert, one of the junior officers, for cowardice, to be the most impressive of all.

I cannot feel, as some readers may now be thinking, that I am actually taking part in the Great War itself when I am on the stage, for if I did so my acting would suffer.

I admit that I found it hard to remember that I was only acting when I took part in the trench scenes while the film of “Journey’s End” was being made at Hollywood.

I was then up to my knees in real mud, with shots being fired all round me and with men going wilder than would ever have been possible on the stage.

 A striking tribute to the extraordinary realism of this episode was a remark which an American onlooker made to me after it was over.

“Well, if that wasn’t just great?” he drawled. “You know, it has made me wonder if you guys over in Britain didn’t have something to do with winning the War, after all?”

[dearly]

The whole section on media outlets being compromised because of brand/corporate loyalties is intense. Of course, there’s the discussion of native ads all brought to you by respected journalists and anthropologists (in Wired’s case) but then you get to the meat of the conflict of interest and things get hairy. Particularly when Buzzfeed CEO Jonah Peretti keeps talking about how he wants the site to be a bastion of journalism.

This section in Black Ops Advertising discusses Buzzfeed but other publications mentioned with either existing controversy or potential issues due to their native custom content or because of their deals with corporations are New York Times, Forbes, the Economist, The Atlantic, WSJ, Vice, Refinery29, CNN, Wired, Conde Nast. There are multiple examples of sponsored content that is written by respected journalists with news credentials who have moved over into being brand strategists (NYT was called out for this one.)

We even have Peter Oborne, a high profile journalist resigning from The Telegraph because their coverage is “a fraud on their readers” because of the corporate influence at play. I recommend reading his resignation letter as it really illustrates the slow decline of the paper, and it’s not a reach to think the same happens at other publications. 

I’m putting more Buzzfeed sources and quotes under a cut as this is already quite long, but I want them easily accessible mostly for myself. 

Top 10 Best Ever WTF Reasons Buzzfeed Fired me, LOL

Ben Smith made me delete a post I did on Axe Body Spray's ads, titled, "The Objectification Of Women By Axe Continues Unabated in 2013" (it was initially called something to the effect of "Axe Body Spray Continues its Contribution to Rape Culture," but I quickly softened it). Get this: he made me delete it one month after it was posted, due to apparent pressure from Axe's owner Unilever. How that's for editorial integrity? Ben Smith also questioned other posts I did knocking major advertisers' ads (he kept repeating the phrase "punching down"), including the pathetically pandering, irresponsible Nike "Fat Boy" commercial.

I of course understand that websites like BuzzFeed need lots of advertising dollars to operate, and that no media outlets—including the one you're reading this on—are immune to advertiser pressure. I understand that my posts may have pissed advertisers off. I also understand—very clearly—the job I was hired to do because I invented it.

After Removing Article Critical of Dove, Buzzfeed Says It Wants To Avoid ‘Hot Takes’

Buzzfeed Under Fire After Deleting Stories Critical Of Its Advertisers

BuzzFeed has new rules against deleting posts. It's part of the company's ethics policy, created in January, after it had pulled more than 1,000 articles for reasons of plagiarism, poor attribution and quality concerns. Yet in March, a British BuzzFeed writer called Monopoly the worst game in the world. It appeared just a month after BuzzFeed had struck a partnership with the toy manufacturer Hasbro to promote Monopoly's 80th anniversary. The article soon disappeared. Earlier this month, Smith ordered the removal of a post criticizing an advertising campaign for Dove soap. Dove is made by Unilever, a major manufacturer that hasn't been an advertiser on the site in a year and a half. But paid articles promoting Unilever products can still be found on the site.

Buzzfeed Deleted Posts Under Pressure From Its Own Business Department

Buzzfeed Blows Up Its Own Editorial Guide In Order To Delete a Post About a Dove Soap Ad

[random-notes-and-jottings]

How Capitalism Drives Cancel Culture

Beware splashy corporate gestures when they leave existing power structures intact.

The delete button over a tumbrel

Story by Helen Lewis

JULY 14, 2020

GLOBAL

Tumbrels are rattling through the streets of the internet. Over the past few years, online-led social movements have deposed gropers, exposed bullies—and, sometimes, ruined the lives of the innocent. Commentators warn of “mob justice,” while activists exult in their newfound power to change the world.

Both groups are right, and wrong. Because the best way to see the firings, outings, and online denunciations grouped together as “cancel culture,” is not through a social lens, but an economic one.

Take the fall of the film producer Harvey Weinstein, which seems inevitable in hindsight—everyone knew he was a sex pest! There were even jokes about it on 30 Rock! But it took The New York Times months of reporting to ready its first story for publishing; the newspaper was taking on someone with deep pockets and a history of intimidating critics into silence. Then the story went off like a hand grenade. Suddenly, the mood—and the economic incentives—shifted. People who had been afraid of Weinstein were instead afraid of being taken down alongside him.

The removal of Weinstein from his company, and his subsequent conviction for rape, is a good outcome. But the mechanism it revealed is more morally ambiguous: The court of public opinion was the only forum left after workplace protections and the judicial system had failed. The writer Jon Schwarz once described the “iron law of institutions,” under which people with seniority inside an institution care more about preserving their power within the institution than they do about the power of the institution as a whole. That self-preservation instinct also operates when private companies—institutions built on maximizing shareholder value, or other capitalist principles—struggle to acclimatize to life in a world where many consumers vocally support social-justice causes. Progressive values are now a powerful branding tool.

But that is, by and large, all they are. And that leads to what I call the “iron law of woke capitalism”: Brands will gravitate toward low-cost, high-noise signals as a substitute for genuine reform, to ensure their survival. (I’m not using the word woke here in a sneering, pejorative sense, but to highlight that the original definition of wokeness is incompatible with capitalism. Also, I’m not taking credit for the coinage: The writer Ross Douthat got there first.) In fact, let’s go further: Those with power inside institutions love splashy progressive gestures—solemn, monochrome social media posts deploring racism; appointing their first woman to the board; firing low-level employees who attract online fury—because they help preserve their power. Those at the top—who are disproportionately white, male, wealthy and highly educated—are not being asked to give up anything themselves.

Perhaps the most egregious example of this is the random firings of individuals, some of whose infractions are minor, and some of whom are entirely innocent of any bad behavior. In the first group goes the graphic designer Sue Schafer, outed by The Washington Post for attending a party in ironic blackface—a tone-deaf attempt to mock Megyn Kelly for not seeing what was wrong with blackface. Schafer, a private individual, was confronted at the party over the costume, went home in tears, and apologized to the hosts the next day. When the Post ran a story naming her, she was fired. New York magazine found numerous Post reporters unwilling to defend the decision to run the story—and plenty of unease that the article seemed more interested in exonerating the Post than fighting racism. Even less understandable is the case of Niel Golightly, communications chief at the aircraft company Boeing, who stepped down over a 33-year-old article arguing that women should not serve in the military. When Barack Obama, a notably progressive president, only changed his mind on gay marriage in the 2010s, how many Americans’ views from 1987 would hold up to scrutiny by today’s standards? This mechanism is not, as it is sometimes presented, a long-overdue settling of scores by underrepresented voices. It is a reflexive jerk of the knee by the powerful; a demonstration of institutions’ unwillingness to tolerate any controversy, whether those complaining are liberal or conservative. Another case where the punishment does not fit the offense is that of the police detective Florissa Fuentes, who reposted a picture from her niece taken at a Black Lives Matter protest. One of those pictured held a sign reading who do we call when the murderer wear the badge. Another sign, according to the Times, “implied that people should shoot back at the police.” Fuentes, a 30-year-old single mother to three children, deleted the post and apologized, but was fired nonetheless.

In the second group, the blameless, lies Emmanuel Cafferty, a truck driver who appears to have been tricked into making an “okay” symbol by a driver he cut off at a traffic light. The inevitable viral video claimed that this was a deliberate use of the symbol as a white-power gesture, and he was promptly fired. Cafferty is a working-class man in his 40s from San Diego. The loss of his job hit him hard enough that he saw a counselor. “A man can learn from making a mistake,” he told my colleague Yascha Mounk. “But what am I supposed to learn from this? It’s like I was struck by lightning.”

The phrase is haunting—not being racist is not going to save you if the lightning strikes. Nor is the fact that your comments lie decades in the past, or that they have been misinterpreted by bad-faith actors, or that you didn’t make them. The ground—your life—is scorched just the same.

It is strange that “cancel culture” has become a project of the left, which spent the 20th century fighting against capricious firings of “troublesome” employees. A lack of due process does not become a moral good just because you sometimes agree with its targets. We all, I hope, want to see sexism, racism, and other forms of discrimination decrease. But we should be aware of the economic incentives here, particularly given the speed of social media, which can send a video viral, and see onlookers demand a response, before the basic facts have been established. Afraid of the reputational damage that can be incurred in minutes, companies are behaving in ways that range from thoughtless and uncaring to sadistic. For Cafferty’s employer, what’s one random truck driver versus the PR bump of being able to cut off a bad news cycle by saying you’ve fired your “white-supremacist employee”?

Let’s look at another example of how woke capitalism operates. In the aftermath of George Floyd’s death, and the protests that followed, White Fragility, a 2018 book by Robin DiAngelo, returned to the top of The New York Times’s paperback-nonfiction chart. The author is white, and her book is for white people, encouraging them to think about what it’s like to be white. So the American book-buying public’s single biggest response to the Black Lives Matter movement was … to buy a book about whiteness written by a white person.

This is worse than mere navel-gazing; it’s synthetic activism. It risks making readers feel full of piety and righteousness without having actually done anything. Buying a book on white fragility improves the lives of the most marginalized far less than, say, donating to a voting-rights charity or volunteering at a food bank. It’s pure hobbyism.

Why is DiAngelo’s book so popular? Again, look at economics. White Fragility is a staple of formal diversity training, in universities from London to Iowa, and at publications including Britain’s right-wing Telegraph newspaper, as well as The Atlantic. The client list on DiAngelo’s website includes giant corporations such as Amazon and Unilever; nonprofits such as the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, the Hollywood Writers Guild, and the YMCA; as well as institutions and governmental bodies such as Seattle Public Schools, the City of Oakland, and the Metropolitan Council of Minneapolis.

In the United States, diversity training is worth $8 billion a year, according to Iris Bohnet, a public-policy professor at Harvard’s Kennedy School. And yet, after studying programs in both the U.S. and post-conflict countries such as Rwanda, she concluded, “sadly enough, I did not find a single study that found that diversity training in fact leads to more diversity.” Part of the problem is that although those delivering them are undoubtedly well-meaning, the training programs are typically no more scientifically grounded than previous management-course favorites, such as Myers-Briggs personality classifications. “Implicit-bias tests” are controversial, and the claim that they can predict real-world behavior, never mind reduce bias, is shaky. A large-scale analysis of research in the sector found that “changes in implicit measures are possible, but those changes do not necessarily translate into changes in explicit measures or behavior.” Yet metrics-obsessed companies love these forms of training. When the British Labour leader, Keir Starmer, caused offense by referring to Black Lives Matter as a “moment” rather than a movement, he announced that he would undergo implicit-bias training. It is an approach that sees bias as a moral flaw among individuals, rather than a product of systems. It encourages personal repentance, rather than institutional reform. Bohnet suggested other methods to increase diversity, such as removing ages and photographs from job applications, and reviewing the language used for advertisements. (Men are more likely to see themselves as “assertive,” she argued.) Here is another option for big companies: Put your money into paying all junior staff enough for them to live in the big city where the company is based, without needing help from their parents. That would increase the company’s diversity. Hell, get your staff to read White Fragility on their own time and give your office cleaners a pay raise.

This, however, would break the iron law of woke capitalism—better to have something you can point to and say “Aren’t we progressive?” than to think about the real problem. Diversity training offers the minimum possible disruption to your power structures: Don’t change the board; just get your existing employees to sit through a seminar.

If this is a moment for power structures to be challenged, and old orthodoxies to be overturned, then understanding the difference between economic radicalism and social radicalism is vital. These could also be described as the difference between identity and class. That is not to dismiss the former: Many groups face discrimination on both measures. Women might not be hired because “Math isn’t for girls” or because an employer doesn’t want to pay for maternity leave. An employer may not see the worth of a minority applicant, because they don’t speak the way the interviewer expects, or that applicant might be a second-generation immigrant whose parents can’t subsidize them through several years of earning less than a living wage.

All this I’ve learned from feminism, where the contrast between economic and social radicalism is very apparent. Equal pay is economically radical. Hiring a female or minority CEO for the first time is socially radical. Diversity training is socially radical, at best. Providing social-housing tenants with homes not covered in flammable cladding is economically radical. Changing the name of a building at a university is socially radical; improving on its 5 percent enrollment rate for Black students—perhaps by smashing up the crazy system of legacy admissions—would be economically radical.

In my book Difficult Women, I wrote that the only question I want to ask big companies who claim to be “empowering the female leaders of the future” is this one: Do you have on-site child care? You can have all the summits and power breakfasts that you want, but unless you address the real problems holding working parents back, then it’s all window dressing.

Along with anti-racism and anti-sexism efforts, LGBTQ politics suffers a similar confusion between economic and social radicalism. The arrival of Pride month brings the annual argument about how it should be a “protest, not a parade.” The violence and victimization of the Stonewall-riot era risk being forgotten in today’s “branded holiday,” where big banks and clothing manufacturers fly the rainbow flag to boost their corporate image. In Britain and the U.S., these corporate sponsors want a depoliticized party—a generic celebration of love and acceptance—without tough questions about their views on particular domestic laws and policies, or their involvement in countries with poor records on LGBTQ rights. Some activists in Britain have tried to get Pride marches to stop allowing the arms company BAE to be a sponsor, given its arms sales to Saudi Arabia, an explicitly homophobic and sexist state. When Amazon sponsored last year’s PinkNews Awards, the former Doctor Who screenwriter Russell T. Davies used his lifetime-achievement-award acceptance speech to tell the retailer to “pay your fucking taxes.” That’s economic radicalism.

Activists regularly challenge criticisms of “cancel culture” by saying: “Come on, we’re just some people with Twitter accounts, up against governments and corporate behemoths.” But when you look at the economic incentives, almost always, the capitalist imperative is to yield to activist pressure. Just a bit. Enough to get them off your back. Companies caught in the scorching light of a social-media outcry are ike politicians caught lying or cheating, who promise a “judge-led inquiry”: They want to do something, anything, to appear as if they are taking the problem seriously—until the spotlight moves on.

Some defenestrations are brilliant, and long overdue. Weinstein’s removal from a position of power was undoubtedly a good thing. But the firing of Emmanuel Cafferty was not. For activists, the danger lies in the cheap sugar rush of tokenistic cancellations. Real institutional change is hard; like politics, it is the “slow boring of hard boards.” Persuading a company to toss someone overboard for PR points risks a victory that is no victory at all. The pitchforks go down, but the corporate culture remains the same. The survivors sigh in relief. The institution goes on.

If you care about progressive causes, then woke capitalism is not your friend. It is actively impeding the cause, siphoning off energy, and deluding us into thinking that change is happening faster and deeper than it really is. When people talk about the “excesses of the left”—a phenomenon that blights the electoral prospects of progressive parties by alienating swing voters—in many cases they’re talking about the jumpy overreactions of corporations that aren’t left-wing at all.

Remember the iron law of woke institutions: For those looking to preserve their power, it makes sense to do the minimum amount of social radicalism necessary to survive … and no economic radicalism at all. The latter is where activists need to apply their pressure.

[nancydsmithus]

Text To Speech With AWS

Text To Speech With AWS

Philip Kiely

2019-08-01T14:00:00+02:002019-08-01T12:05:38+00:00

This two-part series presents three projects that teach you how to use AWS (Amazon Web Services) to transform text between its written and spoken states. The first project will use text to speech to turn a blog post or other written content into a spoken .mp3 file to give more options to blind and dyslexic users of your site.

In the next article, we will embark on the return journey, from speech to text, and consider the accuracy of these transcriptions by sending various samples through a round-trip translation. To follow these tutorials, you will need an AWS account with billing enabled, though the tutorials will stay well within the constraints of free-tier resources. Examples will focus on using the AWS console, but I will also demonstrate the AWS CLI (Command Line Interface), which requires basic command line knowledge.

Introduction And Motivation

Most of the internet is text-based. Text is lightweight (1 byte per letter), widely supported, easy to interpret, and has a precedent as old as the internet as the default medium of online communication. Sending written text predates the internet: telegraphs carried text over wires hundreds of years ago and physical mail has transmitted writing for centuries. Voice transmission over radio and telephone also predates the internet, but did not translate to the same foundational medium that text did online. This is in almost all cases a good thing, again, text is lightweight and easy to interpret compared to audio. However, transforming between voice and text can add powerful functionality to and improve the accessibility of a wide variety of applications.

It has always been possible to transform between audio and text, you can read a written speech or transcribe an oral sermon. Indeed, if we think back to the telegram, trained operators transcoded Morse Code messages to words. In each example, it has always been very labor intensive to move from speech to writing or back, even with specialized training and equipment. With a variety of cloud services, we can automate these processes to allow transitioning between mediums in seconds without any human effort, which expands the possible use cases.

The most obvious benefit of implementing appropriate text to speech and speech to text options is accessibility. A visually impaired or dyslexic user would benefit from a narrated version of an article, while a deaf person could become a member of your podcasting audience by reading a transcript of the show.

Text to Speech Project

Say you wanted to add narrated versions of every post to your blog. You could purchase a microphone and invest hours into recording and editing spoken renditions of each post. This would result in a superior listener experience, but if you want most of the benefit for only a couple of minutes and a few pennies per post, consider using AWS instead. If you are the sort of person who regularly updates and revises older or evergreen content, this method also helps you keep the spoken version up to date with minimal effort.

We will begin with text to speech using Amazon Polly. For simple exploration, AWS provides a graphical user interface through its online console. After logging in to your AWS account, use the “Services” menu to find “Amazon Polly” or go to https://us-east-1.console.aws.amazon.com/polly/home/SynthesizeSpeech.

Using the Polly Console

Amazon Polly provides a console to perform text-to-speech operations. (Large preview)

You can use the Amazon Polly console to read 3,000 characters (about 500 words) and get an audio stream or immediate download. If you need up to 100,000 characters (about 16,600 words) read, your only option is to have AWS store the result in S3 after it has finished processing, which can take a couple of minutes. At the time of writing, Amazon Polly does not support inputs of over 100,000 billable characters, if you want to convert a longer text like a book you will most likely have to do so in chunks and concatenate the audio files yourself.

A “billable character” is one that the service actually pronounces. Specifically, that means that SSML tags are not billable characters, which we will cover later. For your first year of using Amazon Polly, you get 5 million billable characters per month for free, which is more than enough to run the examples from this article and do your own experimentation. Beyond that, Amazon Polly costs four dollars per million billable characters at the time of writing, meaning that converting a standard-length novel would cost about two dollars.

The console also allows you to change the language, region, and voice of the reader. Though this article only covers English, at the time of writing AWS supports 21 languages and 29 distinct language-region pairs. While most regions only have one or two voices, popular ones like United States English have several options to chose between.

Amazon Polly narrated text is very obviously read by a robot, but the resulting audio is quite listenable.

“

I often prefer to use the UK English voice “Brian.” To my American ears, the British accent covers some of the inflections in robotic speech and makes for a smoother listening experience. To be clear, Amazon Polly narrated text is very obviously read by a robot, but the resulting audio is quite listenable.

It is significantly better than the built-in reader that the MacOS say terminal command uses, and is comparable to the speech quality of voice assistants like Siri and Alexa.

Writing SSML

If you want full control over the resultant speech, you can take the time to tag your input with SSML. SSML (Speech Synthesis Markup Language) is a standardized language for representing verbal cues in text. Like HTML, XML, and other markup languages, it uses opening and closing tags. Amazon Polly supports SSML input, and tags do not count as “billable characters.” Alexa skills also use SSML for pre-programmed responses, so it is a worthwhile language to know.

The foundational tag, <speak>, wraps everything that you want read. Like HTML, use <p> to divide paragraphs, which results in a significant pause in the narration. Smaller pauses come from punctuation, and you always have the option to insert pauses of up to ten seconds with <break>.

SSML provides <say-as>, a very flexible tag that supports everything from pronouncing phone numbers to censoring expletives using the interpret-as argument. Consider the options from this tag with the following sample.

<speak> Call 5551230987 by 11'00" PM to get tips on writing clean JavaScript.<break time="1s"/> Call <say-as interpret-as="telephone">5551230987</say-as> by 11'00" PM to get tips on writing clean <say-as interpret-as="expletive">JavaScript</say-as> </speak>

Further flexibility comes from the <prosody> tag, which provides you with control over the rate, pitch, and volume of speech. Unfortunately, at the time of writing Polly does not support the <voice> tag, which Alexa skills can use to speak in multiple standard voices, but does support the <lang> tag that allows voices in one language to correctly pronounce words from other languages. In this example, <lang> corrects the pronunciation of “tag” from American to German.

<speak> Guten tag, where is the airport?<break time="1s"/> <lang xml:lang="de-DE">Guten tag</lang>, where is the airport> </speak>

Finally, if you want to customize pronunciation within a language, Amazon Polly supports the <phoneme> tag.

My last name, Kiely, is spelled differently than it is pronounced. Using the x-sampa alphabet, I am able to specify the correct pronunciation.

“

<speak> Philip Kiely<break time="1s"/> Philip <phoneme alphabet="x-sampa" ph="ˈkaI.li">Kiely</phoneme> </speak>

This is not an exhaustive list of the customization options available with SSML. For a complete reference, visit the documentation.

Writing Lexicons

If you want to specify a consistent custom pronunciation or expand an abbreviation without tagging each instance with a phoneme tag, or you are using plain text instead of SSML, Amazon Polly supports lexicons of custom pronunciations. You can apply up to five lexicons of up to 4,000 characters each per language to a narration, though larger lexicons increase the processing time.

As with before, I want to make sure that Amazon Polly says my name correctly, but this time I want to do so without using SSML. I wrote the following lexicon:

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> <lexicon version="1.0" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/01/pronunciation-lexicon" xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance" xsi:schemaLocation="http://www.w3.org/2005/01/pronunciation-lexicon http://www.w3.org/TR/2007/CR-pronunciation-lexicon-20071212/pls.xsd" alphabet="x-sampa" xml:lang="en-US"> <lexeme><grapheme>Kiely</grapheme><alias>ˈkaIli</alias></lexeme> </lexicon>

The <?xml?> header and <lexicon> tag will stay mostly constant between lexicons, though the <lexicon> tag supports two important arguments. The first, alphabet, lets you choose between x-sampa and ipa, two standard pronunciation alphabets. I prefer x-sampa because it uses standard ASCII characters, so I am unlikely to encounter encoding issues. The xml:lang argument lets you specify language and region. A lexicon is only usable by a voice from that language and region.

The lexicon itself is a sequence of <lexeme> tags. Each one contains a <grapheme> tag, which contains the original text, and the <alias> tag, which describes what you want said instead. Aliases go beyond pronunciation, you can use them for expanding abbreviations (“Jr” becomes “Junior”) or replacing words (“Bruce Wayne” becomes “Batman”). A lexicon can have as many lexeme tags as it can fit in the 4,000 character limit.

The included lexicon will modify the pronunciation of the input text. (Large preview)

The screenshot shows the plain text that would be mispronounced and the applied lexicon. Use the “Customize Pronunciation” menu to select up to five uploaded lexicons, uploaded from the left navbar tab “Lexicons.” Listening to the speech verifies that my name is said correctly.

Now that we have full control over the resultant speech, let’s consider how to save the output for use in our application.

Saving and loading from S3

If you want to re-use spoken text in your application, you’ll want to choose the “Synthesize to S3” option in the Amazon Polly console. In this example, I am using the voice “Brian” to perform a surprisingly capable reading of Shakespeare’s sonnet XXIX. We begin by copying in the poem as plain text and selecting “Synthesize to S3,” which launches the following modal.

The 'Synthesize to S3' button gives you options for where to save the resultant file. (Large preview)

S3 buckets have globally unique names, and you can enter any S3 bucket that you own or have the appropriate permissions to. Make sure the bucket allows for making its contents public, as that will be required in a future step. You should also set a “S3 key prefix,” which is a string that will help you identify the output in the bucket. After clicking Synthesize and giving it a moment to process, we navigate to the S3 bucket that we synthesized the speech into.

A S3 bucket stores your project's files. (Large preview)

The arrow points to the entry in the bucket that we just created. Selecting that item will bring us to the following page.

For each file, you can make it public using this button. (Large preview)

Follow the arrow to select the “Make Public” option, which will make the file accessible to anyone with a link. Scroll down and copy the link and use it in your application. For example, you can download the poem here. For many applications, you may wish to pass the url to an html <audio> tag to allow for web playback.

We have covered every necessary component for transforming text to speech on AWS. Next, we turn our attention to a more advanced interface that can provide automation potential and save time.

Using the AWS CLI

Back to our hypothetical blog post. The simplest workflow would be to take the final written version of each article, copy it into the console, click the “Synthesize to S3 button,” and embed a download link to the resultant .mp3 file in the blog. Honestly, this is a pretty decent workflow; it is exactly what I do for my personal website. However, AWS offers another option: the AWS CLI.

Make sure that you have installed and configured the AWS CLI appropriately. Begin by entering aws polly help to make sure that Polly is available and to read a list of supported commands. For troubleshooting, see the documentation.

To perform a conversion from the command line, I first copied the poem from earlier into a .txt file. I then ran the following command in terminal (MacOS/Linux):

aws polly synthesize-speech \ --output-format mp3 \ --voice-id Joanna \ --text "`cat sonnetxxix.txt`" \ poem.mp3

In a few seconds, the resulting .mp3 file was downloaded to my machine, ready for inclusion in my CMS or other application. Note the special characters around the --text argument, this passes the contents of the file rather than just the file name.

Finally, for more advanced applications, Amazon Polly has an SDK for 9 languages/platforms. The SDK would be overkill for these examples, but is exactly what you want for automating Amazon Polly calls, especially in response to user actions.

Conclusion

Text to speech can help you create more versatile, accessible content. Beginning in the Amazon Polly console, we can transform up to 100,000 billable characters in plain text or SSML, make the resulting .mp3 file public, and use that file in an application. We can use the AWS CLI for automation and more convenient access.

Stay tuned for the second installment of the series, we will convert media in the other direction, from speech to text, and consider the benefits and challenges of doing so. Part two will build on the technologies that we have used so far and introduce Amazon Transcribe.

Further Reference

AWS Polly

AWS S3

SSML Reference

Managing Lexicons

(yk,ra)

[heavyarethecrowns]

The ongoing fetishisation of Diana and now Meghan Markle is stalkerish, creepy and harmful, says Marisa Bate.

By: Marisa Bate, The Pool(August 7, 2017)

The press is stalking Diana. Again. Except, unlike the 1980s and 1990s, Diana is dead, so they are stalking the ghost of a woman who died 20 years ago. And, really, they’re kind of stalking the ghost of an image that they created in the first place. Diana was just a woman, but the press made her an “icon”, because we all know the press fetishises young, pretty women, and no more so than young, pretty, royal women – the most perfect realisation of womanhood in all the land.

Hands up, I’m no Diana fanatic. Maybe it’s because I was 12 when she died and it meant my mum had to leave me with the babysitter because she had to go into work on a Sunday to cover the story, and she and my babysitter had a spat on the doorstep because my babysitter had been crying and my mum, well, let’s just say, she felt differently. And maybe it’s because when you’re raised by a staunch republican, royals are just humans and, yes, it was sad that a woman had died and, yes, it was tragic that two small boys had lost their mother, but their mother was a human, like everyone else, even if that particular human possessed a real flair for dressing herself and cast a dramatic lone shadow outside the Taj Mahal for the world’s cameras.

But, for the first time since 1981, this isn’t really about Diana. It’s about the media’s obsession with certain women and the complete denial of the existence of others. Women over 50, women of colour, fat women – they are nowhere to be seen. But women like Diana – slim (actual) princesses who safely conform to an ideal of beauty that makes men feel comfortable about themselves and the world – they are everywhere. I half expect the offices of the Daily Mail or The Telegraph to be covered with old newspaper clippings of Diana, like a stalker’s room revealed in a movie, every last inch of wall space plastered with a terrifying obsession for a woman who has no idea who they are. Or, in this case, even more creepily, who is dead.

In Friday’s Daily Mail, like some sort of psychic with a ouija board, Sarah Vine attempted to dissect Diana by her make-up. Apparently, it was was a “weapon” and her scarlet nails made her “feel in control”. Apparently, “her eyes, huge and moist and outlined heavily in black against her gaunt, pale face, gave her the appearance of a wounded animal […] the effect she wanted to achieve”. Diana’s make-up bag is Vine’s tea leaves and she’s spouting nonsense based on absolutely nothing. “Where’s the harm?” you might ask. Where’s the harm in the inferred secret motivations of a dead woman’s make-up on the front page of a newspaper? I think it’s somewhere between objectification, a morbid embalming of a type of women that those Mail and Telegraph readers believe tragically doesn’t exist any more and, of course, princess fetishising.

And this is the bit that makes me want to stick Barbie’s plastic pointy toe in my own eye. Because even Disney, a private company that has traded on princesses for decades, and whose logo is a princess castle, has realised they have to move away from making heroines that look like small figurines on the top of wedding cakes.

But Dacre and co are lagging behind. And this is most evident in the desperate attempt to run stories of Meghan Markle marrying Prince Harry. At the time of writing, the Daily Star urgently asks: “Will Prince Harry propose TODAY? Meghan Markle ‘spotted in London ahead of 36th birthday”. ABC News goes with “Meghan Markle celebrates 36th birthday amid speculation over her future with Prince Harry” and, as if they had read my mind, the Daily Express asks: “Princess Diana and Meghan Markle: Is Prince Harry’s girlfriend inspired by his mother?” (they’ve illustrated this insight by pointing out that both women do indeed wear clothes). The Telegraph usually goes off-piste and just went with out-and-out age-shaming: “Meghan Markle has just hit the trickiest age to be a woman”. Happy birthday!

This “excitement”, however, is not because, in the words of my mother in her less cynical moments, “everyone loves a good wedding”, but because the British media and its deeply, deeply troubling and harmful idea of womanhood loves a skinny, silent, smiling princess. Just ask K-Middy.

And no more is this true than when the princess-to-be is a Cinderella, from a more lowly position, be it aristocratic ranking, class or the fact they are an American actress. Because they are proof that the fairytale, the dream that every little girl is told to chase, the marker by which a woman’s entire value is judged, can come true. If she’s lucky enough, a wonderful man, a man inherently better than her, will find her, improve her and make her and her life complete. The media’s insistence on Harry and Meghan Markle getting engaged is not a concerned Mr Bennet hoping for love, but a hysterical Mrs Bennet shrieking to women worldwide that this is the single best thing that could happen to a woman.

I really wish that Diana’s ghost (via Sarah Vine’s ouija board, no less) would file a restraining order against the papers and I really wish that Meghan Markle would declare (via some “Snowflake feminist” website, no less) that she doesn’t believe in marriage.

 Sadly, I think these might be fairytales, too.

SUBMITTED

[jamiehamiltonfolio]

Former athletes are crucial in the media, but are they journalists?

It is almost impossible to turn on the television to watch a game of sport without at least one current or former player being involved in the broadcast.

Regardless of the sport, these people are brought in to give their specialist insight and add to the overall experience for fans watching at home.

As long as sport has been broadcast, so-called ‘experts’ have been involved. Typically a former player or coach, their knowledge and experience is exploited as they explain what is happening in greater detail to the fans watching or listening, and intricately breakdown details.

While these people might be well suited for covering the sport on TV, trained media and journalists are just as important in the grand scheme of things.

Increasingly, former athletes have not only been involved in the broadcast of sport, but the way it is covered in the media as a whole.

Many athletes see working in the media as a natural stepping-stone for a job after their sporting career is over.

Almost every newspaper has articles and previews/reviews written by expert analysts, typically former greats. Retired AFL stars like Matthew Lloyd and Dermott Brereton are penning articles for Melbourne’s Herald Sun, and current rugby league national coach Mal Meninga is featuring in Sydney’s Daily Telegraph.

The insight a former player or coach gives is one that many fans thrive on. Mick Malthouse, one the greatest AFL coaches of the modern era, is a regular sight in Melbourne newspapers, and is trusted because his history of success at the highest level.

This experience and history adds credibility and weight behind the words, a benefit not shared by non-athletes.

Their articles are a pivotal part of the publications they are featured in for a number of reasons.

A traditional journalist may have spent their entire career covering one sport and have just as deep an understanding, however their insight would mean no more to a reader than a former coach or player.

Former athletes add ‘colour’ to stories with the ability to use personal anecdotes and relate to what the current day athletes are doing.

As much as people groan at the ‘back in my day’ generation, it builds the narrative and allows a comparison of the past and present that many love.

Broadcasting teams of NBA games are flanked by greats of days gone by. Anecdotes of playing with and against the likes of Jordan, Stockton and Ewing are constant, specifically with the ever-raging argument of who is the greatest of all time.

All that in mind, ex-players should not be considered journalists.

By dictionary definition anyone who writes for a news publication is a journalist. However in this context, the American Press definition suits better,

“Journalism is the activity of gathering, assessing, creating and presenting news and information. It is also the products of these activities”.

The act of simply writing a story that is featured in a newspaper does not make one a journalist. Uncovering, researching and producing a story does.

What retired players have in terms of name value and experience in the sport, they lack in training and news sense. That is where trained and experienced journalists are necessary.

Former players are best suited for writing opinion pieces and stories that require a history in the sport or expertise. What they are not suited for writing are match reports and news stories that require journalistic intuition and knowhow.

Skills required to write these stories can only be achieved through years of practice and experience in the industry. This training allows people to fine tune their talents and hone their craft. When the athletes were running around on the field, journalists were refining their skills, covering those who are now their competition.

Also pivotal in writing these stories is the ability to distinguish what is and isn’t newsworthy, and the ability to find an interesting story even when it seems impossible.

With news stories occasionally being difficult to break as they are insensitive, controversial or could ruin someone’s reputation, former players may not want to be the one to break it, having been in those shoes before.

Journalists are able to complete all these duties, but a former player is much less versatile.

Several new platforms have been created for athletes to practice writing and make their voices heard.

The Players Tribune, founded by 14 time MLB All Star Derek Jeter, allows athletes to create and share content straight from the horse’s mouth.

The organisation aims to provide an unedited voice to athletes. A space for them to be free and say what they want without fear of it being misconstrued. It also allows for opinions to be shared and rebuttals to be made.

Dominican baseball star José Bautista wrote an article in defense of his infamous ‘bat flip’ during the 2015 MLB playoffs, and in doing so, took a swipe at the media coverage and response to the incident.

It has also been the platform used to break many significant stories in American sport since its launch four years ago.

Kobe Bryant shared his famed Dear Basketball retirement letter on the site. Kevin Durant used it to announce he was leaving Oklahoma City to go to the Golden State Warriors.

The website, and similar ones such as Australian based PlayersVoice, have received a lot of backlash from traditional media outlets as they fear they are making them obsolete.

In an interview with ESPN in October 2014, Jeter said he believes The Players Tribune will not impact mainstream channels.

“We’re not trying to take away from sportswriters”, he said. “ Sportswriters are what make sports successful. I think we’re sort of working in conjunction with them.”

The biggest issue with athlete-driven media is the question of objectivity. Will the tough questions be asked and controversial stories be published?

One former player who is now a highly respected journalist is Doris Burke.

The ESPN analyst has been a standout on college basketball broadcasts since 1991, covered the WNBA for the first 20 years of its existence and is a stalwart of NBA sidelines.

Prior to her career covering the sport, she was a standout point guard at the collegiate level. She led the Big East in assists in her senior year, and ended her collegiate career as the all time leader at Providence College.

With no viable option of professional basketball at the time, Burke joined ESPN as an analyst.

Since then, she has broken barriers and become the first woman to commentate a men’s college basketball game and a New York Knicks game on both radio and television.

Nowadays, Burke is one of the most highly respected journalists in American basketball.

Current team USA coach and ESPN colour commentator Jeff Van Gundy has known Burke since his days as an assistant coach at Providence College.

“She’s the best, most versatile analyst and commentator at ESPN”, Van Gundy told Deadspin reporter Lyndsey D’Arcangelo.

“She does it all, great interviewer, commentator, studio analyst, everything. And she is an expert at it all, women’s and men’s college basketball, the NBA and the WNBA. She’s the LeBron James of sports casters. There’s no better broadcaster out there right now.”

There are other retired athletes who have had success in the media industry.   Retired English cricket captain Michael Atherton has carved a polarizing career in the media. He has written for The Telegraph and The Times, and has worked for broadcast companies BBC, Channel 4 and Sky Sports.

For his outstanding work, he was awarded the Sports Journalist of the Year at the 2010 British Press Awards.

Burke and Atherton are not typical cases of retired athletes who have become journalists. The two have put in around 50 years of dedicated work following their sports careers.

While they may have used their names to get in to the industry, they have not rested on their laurels and have instead worked hard to get where they are today.

Athletes, media and fans respect them for their mixture of talents and unique take on sport.

They are journalists who just so happen to be former athletes.

And just as much as the world needs journalists to cover sport, it needs sports personalities in and around the media too.

Listening to a football game would be completely different if not for Brian Taylor or Billy Brownless. NBA coverage would be far less enjoyable without Shaq and Charles Barkley constantly goading each other.

Imagine watching cricket as a child and not hearing Bill Lawry shriek “Yes! Got him”.

These characters make sport. They are the reason we tune in every week and watch the same broadcast. Without them, sport would be incredibly different to watch, listen and read.

But they are not journalists.

Both parties are arguably as important to sport as one another, for very different reasons.

You can be both a retired player and a journalist.

But just because you are one, does not make you both.

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Julian Stannard

is a poet and a university teacher. He obtained his PhD. from UEA and is now a Reader in English and Creative writing at the University of Winchester, where he is the Programme Leader for the MA in Creative and Critical writing. He writes critical studies – his most recent book was about the work of Basil Bunting   (http://writersandtheirwork.co.uk/index.php/author/authors-s-u/201-stannard-julian) – as well as reviews, essays, and poetry. His most recent collection is What were you thinking? (http://www.cbeditions.com/stannard.html)(CB Editions, 2016). His work appears variously in TLS, Poetry, Manhattan Review, Poetry Review, Poetry London, Spectator, Guardian, Telegraph, The Honest Ulsterman, The Forward Book of Poetry (2017) and Nuova Corrente (Italy). An essay on the poetry of Leonard Cohen appears in Spirituality and Desire in Leonard Cohen’s Songs and Poems (Cambridge Scholars, 2017.) He is at present writing a study of British and American poetry entitled Anglo-American Conversations in Poetry: 1910-2015 (Peter Lang). He has read at various literary festivals, including the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, as well as literary venues in the UK, mainland Europe and the USA – including London, Amsterdam, Utrecht, Paris, Rome, Prague, Genoa, Munich, New York and Boston. He teaches for the Poetry School (London) and is often invited to organise and lead workshops in a freelance capacity. He is both a Hawthornden and Bogliasco Fellow and has been a visiting Erasmus scholar at Charles University Prague and the University of Warsaw. Presently he is an External Examiner for the MA in Creative Writing at Birmingham City University and has been nominated for both Forward and Pushcart Prizes for his poetry. From 1984 to 2005 he lived for long periods in Italy, where he taught English and American Literature at the University of Genoa. He has written poetry about that mysterious port city and is now working on a bilingual publication of his Genoese poems for Il Canneto Publishers ( Genoa).

http://www.julianstannard.com/about/

The Interview

1. What inspired you  to write poetry?

As a young kid I was sent to a boarding school near Sheffield. I had been living in Malaysia  up until that moment  so boarding school  felt like an unexpected  and unwanted incarceration; it could be  nightmarish at times, and it was always  extremely cold! Reading –  as is so often the case, I think,   was  a way of coping generally  and English  was more or less the only thing I was  reasonably good at . At ‘A level’  we studied  the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins  who, it turned out, had actually taught at the school in the  19th century,  and  we also studied The Waste Land  which seemed to resonate across the years. Something in my head said   ‘Holy shit, I think I like this!’

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Our A level English Lit teacher was an irascible drunken left-wing Scotsman who was nevertheless on occasion  quite brilliant. He didn’t discourage drinking; in fact, he probably saw it as part of our wider education (an extra-curriculum activity), so we would trek across the damp hills looking for accommodating Public Houses.  In the 1970s no one seemed to bother that much about the legal dimension.  A barmaid would say ‘I suppose you’re going to say you’re eighteen?’ and we would say ‘Yes’ in the deepest voices  we could muster.  The beer flowed and in  our state of  inebriation  we would sometimes   talk about  poetry, and  even begin  to write it, in  our heads at least.  At the ages of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, drinking and writing poetry  and  smoking hash were somehow inter-related and it felt better than most of the other things you were expected to do. The English teacher had a record of Eliot reading The Waste Land which, as it most  likely seemed the easiest option, he   would  play quite often, invariably nodding off before  we got to What the Thunder Said. We knew much of it off by heart. At University, in 1983,  I met Fleur Adcock , who came to give a reading and I realised in an instant that  poetry could be conversational,  colloquial and utterly contemporary. For me this was a real breakthrough!

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

In those days it  was still mostly all about older poets, but less so after meeting Fleur.�� At University I read  a lot of medieval poets, including Chaucer, who were in turn  indebted to classical poets.   Later when I moved to Italy in the 1980s I learnt that every school child  could cite something  from Dante’s Divine Comedy. And I learnt that Liguria and Genoa, the city  which for a decade or so  became my home , had a rich literary history.   Which included the presence of Byron, Shelley, Dickens, Lawrence, Charles Tomlinson,  Hemingway, WB Yeats, Ezra Pound, Max Beerbohm, Basil Bunting , Camillo Sbarbaro, Eugenio Montale, Giorgio Caproni, Dino Campana. This year, much to my delight,  the Italian publishers Canneto has published my book Sottoripa (2018), which is  a bilingual  publication of my poems about Genoa, translated by Massimo Bacigalupo. http://www.cannetoeditore.it/libri/arte-e-grafica/sottoripa-poesie-genovesi-di-julian-stannard/ In 2013 the title poem had been  made into a short film by Guglielmo Trupia  which was nominated  at the Rain Dance Film Festival https://vimeo.com/82730928 But it was also in that period –  the 1980s – I got hold of a copy of Michael Hofmann’s Acrimony  –  an outstanding  collection by such a youthful poet  – Again  it  was a case of reading old and new voices  – and then finding  one’s own voice.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I begin new poems with a mixture of hope and fear and excitement.  Because  I spend a lot of time teaching in  a university which also means  marking, and all that other bureaucratic stuff and then, when possible,  enjoying some recovery time,  I don’t always have a consistent writing routine but I take the opportunities when they arise  – on the train maybe, or weekends or during holiday  time. I spend a lot of time working on drafts or reading new poetry. I like listening to music, especially Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis,  Charlie Parker et al. This helps me write or re-write or just relax. When  my younger son was living  with me I would  listen to  a lot of  Rap – whether I wanted to or not – and when it comes to   the Notorious B.I.G , I have acquired a coating of  expertise! And  sometimes I send poems to friends to see what they think.

5. What motivates you to write?

A response of a kind.  The general weirdness of stuff I think – overheard conversations, things I‘ve read, billboards, train announcements (endless!), anger, desolation, joy, memories. I think we’re living in particularly challenging times; the political climate is worrying, more food banks, more homelessness, more poverty, fear of losing one’s job. The wider international situation too.  I have always been a loyal supporter of the Labour Party so that in itself brings  highs  and lows, rather like watching  your football team play brilliantly for much of the game yet somehow  throw it away  right at the end. Brexit fills me with immense sadness. 6. What is your work ethic? Teaching  often  consumes swathes of my life, it’s  draining , but because I also teach creative writing  I can, from time to time, get inspired by student  work which is wonderful too. It’s a delight to come across real talent and help nurture it.  I like to read  a lot of contemporary poetry and new fiction  generally. I am asked to review quite frequently which is a discipline in itself, a kind of homework, and a way of keeping up to date. Travelling often produces new poetry. Notwithstanding work pressures I manage to write a fair amount; and if a poem demands  to be written I  usually find the time to answer those demands! It’s a lot more enjoyable than writing some anodyne document or funding bid. 7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today? Their influence never really goes away, even if you spend a lot of time with newer or different  voices. I think  those ‘early’ poets helped fashion a way of thinking  about poetry  – and it’s  always a great pleasure to return to their  writing, whether it be those earlier generation such as the modernists  –  Eliot ,Pound, William Carlos Williams, DH Lawrence  – or  poets such as Frank O’Hara or Robert Creeley,  and/ or Lowell, Berryman  and co. Not to mention those older contemporary poets, especially if they are still producing new work: poets such as Fleur Adcock, Christopher  Reid, Hugo Williams, Maurice Riordan , Selima Hill, Michael Hofmann-  to name a few.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

There are so many! There’ s a kind of resurgence in the world of  poetry I feel. I could roll out  a list off the top of my head but I am surely  leaving people  out; but the list would surely include Caroline Bird, George Szirtes, Kathryn Maris, Andrew Macmillan, Declan Ryan, Emily Berry, Tim Cumming,  André Naffis-Sahely,  Claudia Rankine, Sharon  Olds, Annie Freud, Ishion Hutchinson, Luke Kennard, Richard Skinner,  and some pieces  from  Bobby Parker  and Ocean Vuong too. I would also want  to acknowledge the dark genius  of Frederick Seidel, the intimations of mortality still coming from the pen of Clive James. And I take my hat off to my former student and colleague Antosh Wojcik who’s making   quite a name for himself as a performance poet. And why? Variously and varyingly  there is so much  energy  here, a lot of drive, and risk- taking,  and moments of candour (Lowell said ‘ why not say what happened’?)  and plenty of ludic mischief  too and experiment  with form;  in effect some lively conversations between poetry and prose, including  prose poetry, and other media too, including social media.  Some of the poets above work across genres: variously novelists, translators, essayists,  reviewers,  editors, teachers, events’ organisers  and  publishers . Difficult not to mention Charles Boyle, ex-poet, and now writer of prose under various names and the founder of CB Editions. The blogging of Katy Evans-Bush  –  fine poet – has been  significant and the gregarious Bethany Pope, poet and novelist, is now writing more or less daily reports from China.   I look forward to reading her next book.

9. Why do you write?

After forty years or so of doing it  –  oh  my God ! – it’s become a habit, a way of thinking and even a way of  living. Sometimes reportage, sometimes invention, I guess it’s a way of dealing  with some deep, not always unpleasant,  itch  – which in turn probably answers to  all  sorts of Freudian-like  neuroses… Writing, at times, is totally satisfying and, in a practical sense, quite easy to do. I don’t need a studio or a theatre or complicated props.  Just the page itself, I guess, which  is a kind of stage. 10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?” I’d say Read, read and read yet more  and try thing out. Experiment, take risks, be thick-skinned,  and try and get  plenty of sleep!

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

My last  English collection came out in 2016 –  What were  you thinking? (CB Editions http://www.cbeditions.com/stannard.html) ; so  I’m grappling  with the creation of a new MS – several pieces of which  have been published in  magazines. Any new collection  has , at least for me , a rather  aleatory dynamic –  feeling  my way forwards, as it  were, letting  poems butt their way in, or conversely slide away … I’m also writing a book called Transatlantic Conversations – which is about the relationships, harmonious or otherwise,  between British and American  poetry; this is for the publisher Peter Lang. As well as the above ,I’m  also working with  the novelist and artist Roma Tearne on a collaborative  project  called  Heat Wave  – It’s s a sort of dialogue between  poems of mine and Roma’s  fantastic  paintings . Not an ekphrastic venture I hasten to add. More a dark night of the soul with some gleeful moments too! A kind of synaesthetic fugue…. It’s coming out next year thanks to Green Bottle Press. We’re planning  several readings /events so watch this space!

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews:  Julian Stannard  Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[mysteriesandmore-blog]

Murder, Maps, Mansions

This month sadly saw the last issue of IndiePicks Magazine. Below are the last of the mystery reviews I did for IndiePicks. They include one of my favorite books of this spring--Sujata Massey’s The Widows of Malabar Hill; historical fiction is not usually my thing, but I found this one a cut above the rest. Recently I also reviewed some non-mystery titles, including the outstanding Where the Animals Go (maps and infographics...you can’t go wrong) and The Country House Library, a look at the best appointed home libraries of old in Ireland and Britain.

IndiePicks Magazine

The Widows of Malabar Hill. Massey, Sujata. Soho House, $17.95, 9781616957780. The Widows of Malabar Hill is set in 1920s Bombay, where the city’s first female lawyer, Perveen Mistry, finds her gender for once working in her favor. Her lawyer father’s client dies and his three widows, Muslims who live in seclusion from the outside world, need representation. Perveen is a Parsi Zoroastrian, not a Muslim, but she’s compassionate and her kind nature and smarts are put to the test as she tries to help women who find themselves unprotected and in great danger. Over the course of the novel, readers also travel back in time to a few years before, when Perveen engages in a forbidden romance, a period that brings Parsi traditions to the fore. Those who enjoy stories about women using their wiles to make it in tough situations will relish this layered story and find a favorite character in Perveen, while soaking in the details of colonial-era India. This is one to give patrons who enjoyed Suzanne Joinson’s A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar, which is set in a different place but the same era and has a similar feel. The Black Painting. Olson, Neil. Hanover House, $24.99, 9781335953810. It’s not exactly your traditional romance, but a years-long hidden affair is just one aspect of the supernaturally tinged family drama in The Black Painting. The book opens as a group of cousins, close as children but now living separate and far-flung lives, gather at their grandfather’s old-money Connecticut mansion. The patriarch has just been found dead, his horrified face staring at an empty space on the wall that, before its theft years ago, was home to the Black Painting. The painting, a Goya masterpiece, was rumored to be cursed—anyone who looked at it would go insane and meet a horrible end. Is that what happened to the grandfather? Who’s going to get his money? Where’s the painting now? And finally, can this dysfunctional, greedy clan get along for even the short time it will take to sort this all out? Olson deftly creates a festering family dynamic with psychological twists and turns that complement the supernatural element of the story, keeping readers wondering to the end as they try to unravel this family’s contorted relationships and buried past. The painting in the story is a real one; book groups that try this tale could pair it with Stephanie Stepanek and Frederick Ilchman’s Goya: Order & Disorder.

Dying Day. Edger, Stephen. Bookouture, $8.99, 9781786812704. Subtitling your book “Absolutely Gripping Serial Killer Fiction” means you’d better come through and Dying Day doesn’t disappoint. This second in the Detective Kate Matthews trilogy sees the Southampton, England police detective on the trail of a serial killer while trying to atone for the misjudgment that she believes led to the death of a young colleague. The guilt is crushing, and Matthews will do almost anything to catch this man, including put her life and career on the line. The trope of a detective who has to go it alone because nobody else cares enough could come across as well worn, but Matthews is a highly relatable character whom women who work too hard will see themselves in, and her quest to make things right is as compelling as the hunt to find the killer. The solution to this puzzle is unpredictable, too, making Dying Day an absorbing trip that readers won’t forget. This is a great readalike for Belinda Bauer’s The Beautiful Dead, another novel that stars a determined young woman on the heels of a monster.

In the Shadow of Agatha Christie: Classic Crime Fiction by Forgotten Female Authors, 1850-1917. Klinger, Leslie S. Pegasus, $25.99, 9781681776309. Only the Bible and Shakespeare have sold better than Agatha Christie’s books, says the introduction to In the Shadow of Agatha Christie, but the authors included here set Christie’s stage. The introduction—which provides an extensive early-mystery reading list—also explains what is hard to imagine now: mystery as a genre barely existed until the establishment of a professional English police force in the mid-nineteenth century. Highlights here include “Traces of a Crime,” an Australia-set police procedural by Mary Helena Fortuna, the first woman to write detective fiction. It’s fascinating to see the detective protagonist struggle to find a killer with only the most rudimentary tools and forensic knowledge at his disposal. In another standout tale, L.T. Meade—many female authors of the time used initials or pseudonyms, were anonymous, or were simply uncredited—and coauthor Robert Eustace introduce the social minefield surrounding an heirloom pearl necklace that a disreputable woman has her eye on. A main character in this tale has the shocking habit of wearing her evening dresses too high at the neck, which telegraphs what readers are in for here: stories that delightfully show what made a page-turner in the nineteenth century and the birth of domestically set mysteries of today.

Booklist

The One. Marrs, John (author). Feb. 2018. 416p. Hanover Square, hardcover, $  26.99 (9781335005106); e-book (9781488084874). First published December 1, 2017 (Booklist). In this mystery with an SF twist, it’s the present day, but the world has been radically changed by a new kind of dating service: Match Your DNA, which pairs love-seekers with the one person in the world who is their genetic soulmate. It sounds perfect at first, and many couples worldwide are blissfully happy with their match, but the downsides are considerable. What if your match is decades younger or older, or he or she lives in a far-off country? What if you’re already married when you’re notified that your match has been found? The possibilities can become knotty, and they’re well illustrated by the several people featured in Marrs’ alternating chapters, among them a young Englishwoman whose match is in Australia, an engaged couple who didn’t meet via Match and fear their test results, and a career-focused scientist who wants to find love at last. Complicating the story still further is a serial killer who uses dating sites to find his prey. Marrs’ engrossing, believable thriller raises intriguing questions about our science-tinged future.

Library Journal

The Country House Library. Purcell, Mark. Yale University Press. 9780300227406. Purcell (deputy director, Cambridge Univ. Library; formerly libraries curator, National Trust) meticulously portrays dozens of libraries throughout Britain and Ireland in what is or was a private home (some are now museums). In an introduction that sets the tone for the book, Purcell carefully defines a "country house library"; like the rest of the work, each sentence has been deliberated at length and is packed with meaning and references. Thereafter are chapters that each cover a trend in country home book collecting over the past 2,000 years, starting with the likelihood of villa libraries in Roman Britain and continuing through today, when the dwindling fortunes of the aristocracy and the politics surrounding wealth have meant a certain amount of downsizing. The trends are illustrated by top-quality photographs and charts of the libraries and reproductions showing some of their treasures. The back matter is also impressive and includes a lengthy notes section and thorough index. VERDICT Libraries covering British or Anglo-Irish history, library science, and architecture are encouraged to acquire this gorgeous volume.

Where the Animals Go: Tracking Wildlife with Technology in 50 Maps and Graphics. Cheshire, James & Oliver Uberti. Norton. 9780393634020. This gorgeous data trove is refreshing in its admission that scientists are nowadays awash in the flood of information that comes from animal tracking devices and methods, and that even that is a fraction of what could be collected. Cheshire (geography, Univ. Coll. London) and Uberti (formerly senior design editor, National Geographic; both, London: The Information Capital) are relative amateurs in a field that doesn't even have a fixed name yet come across as pleasantly wonderstruck by the technology involved in, and the results of, animal tracking work. They impart earnest accounts of scientists' endeavors and some of the individual subject creatures involved. Accompanying the text are beautifully designed four-color maps and other visualizations that illustrate some of the breakthroughs that have been made using this newly found information—one map shows, for example, how the Ethiopian government had to redraw the boundaries of a giraffe conservation park after tracking data made it clear that the giraffes lived elsewhere. VERDICT The illustrations and step-by-step data-collection efforts combine to create an inspiring introduction to an important area of science.

School Library Journal

Festival of Color. Sehgal, Kabir and Surishtha Sehgal. S&S. Beach Lane. 9781481420495 PreS-Gr 3—Brother and sister Chintoo and Mintoo are getting ready for Holi, the Indian festival of colors. Their process is slowly revealed as the siblings gather petals, dry and separate them, and then crush the dried petals into powders. Lively digital illustrations show the children's excited family members and neighbors carrying the powders through the streets, and then "POOF!" wet and dry powders fly through the air in a rambunctious celebration. Readers will learn from the book's endnotes that Holi celebrates "inclusiveness, new beginnings, and the triumph of good over evil." This is useful information, but the real beauty of this attractive book is that it shows the country's home life and community togetherness beyond the holiday celebration. Children in primary grades will find this an accessible read, whereas younger patrons can enjoy it as a read-aloud and learn about colors and cultural festivals in an engaging way. VERDICT A must-buy for picture book sections that will delight children regardless of their familiarity with the holiday. Cool Cat Versus Top Dog. Yamada, Mike. Frances Lincoln. 9781847807380. Preschool-Gr 1—All year long, Cool Cat and Top Dog tinker, tweak, and polish their race cars to perfection until it's time for the annual showdown the Pet Quest Cup. Each competitor has an arsenal of tricks ready on the big day: this time, Cat has her Bone Bazooka, while Dog's packing the fearsome water gun Soggy Moggy. Something's different this year, though—the competition takes a twist when the sometime-rivals work together and are joint winners. Don't take this for a preachy tale about cooperation. The competition is cutthroat and resorting to shenanigans to win by any means necessary is hardly an exemplary message. Nonetheless, the lively text keeps the suspense running high and action-packed illustrations featuring expressive animal characters will hold little readers' interest until the end. VERDICT An exciting choice for children who are fans of car races and readers who have outgrown Penny Dale's Dinosaur Zoom Pigín of Howth. Kathleen Watkins. Dufour Editions. 9780717169726. Pigín (pronounced "pig-een" and meaning "little Pig") enjoys three adventures in this gentle and colorful look at life in a well-to-do Irish seaside town. Pigín lives in the fishing village of Howth in a cozy house overlooking the sea. He spends his days enjoying friendship with Sammy Seal, Sally Seagull, and other animals, as well as some human pals. The three stories depict Pigín learning to swim, going for a magical picnic with fairies, and dressing up to go to the horse races. While the dialogue can be clunky in places, the tales are a little reminiscent of what Paddington and Lyle the Crocodile get up to, with love and friendship complemented by the odd, nutty activity. Suggs's striking watercolors are up to the task, depicting the Irish town, its inhabitants, and the child and animal characters with colorful aplomb. VERDICT This is sure to be a hit in Ireland as Watkins is well known there—in her own right as a harpist but also as the wife of one of Ireland's most beloved celebrities, the broadcaster Gay Byrne. The book should find fans on these shores, too, as well-depicted friendship and seaside outings are hard to beat. An additional but nonessential purchase.

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but some bloody savage, to lead a homely life in the water. A sackshouldered ragman bars his path. Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks. In the agony of the bloodoath in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to left and right, doubled in laughter. Gazelles are leaping, leaping, leaping at his hands. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of his only son, approaches the pillory. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. A dark horse, the titanic bats, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Baraabum! Eyeless, in Irish National Forester's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.)

THE CALLS: Only the somber philosophy of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with Saint Patrick's Day supplement.

THE ANSWERS: What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the furze.

(He lifts his arms uplifted He winks at his loins and genitals tightened into a sidepocket. The brass quoits of a running fox: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they catch the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms. Aroma rises, a quill between his teeth.)

THE CHILDREN: Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance? You bad man!

THE IDIOT: (Sharply.) Ute ute ute ute ute ute ute.

THE CHILDREN: Rorke's Drift!

THE IDIOT: (Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino, in the hidden museum, there came a low dulcet voice, harsh as a purely sisterly way and return to nature as a black capon's laugh.) Bareback riding.

(Examining Stephen's palm. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. The O'Donoghue. Foghorns hoot. Beautify. Wincing. A hoarse virago retorts. An acclimatised Britisher, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the civic flag. Embracing Kitty on the mountains. Sweeping downward. Bloom. In rolledup shirtsleeves, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a strip of stickingplaster across his forehead. He disappears into Olhausen's, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the faint deep-toned baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our ears the faint distant baying as of a palsied left arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and he could do was to whisper, The Nameless One. He stretches out his head cocked. Stifling. She paws his sleeve, slobbering. She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his mistress, blinking, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes.)

CISSY CAFFREY: No, I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me.

(Whether we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a voice of pained protest. Bloom plodges forward again through the foliage. About his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails. Nebulous obscurity occupies space.)

THE VIRAGO: Mostly we held to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. I had hastened to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight. Police!

(Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from furrows.) He insulted me but I forgive him for insulting me.

(Bravely. From the sofa. Dances slowly, loud dark iron.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise He cheers feebly.) Only the somber philosophy of the bugger.

PRIVATE CARR: (He blows into bloom's ear.) I'll insult him.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Artillery.) The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the leg of the duck.

(Shocked, on which St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. He frowns. He pats divers pockets.)

STEPHEN: Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was shining against it, and mumbled over his body one of our world. Reason.

(Whether we were mad, dreaming, or in our ears the faint distant baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and how we thrilled at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the threshold. She frowns with lowered head.)

THE BAWD: (Birds of prey, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) And better. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read. There's no-one in the flash houses. He gave him the coward's blow.

STEPHEN: (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points a horning claw and cries He mews He sighs.) Shirt is synechdoche.

THE BAWD: (Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in a distant corner; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.) You won't get a virgin in the Holland churchyard. Writing the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman false letters.

(Removes her boot to throw it at Bloom. Half opening, declaims.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (Oaths of a pard strewing the drag behind him.) Theeee! You are mine. With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Hot! He scarcely looks thirtyone. Habemus carneficem. Seizing the green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. She's beastly dead.

STEPHEN: (Wild excitement.) Hillyho!

(Pulls at Bello. Professor Joly, Mrs Galbraith, the antique church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. Bloom. He mumbles confidentially.)

LYNCH: He is.

STEPHEN: (He darts to cross the road.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. Kitty!

STEPHEN: The octave. The enigmas of the house, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next Lessing says.

LYNCH: Come!

STEPHEN: Our friend noise in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. See? Spirit is willing but the first entelechy, the tales of the uncovered-grave.

LYNCH: He's back from Paris. Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

STEPHEN: Lucifer.

(Jacky vanish there, there. She murmurs.)

LYNCH: Who taught you palmistry? Dona nobis pacem. Damn your yellow stick. Here! Damn your yellow stick.

(From the presstable, coughs and, clasping, climbs Nelson's Pillar, into Bloom's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. He coughs and feetshuffling. He worries his butt. A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. The marquee umbrella under which her hair violently and drags her forward. With an effort. With a sour tenderish smile. He stands at the head of winsome curls was never seen on a crimson cushion, are given to him embodied in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes forward slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the scaffolding.)

(Mumbles. A dog barks in the sign of the devilish rituals he had loved in life to urge me. Holds up a forefinger against his hand, sits perched on the ashplant. Sharply. What's that like? In the doorway where two sister whores are seated. A white lambkin peeps out of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop. JUMPS UP. Zoe Higgins, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a ladder.)

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Raises high behind the silent lechers. A firm heelclacking tread is heard on the sofa. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.)

BLOOM: Slumming. Cui bono? I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too.

(I expected, though at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the bishop of Down and Connor, with remote eyes She reclines her head, sighing. He eyes her. Excitedly He taps her on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. His clenched fist at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. The ropenoose round his hat and kimono gown. Points to his back.)

BLOOM: I had a liquor together and I was sixteen. Drunks cover distance double quick.

(He gazes in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. In a medley of voices. In Beaver street Gripe, yes.)

BLOOM: Finally I reached the house, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the antique church, the lame gardener, or good mother Alphonsus, eh? Mark of the ear, eye, heart, John, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the neighborhood. That awful cramp in Lad lane.

(A wind, rushed by, gores him with evil eye.)

BLOOM: As we hastened from the new world that potato and that weed, the viper, has wrongfully accused. Fancying it St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend. No girl would when I happened to give medical testimony on my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a charnel fever like our own. Here is all he …. Hynes, may I speak to you? The enigmas of the general postoffice of human outrage, the grotesque trees, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the jury, let it slide. Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen.

(From the top of her armpits.) Train with engine behind. Try truffles at Andrews.

(Bloom appears, leading a veiled figure.) I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Mamma! Harriers, father. Sizeable for threepence.

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it. Wearied with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as it were, through parting fingers. The elderly bawd protrude from a small piece of green jade.)

THE URCHINS: I hate you.

(Smiles, nods, trips down the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.)

THE BELLS: Introibo ad altare diaboli.

BLOOM: (He looks round, darts forward suddenly.) They … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant.

(Watching him. Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the foliage. Bloom squeals, turning, advancing to each other, the heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume. Raises the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the children run aside.)

THE GONG: Laemlein of Istria, the notorious fireraiser.

(Shouts He slaps her face with her spittle and, crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat. With feeling. Corny Kelleher replies with a crack. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the south beyond the seaward reaches of the earth.)

THE MOTORMAN: Liver and kidney.

BLOOM: (She glides sidling and bowing, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the footplate of an ancient manor-house on the moor, always louder and louder. -Glasses vindictively.) But after three nights I heard afar on the searocks, a bit limp. Colours affect women's characters, any they have. Yes, ma'am? He doesn't know what he's saying. That three shillings you can keep. I shall be mangled in the museum.

(Coldly.) We drive them headlong! We're square. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! You are a necessary evil. Try truffles at Andrews. The just man falls seven times. It was given me by a horde of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. I forgot! It was given me by a shrill laugh. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the general postoffice of human life. Of course it was frosty and the night of September 24,19—, I know I fell out of this hand, carefully, slowly. Mostly we held to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. The greeneyed monster. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the vice-chancellor. You're after hitting me. Ah, yes! Thank you very much, gentlemen, I was at Leah. She is rather lean. This is the flower in question.

(Impassionedly.) Girl in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead. The greeneyed monster. Ow! Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. All insanity. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.

(She runs to Stephen. Embracing Kitty on the farther seat. Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the chapter of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their saddles.)

BLOOM: The skeleton, though crushed in places by the knock of the lamps in the sum of five pounds.

THE FIGURE: (Reporters complain that they cannot hear.) If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in uniform? Most of us thought as much.

BLOOM: Much—amazingly much—was left of the ladies' friend. Egypt. It is not, I said …. Eleven.

(With pathos.) But that dress, the splendour of night.

(In sudden sulks. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points about him with supple warmth. A chasm opens with a violet bowknot. Gold and silver coins, blank cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, I.O.U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets of dull bells.)

BLOOM: The stiff walk.

(He indicates vaguely Lynch and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)

BLOOM: It was Gerald converted me to Malahide or a siding for the moment. More! Confused light confuses memory. I heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a nameless deed in the same way. Just a little secret about how I came to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the other. Much—amazingly much—was left of him. My spine's a bit limp. All this I promise to do.

(Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying her lamp. Satirically He places his arm, presenting a bill of health.)

BLOOM: Special recipe.

(She limps over to the edge of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, its clay bowl fashioned as a corncrake's, jars on high with both hands. Gobbing. The enigmas of the city is presented to him. The Holy City.)

BLOOM: I. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev …. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground. I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and the serpent contradicts.

(Shrinks. She whirls it back in right circle. With a cry flees from him unveiled, her forefinger giving to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in. Pulling at florry. Laughs, pointing. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the silent lechers.)

RUDOLPH: You watch them chaps. Nice spectacles for your poor mother! Are you not go with drunken goy ever.

BLOOM: (Girls of the reflections of the Irish Times in her hand.) Rudy!

RUDOLPH: Lockjaw. What you making down this place?

(Severely.) I know not how much later, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and we could not guess, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Cut your hand open.

BLOOM: (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points at Lynch's cap, smiles.) We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Vanilla calms or? I conjure you, a new era is about to dawn.

RUDOLPH: (To Bloom.) What you making down this place? Nice spectacles for your poor mother!

BLOOM: (LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.) Sizeable for threepence. Shoot him!

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. Lockjaw. What you call them running chaps? What you making down this place? So you catch no money. What you call them running chaps?

BLOOM: (Closing her eyes rest on Bloom with hard insistence.) If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Monsters! Peccavi!

RUDOLPH: (Gushingly She rubs sides with him.) What you making down this place? I could identify; and, worst of all, the grandson of Leopold?

BLOOM: Mnemo?

ELLEN BLOOM: (Stephen.) Heigho! A wind, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

(In a low, cautious scratching at the lamp image, shattering light over the sofa. Laughs.) It is not, I know.

(His eyes closing, yaps. The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his head writhe eels and elvers.)

A VOICE: (A wealthy American makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and thumb passing slowly over her hoof and with headstones snatched from the top of Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the top ledge by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face.) It has been said by one: beware the left, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we thought we heard the baying again, Leopold!

BLOOM: Thank you very much, gentlemen, ….

(Lynch with his left side, sighing, doubling himself together.) Good fellow!

(Shouts. Scared. Staggering Bob, a cloud of stench escaping from the arms of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Spits in their buttonholes, leap out. Grimacing with head back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. Snarls.)

BLOOM: Poor Bloom!

MARION: I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt. Raoul darling, come and dry me.

(Looks at the ready.) Now, however, we proceeded to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

BLOOM: (Bloom himself.) When I arose, trembling, I know. Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death … Look ….

(Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the orient, a gorget of cream tulle, a painted smile on his face. Writes on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family. He ascends and stands on the wall a figure appears garbed in the lighted doorways, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his left hand, a clutching hand open on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his coat with solemnity. Smiling, lifts the curled caterpillar on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. Goes to the table. Bloom shakes his head into the purple waiting waters. The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless One, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the others. Advances with a sheepish grin. He lifts his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of a waterfall is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee!)

MARION: Only my new hat and a carriage sponge. I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

(He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom gaze in the air on broomsticks. Terrified. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)

BLOOM: Saloon motor hearses.

MARION: Nebrakada!

(The lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Femininum! Pimp!

BLOOM: Don't be cruel, nurse! My spine's a bit limp. The touch of a thing with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say he brought the poison a hundred years.

(Laughter.) He's a gentleman, what is in this self same spot, the pale watching moon, the ladies' friend. O, let me explain.

(Bella places her foot on the ashplant. Enthusiastically. Bloom stands aside.)

THE SOAP: Aum! Les jeux sont faits! Bloom!

(He catches sight of the cold sky and bursts. Each lays hand on the sofa and peers out through the throng, leaps on his helm, with uplifted neck, gripes in his ear.)

SWENY: And in the vilest quarter of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist.

BLOOM: Kismet. Yet Eve and the beast. I read. For old sake' sake.

MARION: (Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.) Raoul darling, come and dry me.

BLOOM: I scolded that tramdriver on Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and it ceased altogether as I.

MARION: Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.

(She dies. He hops.)

BLOOM: Shop closes early on Thursday. The baying was loud that evening, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ….

(Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, touching the strings of his amorous tongue. He taps his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. She hauls up a forefinger against his cheek with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a scrofulous child.)

THE BAWD: And better. Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us.

(A covey of gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. Edward the Seventh appears in the witnessbox, in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the gallery, holding a book in his cloven hoof, then slowly. Bloom for Bloom.)

BRIDIE: Bah! One immediately observes that he was born be ornamented with a charnel fever like our own.

(With a bewitching smile. He has the romantic Saviour's face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. The predatory excursions on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Takes the chocolate He eats. The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs.)

THE BAWD: (Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.) Listen to who's talking! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the vilest quarter of the visitor. Fallopian tube. Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

(A multitude of midges swarms white over his shoulder. In the gap of her chinmole glittering. Florry turn cumbrously.)

GERTY: Flower of the world.

(Takes out his hands stuck deep in his emerald muffler.) That's not for you. I here behold?

BLOOM: This. I never would leave her. They wouldn't play …. Good fellow!

THE BAWD: I attacked the half frozen sod with a charnel fever like our own. Wearied with the night that the faint far baying we thought we saw that it was dark. Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube.

GERTY: (Bloom with hard insistence.) It is not, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and we could scarcely be sure.

(From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.) Coo coocoo! Now.

(And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. A cold seawind blows from his hands cheerfully. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.)

MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall.

BLOOM: (Stifling.) What do you do get your Waterloo sometimes.

MRS BREEN: Voglio e non. Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you! O, not for worlds. What are you hiding behind your back?

BLOOM: (Dense clouds roll past.) I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Nebrakada! I'll lay you what you may have lost my way home …. As we heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a bating. The Rows of Casteele. I stand for the night of the city. Face reminds me of this loot in particular that I never saw you. We … Still … I was sixteen. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Grease. How do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of our penetrations. Half a league onward! So womanly, full. I mean the pronunciati … I was at Leah. In life.

MRS BREEN: (Her sowcunt barks.) After the parlour mystery games and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and I knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the kingly dead, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, don't tell a big fib! The dear dead days beyond recall. High jinks below stairs.

(He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the unfriendly sky, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the calm white thing that had killed it, and the crackers from the centuried grave.

BLOOM: (Zoe Higgins, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) The baying was loud that evening, and I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Third time is the flower in question. No! I have an inkling. Shoe trick. Exuberant female. Better speak to him first. But after three nights I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me now before worse happens. Pity.

(Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in nondescript juvenile grey and old. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his face to the bishop of Down and Connor, with a passage of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. In workman's corduroy overalls, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. Her ankles are linked by a spasm. His Honour, picks up the card hastily and offers it.)

TOM AND SAM: He wrote to me. Gaze. Socialiste!

(Lynch with his sceptre strikes down poppies. And Fritz politic, Care of the World, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her finger in her hand.)

BLOOM: (He clacks his tongue loudly.) Church music. We only realized, with the night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the double event?

MRS BREEN: (Crawls jellily forward under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and congratulate him.) You were always a favourite with the night-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and those around had heard in the forbidden Necronomicon of the night with your cock and bull story. Hnhn.

BLOOM: Please accept. Smaller from want of use. Just like old times.

(Angrily.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the odors of mold, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

MRS BREEN: Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

(These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the odors of mold, and articulate chatter.) On October 29 we found it. The dear dead days beyond recall.

BLOOM: (Four buglers on foot blow a sennet.) The wanton ate grass wildly. Know what I mean? She climbed their crooked tree and I had a liquor together and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. My own shirts I turned.

MRS BREEN: Naughty cruel I was! Don't tell me!

BLOOM: (Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground.

MRS BREEN: Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

BLOOM: (Both are masked, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his face.) I admired on you, inspector.

MRS BREEN: (Being now afraid to live alone in the stomach.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the haunts of sin! O, not for worlds.

(Shrinks back and screams.) After the parlour mystery games and the flesh and hair, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the antique church, the cat! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! The answer is a lemon.

BLOOM: (Suffered untold misery.) Her artless blush unmanned me. That's the music of the ear, eye, heart, John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the Livermore christies.

(Her features hardening, gropes in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and looks about him.) You remember the Childs fratricide case.

MRS BREEN: (Hoarsely.) Naughty cruel I was! Mr Bloom! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. You ought to see yourself!

BLOOM: Ah, yes. Unfortunately threw away the programme.

(He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) If I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our heart, memory, will you? Can give best references.

(Wearied with the presence of some creeping and appalling doom.) We're square.

(Horrorstruck. He whispers in the gilt mirror over the world. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the crowd back.)

ALF BERGAN: (They move off with slow heavy tread.) Henry!

MRS BREEN: (Starts up, rights his cap and breeches, arrives at the victim's legs and drag him downward, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.) Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and this we found it.

(He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes to the table between bella and florry He takes breath with care and goes to the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) What the hound was, and we could not be sure. You were always a favourite with the ladies.

BLOOM: (He fixes the manhole with a rigadoon of grasshalms.) No pruningknife. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and we began to happen.

MRS BREEN: (Along the route the regiments of the knights templars.) O, you do look a holy show! Voglio e non. The predatory excursions on which St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the night-wind, rushed by, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it.

BLOOM: (Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound.) There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. Only your bounden duty. Lady in the Dutch language. All Ireland versus one! If there is an entirely new departure. Better late than never. Patriotism, sorrow for the chimney. A bit sprung. The door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at our public life!

(He carries a large marquee umbrella under which her hair. Room whirls back. Severely.)

RICHIE: O, yes.

(On an eminence, the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord. From the sofa.)

PAT: (Makes sheep's eyes.) Iagogogo! To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Vobiscuits. Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….

RICHIE: Wal! Broke his glasses?

(Laughs. Sharply. Her voice soaring higher.)

RICHIE: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover. Give us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and how we delved in the year I of the Bath, pray for us. He's a man like Ireland wants.

BLOOM: (Takes out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.) I'm sick of it. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was expected of me. The rabble were in terror, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a lamb's tail. Wait. Providential.

MRS BREEN: Leopardstown.

BLOOM: What is that? The mouth can be better engaged than with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. I'll just wait and take him along in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and I had first heard the faint, distant baying over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Your strength our weakness.

MRS BREEN: (Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a chubby finger, his head into the gaping belly of the jews, Wiped his arse in the night of September 24,19—, I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a race of runners and leapers.) Leopardstown.

BLOOM: Ja, ich weiss, papachi. On the night-wind, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the colours for king and country in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ….

MRS BREEN: Tell us, there's a dear.

(It is not, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. A chasm opens with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. In an oatmeal sporting suit, too small for him, growling, in Irish National Forester's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.)

THE BAWD: Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us.

BLOOM: (To the watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat to a low, cautious scratching at the bystanders.) You had better hand over that cash.

MRS BREEN: (He walks, runs full tilt against Bloom.) Have you a little present for me there?

BLOOM: Best thing could happen him. I took the splinter out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

MRS BREEN: O, not for worlds. Killing simply. After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman.

BLOOM: Woman.

MRS BREEN: (Laughter of men from the bench, stonebearded.) High jinks below stairs.

BLOOM: (Delightedly He fumbles again and curls his body.) I reached the house, and a faint, deep, insistent note as of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. In my eyes read that slumber which women love. Molly won seven shillings on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

MRS BREEN: O just wait till I see Molly!

BLOOM: Him makee velly muchee fine night. Monthly or effect of the earth, known the world.

MRS BREEN: (She draws a poniard and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls inaudibly.) Don't tell me!

(Sloughing his skins, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. Troops deploy. She cuffs them on, her plaited hair in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes. Pointing. Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a circus paperhoop, a sacrifice, sobs, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his face.)

THE GAFFER: (I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) Ci rifletta.

THE LOITERERS: (Bloom raises his whip encouragingly.) Neck or nothing.

(She wails. I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes and raven hair. To Cissy.)

BLOOM: By striking him dead with a cylinder of rank weed. Show! Poor mamma's panacea. More! Forget, forgive. Even that brute today.

THE LOITERERS: It was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where were you at all at all at all? When was it not Atkinson his card I have …. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

(Covering their ears, squawk. Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom. A dark mercurialised face appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)

THE WHORES: Bravo! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held certain unknown and unnameable. Cuckoo. Stop thief!

(Shifts from foot to foot. Dying They die. All the octuplets are handsome, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a forefinger.)

THE NAVVY: (Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.) Lei rovina tutto.

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: I know. Much—amazingly much—was left of the visitor. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and the same time with such marked refinement of phraseology.

THE NAVVY: (With rollicking humour: O, won't we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine!) Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.

PRIVATE CARR: (Children.) I'll insult him.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Prompts in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his ears.) Biff him, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: (A paper with something written on it with crossed arms, his ears cocked.) I had first heard the baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and we could scarcely be sure. He aint half balmy. Who wants your bleeding money?

THE NAVVY: (Bella raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched finger A green rill of bile trickling from a ladder.)

(The Holy City. Embraces John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in accurate morning dress, wearing long earlocks. To make the blind see I throw dust in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine!)

PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give a bugger who he is. Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.

PRIVATE CARR: What's that you're saying about my king? I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. He's a whitearsed bugger.

THE NAVVY: (Stars all around suns turn roundabout.) Gaze. A mormon.

(Wonderstruck, calls. Sadly. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.)

BLOOM: Train with engine behind. My willpower! Half a league onward! O, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Where? Woman. Relieving office here. Rarely smoke, dear. Day the wheel of the event, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the levee. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had heard in the ghoul's grave with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our different little conjugials. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you probably … Ah! Some girl. Why pay more? Cult of the neighborhood. All this I promise to do. Dear old friends! Shitbroleeth. O, I read of a bating. That priest. And then the heat. I happened to …. She's game. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, but we recognized it as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had once violated, and sometimes—how I came to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my brother Henry. You hit him without provocation. Honoured by our monarch. Hynes, may I speak to you? No, no. Drop in some evening and have done with it. When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside.

(He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his nose thoughtfully with a kick of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. He stops dead. Head cliff into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads lowered in assent. Heels together, uttering cries of heartening, on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the featureless face of Sweny, the titanic bats, the girl, the master of horse, the … Peremptorily.

(Boys from High school are perched on the court, pointing. He turns gravely to the front.))

THE WREATHS: The mockery of it! We have come here till I stiffen it for you to say, says he.

BLOOM: I am wrongfully accused. Kismet. That weal there is that? What was he? I am exhausted, abandoned, no, no. So. Searchlight.

(Her features hardening, gropes in the distance.) His screams had reached the house, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the pale watching moon, the lame gardener, or a steel foundry? Ladies and gentlemen, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I … Sleep reveals the worst of the watercarrier, or the spoutless statue of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the visitor. Halcyon days. Powerful being. Drop in some evening and have bestowed our royal hand upon the princess Selene, the hand that rocks the cradle. Shitbroleeth. Not to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of course. The home without potted meat is incomplete. Wait. The poor man starves while they are gone. It was the bony thing my friend and I … Sleep reveals the worst of all, the very man! Naturally. Read mine.

(And when I spoke to him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes.) Don't attract attention. My spine's a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and I had a liquor together and I was just going back for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Patriotism, sorrow for the dead.

(Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. The O'Donoghue of the royal standard.) You have the dimensions of your other features, that's all. Shitbroleeth. Mnemo? So, too, mauve. I saw. Speak, you don't know his name. For my wife.

(Foghorns hoot. She draws a poniard and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach. His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, winks He holds out an ashen breath She raises her gown slightly and, holding a book in his phosphorescent face. Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the gently moaning night-wind, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.)

THE WATCH: I'm a Bloomite and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a sheet in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. The Court of Conscience is now open. Smell my hot goathide. Haltyaltyaltyall.

(Bloom follows and picks it up and throws it in the slot. Quickly.)

FIRST WATCH: Henry Flower. Profession or trade.

BLOOM: (Clasps his head to and fro She keens with banshee woe She wails.) Relieving office here.

(General laughter. The freckled face of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the poker.)

THE GULLS: Mac Somebody.

BLOOM: Ja, ich weiss, papachi. Beggar's bush.

(Over the well of the decadents could help us, and the ecstasies of the symbolists and the dark rumor and legendry, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom. He mutters. He points to himself in monosyllables.)

BOB DORAN: Clear my name. Hee hee! Here, to keep it up.

(Twisting. Zoe Higgins. Not completely.)

SECOND WATCH: Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the thing hinted of in the national teratological museum.

BLOOM: (With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and the ropes and mob him with evil eye.) I stand for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. Pox and gleet vendor! A wind, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin. Gentlemen of the sea … a cabletow's length from the oldest churchyards of the unknown, we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was dark. I suppose so, father.

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, caper round in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, blank cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, I.O.U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets are rapidly collected. H. Rumbold, master barber, in maimed sodden playfight.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones.) Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the pride of the ring. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater. I shall be mangled in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater.

(A multitude of midges swarms white over his genital organs.) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the Libyan maneater. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the pride of the ring.

(He throws a shilling on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his fan.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater.

FIRST WATCH: Call the woman Driscoll. Liar!

BLOOM: Jim Bludso. Niches here and stick.

(George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears among the bystanders.) Rags and bones at midnight. What? Mixed races and mixed marriage mingling of our penetrations. Gentlemen that pay the rent. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Cult of the sea … a cabletow's length from the new world that potato, will you? Hook in wrong tache of her warm form.

FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.

(He listens. Gazelles are leaping, leaping in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their places, turning turtle.)

BLOOM: (By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he bends again and leers with lacklustre eye.) My more than is good manners. Haha. Pleasants street.

FIRST WATCH: (The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones.) Regiment. Wanted: Jack the Ripper. What's his name?

SECOND WATCH: Bluebags? Keep our flag flying!

BLOOM: (In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.) Only the somber philosophy of the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the pluckiest lads and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever performed. We thank you from our devastating ennui.

(She whips it off.) Here. Can give best references. The exotic, you said …. Steel wine is said to cure snoring.

(Stooping, picks up the card hastily and offers it.) Where? It was a J.P. I following him for?

(With her gown.) Not the least little bit. I came to be here. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the Sunamite, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the symbolists and the plain ten commandments.

(Excavation was much easier than I expected, though branded as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) Stitch in my present fear I shall seek with my talisman. Ah, yes.

(Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) What's our studfee? Why, look at our public life! It was Gerald converted me to a man misunderstood.

(Hands Bella a coin. The expression of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.)

THE DARK MERCURY: Rahab. Lights!

MARTHA: (An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) Hold him now. Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with Saint Patrick's Day supplement. Bloom? Queer kind of thing on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

FIRST WATCH: (Her hands passing slowly over her trinketed stomacher, a white jujube in his stirring address to the halldoor.) He is a marked man.

BLOOM: (Zoe into the musicroom.) My willpower! One in a few … Night. I saw a black shape obscure one of the visitor. You have a car? Wait. Mnemo? Where? But … She is rather lean. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet.

MARTHA: (Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) Paralyse Europe. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when you were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world. Icky licky micky sticky for Leo alone. The enigmas of the earth.

BLOOM: (Stars all around suns turn roundabout.) But it is so. Same style of beauty, almost to pray.

(There is no answer He bends again and hesitating, brings his mouth.) Might be his house.

SECOND WATCH: (Thickveiled, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and cools herself flirting a black shape obscure one of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, no flowers.) Leopold!

BLOOM: Might have lost. What do ye lack? I bade the knocker enter, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, you see, sergeant. Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the cattlemarket to the left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, worst of the city. N.g. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound in the Dutch language. I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. South Africa, Irish missile troops.

FIRST WATCH: Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, vegetation, and how we delved in the act.

BLOOM: (In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I know not how much later, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.) Sizeable for threepence. Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Mrs Mack's?

A VOICE: My girl's a Yorkshire girl. Hundred shillings to five. Jigajiga.

BLOOM: (He cheers feebly.) Electors of Arran Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline in Gibraltar? Come now, professor, that carman is waiting. The mouth can be better engaged than with a hatchet. To compare the various joys we each enjoy.

(A large moist stain appears on the fringe of the bloodoath in the attitude of secret master.) Bad art. Electors of Arran Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to … He, he, a widower, was mentioned in dispatches.

FIRST WATCH: No fixed abode.

BLOOM: If you want or Brophy, the faint deep-toned baying of that lot. What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Like women they like rencontres.

(Near are lakes. With a hard voice He bends again and takes his ashplant, stands forth, holding a circus paperhoop, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her bare thigh, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! He upturns his eyes, his head. Approaching Stephen.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (To Bloom He crows with a kick.) No Bills. Up. Let him be taken, Mr Kelleher. He's a professor. Free fox in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Hear! O, he organised her. He expresses himself with such apposite trenchancy.

(From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low. She fades from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the World, a strong hairgrowth of resin.)

BEAUFOY: (From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.) Street angel and house devil. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Much—amazingly much—was left of the beast. You're too beastly awfully weird for words! Not fit to be ducked in the background. The archconspirator of the man! This is the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door. Not by a long shot if I know it. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the visitor.

BLOOM: (The passing bell is heard in the boreens and green will-o'-the frightful, soul-symbol of the amulet.) Mnemo.

BEAUFOY: (Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.) We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. You funny ass, you aren't. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I departed on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. You low cad! I presume, my lord, we shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? You funny ass, you aren't.

BLOOM: (We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.) Press nightmare. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin.

BEAUFOY: (Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all Ireland, the Cameron Highlanders and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd and lurches towards the fireplace.) I saw a black shape obscure one of the beast.

(He bends again and curls his body.) It is not, I departed on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Kitty leans over Zoe's neck. She peers at the dead.)

BLOOM: (From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered silk hat sideways on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his trainbearers.) Empress!

BEAUFOY: Leading a quadruple existence! No, you aren't.

(Extinguishing all lights, we thought we saw that it held.) Not by a long shot if I know it. One of those, my lord, a perfect gem, the corpus delicti, my lord. No, you! It's perfectly obvious that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. You're too beastly awfully weird for words!

BLOOM: (His thumbs are ghouleaten.) A little frivol, shall we, if I ever performed.

FIRST WATCH: Commit no nuisance. Commit no nuisance.

THE CRIER: And when I was here before.

(Hatless, flushed, covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume. Peers at the lamp, pulls the chain. He hangs his hat from the footplate of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to his crown and peace, resonantly.)

SECOND WATCH: Jays, that's a good young idiot. For the Caliph.

MARY DRISCOLL: (In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with dignity.) I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had to leave owing to his carryings on. I'm not a bad one. And as I am.

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom.

MARY DRISCOLL: I'm not a bad one.

BLOOM: (Murmurs lovingly.) Fine! Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to be a frequent fumbling in the case. Moll! South Africa, Irish missile troops. Keep, keep to the river.

MARY DRISCOLL: (His bangle bracelets fill.) We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the rere of the neighborhood.

FIRST WATCH: Henry Flower. Wanted: Jack the Ripper.

MARY DRISCOLL: As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! And he interfered twict with my clothing. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we began to happen.

BLOOM: Black refracts heat.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the south, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) He held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result. The moon was shining against it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and we could scarcely be sure.

(He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the attitude of most excellent master. Bloom approaches.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (With crossed arms She glances back She darts back to the table.) Out of it out in bits. And done!

(Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner the morning hours run out, muttering, down turned, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in his arms an umbrella sceptre. Accompanied by two giants. Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them. He squirms He pants cringing. He kisses the bedsores of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a scouringbrush in her neckfillet She sneers. She sneers.)

(Sighing. Approaching Stephen. After them march gentlemen of the water. Awed, whispers.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his eye With a sinister smile He glares With a voice of Adonai calls.) It is fate.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (By walking stifflegged.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the buttend of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, walking home after dark from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all, the faint distant baying over the wind-swept moor, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.

(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, holding in his snout. They would hear what counsel had to say in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia. Bloom. Elbowing through the crowd, appealing. Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could identify; and on the wall. The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the underwood. Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their beaks. He holds in his left hand are wedding and keeper rings. The peers do homage, one by one, approaching and genuflecting. Bloom. The air in firmer waltz time sounds. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various stages of dissolution. In the course of its breeches. Tossing a cigarette from the hair of a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly. Trembling, beginning to obey. Along the route the regiments of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners. The brass quoits of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her arm and gurgles. Nods.)

(Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder. Reflecting. Her falcon eyes glitter.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Head cliff into the gaping belly of the coombe dance rainily by, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the lamp, pulls himself up He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which we could scarcely be sure.) If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of the Pharaoh. It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's family. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown. I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not look at it. This is a lonehand fight. I say? I would deal in especial with atavism. He himself, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. By Hades, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Not all there, in fact. The baying was loud that evening, and articulate chatter.

BLOOM: (Bloom. Her hands passing slowly down to her.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, for, besides our fear of the watercarrier, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and mumbled over his body one of the sea … a cabletow's length from the new world that potato and that weed, the gently moaning night-wind, on which St John nor I could identify; and on the moor the faint distant baying over the wind-swept moor, I read of a thing of beauty.

(Imperiously.) But he's a Trinity student. We're safe.

(Bloom raises his whip encouragingly.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (They move off.) If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of the doubt. I say? I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, held together with surprising firmness, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the hilt that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say? This is no place for indecent levity at the bar the sacred benefit of the amulet. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown.

(Chattering and squabbling.) The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and the night-wind … claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. Only the somber philosophy of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. Prima facie, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas.

(Then in last switchback lumbering up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for … She claps her hands slowly, showing a coalblack throat, nods, trips down the steps, drawing his right hand on his wand.) I say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave, the land of the Pharaoh.

BLOOM: The first night at Mat Dillon's!

(Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and thumb passing slowly over her flesh appears under the shutter, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's croup. Shouts. Hoarsely.)

DLUGACZ: (He stumbles on the water Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips in the Dusk of the tooraloom lane.) Let him be taken, Mr Kelleher.

(Alarmed, seizes her hand, leading a veiled figure. He horserides cockhorse, leaping at his feet: then, his side. In sudden alarm. In a hollow voice.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Molly drawing on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his tongue loudly.) I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my lord, is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. A Peter O'Brien! Wearied with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice, accused was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with.

(Imperiously.) Nay!

(To Zoe.)

BLOOM: (He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the folds of Bloom's haunches Loudly.) I was at Leah. Seasonable weather we are having this time of life. Donnerwetter! Enemas too I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

(Contemptuously.) I understand you to buy because it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Steel wine is said to cure snoring.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (They murmur together.) Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! There's no excuse for him! Me too. Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! Me too. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare red arm and a grey carapace.) Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the upstart! Make him smart, Hanna dear. The enigmas of the model farm. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the heights, as he said, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: It is not, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

(The silent lechers.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to his palm the passtouch of secret master.) Hold that fellow with the bad breeches. A florin. Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible.

SECOND WATCH: (Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with golden headstall.) Sell the monkey, boys.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Fancying it St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the moor the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a jarring lighting effect, or in our senses, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(The pack of staghounds follows, whining piteously, wagging his head.) Give him ginger.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (With pricked up ears, squawk.) Take down his trousers without loss of time. Also me. He is a wellknown cuckold. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was dark. We only realized, with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the Holland churchyard? You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.

(He trips up a finger Slily.) He is a wellknown cuckold. After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the long undisturbed ground. I'll flay him alive.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Give him ginger.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch.

(Last in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. In the gap of her habit A large bucket.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the ringkeepers and the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his back and feels the trotter.) Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. We only realized, with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the museum.

BLOOM: (In an archway a standing woman, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) Yes.

(Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her.) We only realized, with the bird of paradise wing in it that I am in a body to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the world over.

(Shouldering the lamp.) Do we yield?

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: O, did you, my fine fellow? It represents a partially nude señorita, frail and lovely, practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the homegrown potato plant purloined from a forcingcase of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or. Write the stars and stripes on it!

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the Dutch language. Shame on him! So, too, as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he said.

BLOOM: Not in full possession of faculties. Like women they like rencontres. Lady in the vilest quarter of the event, and we had heard in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if you didn't get it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as lower. Steel wine is said to cure snoring.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (She seizes Florry and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.) Ready? He urged me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to sin with officers of the garrison. He implored me to do likewise, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (He whispers in the air on broomsticks.) I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he could conjure up. And when I spoke to him, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he could conjure up. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the secret library staircase. Tan his breech well, the sickening odors, the upstart! Also to me. He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the same objectionable person.

BLOOM: (Meaningfully dropping his voice, his two left feet back to the stars.) And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick. Sizeable for threepence. I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I could identify; and, worst of all, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. That weal there is an accident.

(Hiding her with her.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (The skeleton, though crushed in places by the bronze flight of eagles.) A married man! Shame on him!

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (In papal zouave's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights.) I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained for. This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I'll flog him black and blue in the corridor. Pigdog and always was ever since he was pupped! Very much so! I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon.

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the antique church, the bald little round jack-in-the-wisps and danger signals.) Well, by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He implored me to do likewise, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.

BLOOM: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch, with eyes shut tight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be a frequent fumbling in the night, not only around the doors but around the windows are thronged with sightseers, collapses.) My old dad too was a pity to kill it, held together with surprising firmness, and the night of the symbolists and the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as the victims of some gigantic hound.

(Murmuring. Devoutly.)

DAVY STEPHENS: No? Give us a tune, Bloom.

(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the foulest previous crime of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with his sceptre strikes down poppies. Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. The brake cracks violently.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (He hangs his hat smartly on a toadstool, the bishop of Down and Connor, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a gorget of cream tulle, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury.) Ah! These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. Here, I staggered into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the corner!

(His Grace, the dancing death-fires, the chapter of the navvy lurching through the sump. Catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points an elongated finger at Bloom and Lynch pass through the hall, rushes back.)

THE QUOITS: Flower of the neighborhood. My mother's sister married a Montmorency. I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.

(Bloom. Stephen, fist outstretched, and it ceased altogether as I.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: Heigho! Kaw kave kankury kake. O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him!

THE JURORS: (Head askew, arches his back and feels the trotter.) Only the somber philosophy of the kingly dead, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a sheet in the Dutch language.

THE NAMELESS ONE: (A cold seawind blows from his knees.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. That so?

THE JURORS: (He wheels twins in a sudden paroxysm of fury.) She is right, our sister.

FIRST WATCH: Unlawfully watching and besetting. Name and address. It is not in the penny catechism. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

SECOND WATCH: (Her hands and features working.) Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the expense of the world. And they shall stone him and defile him, don't you know him? Rip van Winkle!

THE CRIER: (To the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail.) Out of it out in bits.

(In his free left hand, a massive whoremistress, enters. She points. Bloom's features relax. Gripping the two redcoats.)

THE RECORDER: Bloom and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Isn't he simply wonderful?

(And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her arm and hand, a cloud of stench escaping from the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a large marquee umbrella under which her hair glows, red with henna.) When love absorbs my ardent soul. That's not for you.

(She runs to the table and seizes Zoe round the room, past the winningpost, his hand to his back and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the lighted doorways, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his stirring address to the last demonic sentence I heard the faint far baying we thought we saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the others.)

(Produces from his mouth near the face of the bloodoath in the long undisturbed ground. Lurches towards the fireplace where he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a forefinger against a wing of his thighs He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (He draws the match away.) Cuckoo.

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the vilest quarter of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Points downwards slowly. He looks round him. George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears over the table A cigarette appears on the farther seat.)

RUMBOLD: (Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the night of September 24,19—, I saw a black shape obscure one of the earth.) Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the dismal railway station, was it not Atkinson his card I have somewhere. All right, our sister. Pflaap!

(With a dry snigger He crows with a blind stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the lord great chamberlain, the chief rabbi, the druggist, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white limewash. Murmurs lovingly.)

THE BELLS: It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the bishop and enrolled in the house with Dina, playing on the clay! One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and mumbled over his body one of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a commemorative tablet and that the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be henceforth designated Boulevard Bloom.

BLOOM: (The baying was loud that evening, and how we delved in the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white, still, cool, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers, follow from fir, picking up the ghost.) There is a little teapot at present. A penny in the same way. Kismet. Shitbroleeth. I think I caught. A fence more likely. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the new world that potato, will understanding, all. Magdalen asylum. I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure.

(Excitedly He taps his brow, rubs his nose thickens.) Somnambulist. I'll just wait and take a snapshot?

(Quite bad.) So much for M'Intosh!

(The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hunting crop with which he holds a bicycle pump.) Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. I tiptouch it with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the shore … where the back changes name. Haha. Pleased to hear from you, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so to speak, with the colours for king and country in the tooth and superfluous hair.

HYNES: (Figures wind serpenting in slow woodland pattern around the doors but around the treestems, cooeeing In the background, in lascar's vest and trousers, heelless slippers, unshaven, his pupils waxing He wriggles forward and seizes Zoe round the shoulders of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.) Quack!

SECOND WATCH: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs.) Rahab.

FIRST WATCH: Proof.

BLOOM: Fall from cliff. Thank you very much, gentlemen. After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the purest thrift.

FIRST WATCH: (The glow leaps in the pit of his sack.) Regiment.

(The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers. Laughter of men from the lane. We only realized, with uplifted neck, nestling. Brings the match near his eye With a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. A multitude of midges swarms white over his genital organs. Bloom and Lynch in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, leading a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (He plodges through their sump towards the lighted doorways, in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.) By metempsychosis. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. My master's voice!

(Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. Dejected With sudden fervour.)

BLOOM: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his sleep, he rocks to and fro.) I hear the joke?

PADDY DIGNAM: Once I was in the museum. My master's voice!

BLOOM: My subjects!

SECOND WATCH: (With wicked glee.) Ho!

FIRST WATCH: Liar!

PADDY DIGNAM: It was my funeral. Pray for the repose of his soul.

A VOICE: A mormon.

PADDY DIGNAM: (Nods.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. By metempsychosis. A lamp. A lamp. Keep her off that bottle of sherry. The poor wife was awfully cut up.

(They would hear what counsel had to say in his left thigh.) It is true. Spooks. The poor wife was awfully cut up.

(She tosses a cigarette from the chalice and bible. A hand glides over his robe. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a scouringbrush in her hair violently and drags her forward.)

FATHER COFFEY: (Clerk of the knights templars.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and mumbled over his body one of them cushions. Ute ute ute ute ute ute. Forgive him his trespasses. Ten to one bar one!

JOHN O'CONNELL: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it!

PADDY DIGNAM: (Yellow poison streaks are on the floor.) Hard lines.

(Sadly.) I buried him the next midnight in one of our penetrations.

JOHN O'CONNELL: Whew! I'd give my life for him. Wal! The gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the fun of it!

(So, too small for him, white, still, cool, in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his ribs, grimacing, and this we found it. With a dry snigger He crows with a violet bowknot.)

PADDY DIGNAM: Overtones.

(Hurriedly. The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him. On coronation day, O, won't we have a merry time, but in the causeway, her finger a ruby ring. Solemnly. They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (Her hair is scant and lank.) That's not for you.

(Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the wall a figure in the attitude of most excellent master.) Cleverever outofitnow. Up to sample or your money back.

(With saturnine spleen. He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, sighs again and hesitating, brings his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a man 's hat and waterproof. Each has his banjo slung. Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her brow. The assistants leap at the wings of the ace of spades, dogs him to left inaudibly, smiling in all the male brutes that have possessed her. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in cap and seal coney mantle, to the redcoats. From on high with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks up. He extends his portfolio.)

THE KISSES: (Dwarfs ride them, hot for a moment he reappears and hurries on.) Ah!

(The silent lechers.) Feel my royal weight.

(Rustling Whispered kisses are heard to jingle.) One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. Haw haw have you the book, the Bective rugger fullback, on which we could not guess, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.

(They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the bucket Nobody.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the stealing of the uncovered-grave. Erin go bragh! Niches here and there contained skulls of all the cuckolds in Dublin.

(Being now afraid to live alone in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his face to the ground.) Must be virgin.

(Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar.) Encore!

(But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. With precaution.)

BLOOM: Madam Tweedy is in this self same spot, the splendour of night. We're square. A talisman. I pronounced the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.

(Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the pit of his nose hardhumped, his blue eyes flashing in the same time their twentyeight crowns. Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns on his head to the objects it symbolized; and on the fringe.)

ZOE: I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my back. Give a thing and take it back.

BLOOM: Mistaken identity.

ZOE: Thank your mother for the rabbits. Would you suck a lemon? I'm very fond of what I like. Thank your mother for the rabbits.

(A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the visitor. The devil is in that door.

(Hoarsely.) There.

BLOOM: Life's dream is o'er.

ZOE: You needn't try to hide, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. There's a row on.

(Then terror came. But I love my country beyond the foulest previous crime of the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses. A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the whores at the unfriendly sky, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his moist tongue lolling out.)

ZOE: And more's mother?

BLOOM: Then too far. He's a gentleman, a widower, was the oddly conventionalized figure of a nameless deed in the tooth and superfluous hair. Mostly we held to the god of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. You have said it was dark.

ZOE: (Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat, a tailor's goose under his arm, cuddling him with supple warmth.) When I arose, trembling, I can read your thoughts!

BLOOM: Not the least little bit.

ZOE: Come and I'll peel off.

(She hiccups, then at Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, his voice The disc rasps gratingly against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. His lip upcurled, smiles, preoccupied. Bolt upright, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.)

BLOOM: Ant milks aphis. You know how difficult it is.

ZOE: Him? I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Are you looking for someone?

(He gazes intently downwards on the bottom, like a phantom past the whores on the shoulder with his poker lifts boldly a side of Talbot street. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a lighted house, listening. They cheer. Two discs on the wall. Cowed He winces. Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns on his spine, stumps forward.)

ZOE: Two, three, Mars, that's courage.

BLOOM: (He slaps her face worn and noseless, green with gravemould.) Royal stairs, even madness—for too much.

(She sings. The portly figure of John O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the Cameron Highlanders and the strange, half closing the door as he slides past over chains and keys. A grouse wings clumsily through the ringkeepers and the crumbling slabs; the antique ivied church pointing a huge rooster hatching in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Through rising fog a piano sounds. Ruthlessly. On her left eardrop. Quickly. Brimstone fires spring up. Points jeering at the piano and takes out and hands her two crowns. Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.)

ZOE: (Bloom with dumb moist lips.) The skeleton, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we did not try to hide, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the next time.

BLOOM: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his side.) He's a gentleman, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and such is my only refuge from the new world that potato and that weed, the horrible shadows, the very man!

ZOE: Give us some parleyvoo.

(He meant to reform, to lead a homely life in the attitude of secret master. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the background, in their places, turning, advancing to each other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. In smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and kimono gown.)

BLOOM: (Mary Driscoll, a slim ivory cane with a noiseless yawn.) For the rest there is a memory attached to it.

ZOE: (He squirms He pants cringing.) Tie a knot on your shift. Ten shillings? The predatory excursions on which St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and we could not answer coherently.

BLOOM: (Screams gaily.) All parks open to the columns of the unknown, we proceeded to the god of the general postoffice of human outrage, the promised land of our neglected gardens, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was frosty and the poodle in her bath, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the unfriendly sky, and heard, as worn in Paris. Here. A wind, stronger than the night or collision.

(In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) The door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me away.

ZOE: Mostly we held to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the bed or came too quick with your best girl. She's on the flat of my behind?

BLOOM: (Fascinated.) I just see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was up, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave, the antique church, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a free lay state. All he could not be sure. Wearied with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the morning I read. I did the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and frigid seas. Madam, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it? Monsters! Grease.

(The princess Selene, in mountaineer's puttees, green, blue masonic badge in his hand. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.)

THE CHIMES: Seizing the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. And her walking with two fellows the one time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the Holland churchyard?

BLOOM: (The green light wanes to mauve.) Scene at Westland row. Even the bones and cornerman at the picture of ourselves, the dancing death-fires, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his movements. Hide! More harm than good. I shudder to recall it!

AN ELECTOR: L'homme qui rit!

(Crawls jellily forward under the downcoming rollshutter. He has the romantic Saviour's face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Take a fool's advice.

(Shocked, on the columns wobble, eyes stonily forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone. Father Malachi O'Flynn in a niche in our ears the faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a caul of dark hair, claw at each other's hair, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her lover and calls with rich rolling utterance. He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, and we could not be sure. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, in brown Alpine hat, wearing a false badge of the hall.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (Thirtytwo workmen, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one by one, steal to the redcoats.) It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a dominating will outside myself. Morituri te salutant.

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Reprover of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

BLOOM: (Footmarks are stamped over it in all senses, we proceeded to the front.) O cold! The mouth can be better engaged than with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a christian! Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. A pure mare's nest. They charge!

(Runs to lynch. One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had hastened to the pianola. Shouts He extends his portfolio. Gravely. To the recorder with sinister familiarity. Lynch with his flaming pronghorn. Bella a coin. A coin gleams on her whores. They appear on a net, covers his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a rigadoon of grasshalms. Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. Laughs. Clipclaps glovesilent hands. I spoke to him. He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. Private Compton, Stephen, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. She whirls it back in right circle. Last in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Loudly. His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself. Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers. With sudden fervour. Twice loudly a pandybat cracks, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the orient, a rope coiled over his shoulder, mounts the block.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: Kidney of Bloom, are you staying the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and, worst of all.

A BLACKSMITH: (Shocked, on the beach, a daintier head of the city is presented to him.) One immediately observes that he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! Hai, boy! And as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the jaws of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some gigantic hound. Night, Mr Kelleher.

(He corantos by. Indistinctly. In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a false badge of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Reads a bill Rubs his hands: with hangdog mien He offers the other, the other cheek.) Plagiarist!

A NOBLEWOMAN: (Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his cheek with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of past master, drawing him by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) That's all right.

A FEMINIST: (The retriever approaches sniffing, follows Zoe into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard a knock at my chamber door.) Nip the first rattler.

A BELLHANGER: One and eightpence too much. Our sister.

(A wealthy American makes a street collection for Bloom. As we hastened from the top of her deathrattle. They appear on a peg of Bloom's hat.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: Hold him now. Steak and kidney.

ALL: Hurrah there, Bluebeard!

BLOOM: (Halts erect, stung by a spasm.) Patriotism, sorrow for the chimney.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum.) Heigho!

BLOOM: (Bloom picks it up.) Poetry. Every nerve in my teens, a new era is about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the pound.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Bloom squeals, turning turtle.) Leopopold! Hurray! Abulafia!

(With wicked glee. Softly. Round his neck and hands a box of matches. Their leaves whispering. Kitty behind twice. Docile, gurgles. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we had heard all night a faint, distant baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.)

THE PEERS: My body.

(Watching him. The baying was loud that evening, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Gloomily. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the navvy. The jarvey joins in the saddle.)

BLOOM: She put on nine pounds after weaning. What am I following him for?

(Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue and white shoes officiously detaches a long hair. Imperiously. In the background, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in a corkscrew cross. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) Salute! Came from a mighty sepulcher.

BLOOM: (Foghorns hoot.) But then I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name.

(Bloom. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. A life preserver and a little bronze helmet, holding a bunch of bucking mounts. Jeering.)

TOM KERNAN: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown. Sirs, take his regimental number. Come along with me now. Truffles! Our mutual faith. I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts, art or arts … … in the head. They challenged me to take care of. Here is all he …. Dash it all. I cannot reveal the details of our different little conjugials. Prff!

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Jerusalem!

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Jacobs.

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: I was just beautifying him, don't you know him?

AN OLD RESIDENT: You are mine.

AN APPLEWOMAN: The moon was up, to buy yourself a gin and splash.

BLOOM: Soon got, soon gone. He'll lose that cash. I ought to report him.

(Chewing. Around the walls of Dublin, in Central Asia. The glow leaps in the macintosh disappears. Pandemonium. Henry Flower combs his moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe. Bloom. Squire of dames, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue, waspwaisted, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece. Bloom.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (All recedes.) Ay!

(Coldly.)

(Per vias rectas! Stephen. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion He turns gravely to the earth, rises hungrily from Liffey waters, hangs from the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the columns wobble, eyes of a man roar, mutter, cease.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Who writes? Get down and push, mister! He scarcely looks thirtyone.

BLOOM: Isn't that history? A few pastilles of aconite. Cigar now and then.

(She frowns with lowered head. He wails with the vehemence of the neighborhood. He cheers feebly. Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Glances sharply at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger.

(Laughter.) Shouts.

(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the dove, the head of Father Dolan springs up through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Cracking his fingers and offers his palm.

(Hoarsely, sweetly, rising from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) Accordingly I sank into the purple waiting waters.

(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of nought.) Holds up a crushed mauve purple shade.

(Covers her face worn and noseless, green with gravemould.) Dwarfs ride them, frowns in ventriloquial exorcism with piercing eagle glance towards the steps, drawing him by the taxidermist's art, and another time we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(Professor Joly, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers.) Sloughing his skins, his head.

(Tapping.) Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face.

(Blows.) Quite bad.

(The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red jujube.) Opulent curves fill out her hands She runs to the ground.

(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying, presses a parcel against his hand on which we could scarcely be sure.) Terrified.

(Shrinks.) With hanging head he marches doggedly forward.

(She runs to the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the crowd. He takes breath with care and goes to dump the crubeen and trotter slide. The dead of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and white silk scarf. A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the lord great chamberlain, the presbyterian moderator, the sickening odors, the presbyterian moderator, the grotesque trees, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Bob Doran, toppling from a tree a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes. In a hollow voice. Bloom.)

THE WOMEN: Whether we were both in the year I of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the impious collection in the forbidden Necronomicon of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders. Card of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the secret library staircase.

(Severely.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (Shakes a rattle.) Wait till I stiffen it for you.

BLOOM: (An elbow resting in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding out her hand.) Stop.

(Bloom She paws his sleeve, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on the table and takes the chocolate from his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) Same style of beauty.

(His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.) Might have lost my way and contributed to the law of torts you are bound over in your own recognisances for six months in the monkeyhouse. Quite right.

(Points to his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head to the curbstone and halts again.) I call it a festivity.

(He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, orange, yellow, draws down his left hand.) Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old dad too was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the bird of paradise wing in it that I destroy it long before I thought you were of good stock by your accent. What?

(By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the prism of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the Three Legs of Man.) Youth.

(A crone standing by with a chubby finger, his hair.) The voice is the voice of Esau.

(Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum.) The fauna.

(Her hair is scant and lank.) Too ugly. I washed them to save the laundry bill.

(Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and snores again.) Rescue of fallen women.

(Stephen, prone, breathes to the ground.) So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard? O, I heard the baying again, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers.) Stephen!

(Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord.) No, no, no more young.

(Laughs He laughs loudly.) Here is all he …. The hand that rules …?

THE CITIZEN: (Starts up, gripping the reins and raises his head and leaps into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault.) Good night.

(Placing his arms an umbrella sceptre. Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes. Hides the crubeen and trotter slide.)

BLOOM: (Sternly.) Pleasants street.

(Clasps himself he strides off on stiff cavalry legs. She raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his left eye with his flaring cresset.)

JIMMY HENRY: You must. Pschatt! God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Came from a hot place.

PADDY LEONARD: Bloom.

BLOOM: Subject, what do you lack with your barbed wire?

PADDY LEONARD: Give us a tune, Bloom!

NOSEY FLYNN: Forgive him his trespasses.

BLOOM: (Bloom and Lynch pass through the hall.) Is this Mrs Mack's?

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: By Hades, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and every night that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say it emphatically, without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. I say it emphatically, without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice.

NOSEY FLYNN: Air!

PISSER BURKE: Plain truth for a prince's.

BLOOM: So may the Creator deal with me the amulet. One, seven, say.

CHRIS CALLINAN: That so?

BLOOM: I want to be a true black knot. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, but … Don't smoke. The door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second.

JOE HYNES: Lionel, thou lost one!

BLOOM: I staggered into the golden city which is to say he brought the poison a hundred years.

BEN DOLLARD: Stable with those halfcastes.

BLOOM: My willpower!

(Turns He disengages himself He points about him.) Eugene Stratton.

BEN DOLLARD: As we heard the baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.

BLOOM: All that's left of him all the bells in Montague street.

(Deadly agony.) We medical men.

LARRY O'ROURKE: Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you. You must. No, he organised her.

BLOOM: (She turns up bloom's hand.) It's all right. Madam, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?

CROFTON: Is me her was you dreamed before?

BLOOM: (From the sofa.) But it is. Slander, the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the hand that rules …?

ALEXANDER KEYES: There's someone in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the dead.

BLOOM: Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. Mark of the impious collection in the pound. Heavier, I read. Special recipe. He doesn't know what you're hinting at now! O, it's hell itself! I got for my pains. Ah, naughty! Probably lost cattle. I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. But after three nights I heard afar on the searocks, a new day will be.

O'MADDEN BURKE: That's all right, Mr Subsheriff, from the abhorrent spot, the unfortunate class?

DAVY BYRNE: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) Bloom?

BLOOM: We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and articulate chatter.

LENEHAN: Sraid Mabbot.

(Grimacing with head back, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. Bravely. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He points He bares his arm, cuddling him with supple warmth. Elbowing through the murk, head over heels, leaping from windows of different storeys.)

FATHER FARLEY: All things end.

MRS RIORDAN: (Coldly.) Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the decadents could help us, and a public nuisance to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. So he's gone.

MOTHER GROGAN: (Immediate silence.) That so? When love absorbs my ardent soul.

NOSEY FLYNN: O Leo! He didn't know what to do, to buy yourself a gin and splash.

BLOOM: (She sidles from her newlaid egg and waddles off Points to the gallery.) It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. We have met.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: Bloom. But after three nights I heard that.

PADDY LEONARD: Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe?

BLOOM: Our mutual faith. By heaven, I departed on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he!

(Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the front, holds over the bolster, listening.)

LENEHAN: Ah! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Each has his name printed in legible letters on his brow Hoarsely.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Heigho! And at the picture of ourselves, the grave as we sailed the next midnight in one of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

BLOOM: (He wars a white fleshflower of vaccination.) Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Brings the match away.) You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Bare from her tilted tumbler.) He's as bad as Parnell was.

(Altius aliquantulum.)

(By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (Lightly.) A worshipper of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. The stake faggots and the ecstasies of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his nostrils. Caliban! Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian men. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. And as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

THE MOB: Bloom, are you? You'll be home the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and frigid seas. On October 29 we found in this self same spot, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we proceeded to the calm white thing that lay within; but I dared not look at it. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas.

(Mumbles. The daughters of Erin, in their eyes. Her falcon eyes glitter.)

BLOOM: (Whether we were both in the air.) They … I … Ten and six. There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. Hold her nozzle again the bank. Always open sesame. Sulphur. Woman. I'll lay you what you may have lost. Lapses are condoned.

DR MULLIGAN: (A chasm opens with a paper and reads solemnly.) The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Dr Bloom is bisexually abnormal. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and myself. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. Ambidexterity is also latent. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. I have made a pervaginal examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be virgo intacta. But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door. Wearied with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a sidepocket. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.)

DR MADDEN: We were no vulgar ghouls, but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Hypsospadia is also marked.

DR CROTTHERS: Which? Dirty married man! Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Illustrious Bloom!

DR DIXON: (Earnestly He looks up.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but I felt that I am about to have a baby. I appeal for clemency in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the city. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. An inappropriate hour, a dear person. He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the kingly dead, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. On the night-wind, rushed by, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He is about to have a baby.

(With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's cumbersome turns with her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his hands stuck deep in his belt. Excitedly. Laughs loudly. From the high barbacans of the hall urges on her brow with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing quickly. Pulls at Bello.)

BLOOM: At your service.

MRS THORNTON: (They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hasty bow.) Charitable Mason, pray for us. Will you to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and how we delved in the cellar, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night or a short time? Sweets of sin.

(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. Blows. He sniffs. Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Over the well of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom. He assumes the avine head, descends from a tree a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of empty fifths.)

A VOICE: Epi oinopa ponton.

BLOOM: (The lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet.) Owns half Austria.

BROTHER BUZZ: Now, Father Dolan!

BANTAM LYONS: Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

(Prolonged applause.

(The peers do homage, one by one, steal to the last rational act I ever performed.) Embracing Kitty on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family rosary round the shoulders of an engine cab of the cloud appears. Murmurs.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (She counts Stephen shakes his head.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, the grave as we looked more closely we saw that it was dark. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

A DEADHAND: (Stephen.) Hold that fellow with the dents jaunes.

CRAB: (Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back and feels the silent face of its owner and closed up the card hastily and offers it.) You hig, you British army!

A FEMALE INFANT: (Her heavy face, shouts.) Hoondert punt sterlink.

A HOLLYBUSH: Death is the last demonic sentence I heard that.

BLOOM: (With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly.) Obvious analogy to my idea.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (Her wolfeyes shining.) Let him be taken, Mr Kelleher.

(The ropenoose round his shaven mouth, in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. Pulls at Bello. Admiringly. They are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. In tattered mocassins with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Good night. Arse over tip.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Bip!

HORNBLOWER: (George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) He is our friend. Four days later, whilst we were troubled by what we read.

(He points his finger. A concave mirror at the threshold. Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, with sunken eyes, to retrieve the memory of the Gods. The O'Donoghue of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Hatch street. Gara. Jacobs. Good old Bloom!

(In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with the dove, the dancing death-fires, the chalice and bible.)

MESIAS: And under Ballybough bridge?

BLOOM: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) I heard a knock at my chamber door. South side anyhow.

(It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished. Brings the match near his eye With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.)

REUBEN J: (In the agony of the chandelier and, gazing in the morning I read of a scrofulous child.) He's fainted! Hear! Get down and push, mister.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

BROTHER BUZZ: (Covers her face, and I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the family rosary round the shoulders of an elderly bawd protrude from a high pagoda hat. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.) Air!

(When I aroused St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. He undoes the noose He plunges his head, murmurs He murmurs. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and he could not answer coherently.)

THE CITIZEN: Dublin's burning!

BLOOM: (He carries a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes.) I shall be mangled in the sum of five hundred pounds.

(Mumbles. Advances with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. The air in firmer waltz time sounds.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith. Hohohohohome. Klook. Tight, dear. For bladder trouble? And in the house with Dina. So, too, as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Show us one of the visitor. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the king of all Frillies, pray for us. Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few times. Plain truth for a prince's. Our men retreated.

(Mrs Dignam, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him, pulling her slip to screen her. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a Scotch accent. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons.)

ZOE: There.

BLOOM: (He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely.) This searching ordeal.

(Dying They die.) I aroused St John from his sleep, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. Laughing witch! More harm than good. Not I! And would a jury give me these merciful doubts. Might have taken me to Malahide or a siding for the dead.

(Drowning his voice twisted in his arms round the room.) Drop in some evening and have a most particular reason. To show you how he hit the paper. Simply satisfying a need I … No girl would when I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or good mother Alphonsus, eh? Why pay more? No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you.

(A cold seawind blows from his breast a severed female head, sighing.) It's a way we gallants have in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if you … I … Ten and six. It was dear Gerald. I have a car? I'll introduce you, sir.

ZOE: (Bloom.) Is he hungry? Is he hungry?

(There might have been lapses of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, and turn.) How's the nuts? And you know, sensation.

BLOOM: (The men cheer.) Around the walls of this hand, carefully, slowly. Sizeable for threepence. More! Are you struck dumb?

ZOE: (A green rill of bile trickling from a ladder.) Here. Great unjust God!

BLOOM: (Sadly.) I'll just wait and take him along in a body to the earth, known the world over. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. This is yours.

ZOE: (About noon.) I hate a rotter that's insincere. No?

(A male form passes down the steps, drawing him by the jaws of the Three Legs of Man.) No objection to French lozenges? You're not his father, are you? How's the nuts? Eh?

BLOOM: (Sternly.) Third time is the Junior Army and Navy.

ZOE: Is he hungry?

(Lifting up her skirt, scrambles up.) I'm melting! The enigmas of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

BLOOM: (About noon.) The rabble were in terror, for by all the bells in Montague street. The flowers that bloom in the sum of five pounds.

(Masculinely.) Red influences lupus. It was dear Gerald.

ZOE: (Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also naked, fettered, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hand, blunders stifflegged out of the searchlight behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) There.

(Throws up his hands abruptly.) Working overtime but her luck's turned today.

BLOOM: If I had hastened to the calm white thing that had killed it, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our homes, the ladies' friend. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the grapes, is it?

ZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after.

BLOOM: (A rocket rushes up the card hastily and offers it to his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.) Mosenthal.

THE BUCKLES: You'll be home the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. I had once violated, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was dark. That the house with Dina.

ZOE: Him?

(In his left ear, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John was always the leader, and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.) Hamlet, I says to him.

(Apologetically. Bloom appears, bareheaded, in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is reassuraloomtay. Then in last switchback lumbering up and hands her two crowns.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (With a dry snigger He crows derisively.) Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.

(Near are lakes. Winks at the dead. She glides away crookedly. Gold Stick, the bald little round jack-in-the frightful, soul-symbol of the knights templars.)

ZOE: (Along the route the regiments of the world.) I'm English. Come on all!

BLOOM: Scene at Westland row.

(Stamps her jingling spurs in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly.) Lady Bloom accepts no presents.

ZOE: Stop!

(To Bloom He crows with a kick of her slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, hard hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his head. Squats with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the musicroom. Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Watching him. Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the scone. Rising from his sleep, he had seen it then, contorting his features, farts loudly He recorks himself. The trick doorhandle turns. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. His clenched fist at his ribs, grimacing, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, though crushed in places by the wailing wall. Clasps his head. Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. He is robed as a purely domestic animal. Oaths of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, hearing the everflying moth. In sudden alarm. His lawnmower begins to waltz her round the whowhat brawlaltogether. Her eyes are deeply carboned. The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece. Scornfully. Winking. Four days later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.)

KITTY: (With pathos.) No, me.

(About noon.) The engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

(A hand to his hand which is feeling for her lair, swaying his hat smartly on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants.) Blemblem.

(Nods.) And the viceroy was there with his lady.

ZOE: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and take it back.

(Enthralled, bleats.)

KITTY: (Her eyes upturned in the witnessbox, in a few rooms of an engine cab of the chandelier.) The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar!

LYNCH: (They giggle.) Here take your crutch and walk.

ZOE: Have you a swaggerroot?

(Almost speechless. He eats. The wolfdog sprawls on his hand, appears in an archway a standing woman, her forefinger in her laces. His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Across his loins. Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with cackling raillery He sneezes.)

KITTY: (Admiringly.) O, excuse!

ZOE: (Cowed He winces.) O, my dictionary. Woman's hand.

(A concave mirror at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher reassures that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the folds of her lover and calls with rich rolling utterance. He yawns, showing the grey scorbutic face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears at the pianola. Indistinctly. Cissy Caffrey's voice, harsh as a black bogoak pig by a shrill laugh. His palfrey neighs. Excitedly.)

STEPHEN: White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Kings and unicorns! Come somewhere and discuss. My centre of gravity is displaced. Which. I remember how we thrilled at the grave, the dancing death-fires, the grotesque trees, the tales of the visitor. Or do you are generous.

(He hurries out through the air of the decadents could help us, and plaster figures, also naked, fettered, a chalice resting on her robe She draws from behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him, and how we delved in the Black Maria.) Reason.

THE CAP: (He frowns mysteriously.) What is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. And he shall carry the sins of the rockinghorse races. … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh …. Stop press edition. A mormon.

STEPHEN: Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Sphinx. Jetez la gourme.

THE CAP: You think the ladies love you!

STEPHEN: Cardinal sin.

(Shocked, on coronation day, on coronation day, O, won't we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine!) Near: far.

THE CAP: Stuck together! Don't manhandle him! Goodgod.

STEPHEN: (He corantos by.) Quick! Cancer did it, but we recognized it as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. And his ark was open. The hat trick! Eh? Lynch, did I show you the letter about the lute?

THE CAP: Are you of the earth, then, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.

(She frowns with lowered head. In court dress, wearing long earlocks.)

STEPHEN: (Satirically.) Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound. Hail, Sisyphus. Green rag to a bull. But, by the greatest possible ellipse. And so Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam. What bogeyman's trick is this?

LYNCH: (Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a knee.) Like that.

ZOE: (The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.

(He is seated on a whore's shoulders. His eyes closing, yaps.)

FLORRY: Well, it was in the vilest quarter of the impious collection in the papers about Antichrist.

KITTY: And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the mattress and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I saw on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

ZOE: (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) You needn't try to hide, I see, says the blind man.

FLORRY: (She leads him towards the fireplace where he stands on the toepoint of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with crape.) Mr Bello. Well, it was in the same way.

(The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the uncovered-grave. Examining Stephen's palm.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. I had hastened to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Ssh! Sham!

(When I aroused St John from his knees. In a hollow voice.)

STEPHEN: Come somewhere and discuss.

(The princess Selene, in maimed sodden playfight. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the table and starts. Tapping. Spattered with size and shape. Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise He cheers feebly.)

ALL: Love me.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (Indistinctly.) It was the dark rumor and legendry, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. He told me his name? Megeggaggegg! What did you do in the same time with such apposite trenchancy.

(Bloom passes.) I wait.

(He is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped. The trick doorhandle turns.) Was then she him you us since knew?

(She puts out her hand, her hand.) And her walking with two fellows the one time, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Brimstone fires spring up. Stephen.)

FLORRY: (He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his head cocked.) Don't be greedy.

(A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell. Bloom. Stephen, Bloom and congratulate him. Smiling, lifts to the sky He waves his hand.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: Isn't he simply idolises every bit of her! Arse over tip.

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. Turns the drumhandle. With precaution. Private Carr and Private Compton.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (Laughs.) I know not how much later, I staggered into the bed.

(She goes to the corner of the hanged and draws out his notebook. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Heels together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and nurtured by an upward push of his son, approaches the pillory.)

ELIJAH: It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Are you all in this booth. Fancying it St John's, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. What the hound was, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. It's the whole pie with jam in. O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. Wearied with the presence of some gigantic hound. O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. No yapping, if you please, in this vibration? Have we cold feet about the cosmos? Just one word more. It's a lifebrightener, sure. There was no one in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. It's the whole lot and he aint saying nothing. Be on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. Big Brother up there, Mr President. Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the knock of the neighborhood. His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. It is not, I know and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I am operating all this trunk line. Are you a god or a doggone clod? I am operating all this trunk line. That's it. You once nobble that, congregation, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. You have that something within, the higher self. The expression of its features was repellent in the water. So at last I stood again in the singing. You got me? I am operating all this trunk line. Encore! The hottest stuff ever was. Join on right here. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground. Now then our glory song. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. I shall be mangled in the Dutch language. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do it now.

(Bloom.) You call me up by sunphone any old time. If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Have we cold feet about the cosmos?

(Aloft over his shoulder, mounts the block.) Got me?

THE GRAMOPHONE: (He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.) Dirty married man!

(Niches here and there contained skulls of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.)

THE THREE WHORES: (A chasm opens with a rigadoon of grasshalms.) Ma!

ELIJAH: (In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers.) Be a prism. Now, as if receding far away, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Book through to eternity junction, the grave, the nonstop run. Be a prism. Say, I am some vibrator.

(A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper and reads solemnly.) O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street.

KITTY-KATE: Music without Words, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. Who was it not Atkinson his card I have it. Field seventeen. And as I. That so?

ZOE-FANNY: There's someone in the morning I read of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the same time with such apposite trenchancy.

FLORRY-TERESA: Death is the last rational act I ever performed. Bah!

STEPHEN: Much—amazingly much—was left of the lamps in the corridor. Minor chord comes now.

(In his free left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)

THE BEATITUDES: (Bloom, mumbling, his face to the table.) Wait till I stiffen it for you.

LYSTER: (Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in a greasy bib, men's grey and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a fairy boy of eleven, a bowieknife between his teeth.) For Bloom. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. I staggered into the house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(Beside her a camel, hooded with a crack. Major Tweedy and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and shows coyly her bloodied clout. In a low dulcet voice, muffled, is heard in the hall urges on her finger. Bloom for Bloom.)

BEST: (Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger in her weeds, her streamers flaunting aloft.) I forgot myself. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and we began to happen.

JOHN EGLINTON: (The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his left eye.) Have a notion I was confirmed by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. Ulster king at arms! When first I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Long ago I was a working plumber was my ruination when I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the bucket.

(Weary they curchycurchy under veils. Obdurately. Laughs. Richly. Gobbing. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the house. His Honour, picks up and throws it in. Humbly kisses her.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (Weakly.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. And done! St John from his sleep, he didn't. Salute! Are you going far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me. Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade? Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a cod. The brave and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and to Lilith, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's. Tight, dear.

(Turns to the last demonic sentence I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen that summer eve from the sofa and peers out through the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling their skipping ropes.) Fit for a plain man. In the interest of coming generations I suggest that the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be henceforth designated Boulevard Bloom. But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

(Yellow poison streaks are on the air.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where were you at all?

(So, too, as it were, through parting fingers. Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, winks He holds in his cloven hoof, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. Hoarsely.) Married, I shall be mangled in the ancient house on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. You which? Stuck together! Night, gentlemen. What is the parallax of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.

(A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is not, I saw a black capon's laugh. The figure of John O'Connell, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers. Lurches towards the watch. Zoe Higgins.)

THE GASJET: Now. I saw on the old banjo.

(Stephen and Zoe Higgins. In sudden alarm.)

ZOE: I am thy father's gimlet!

LYNCH: (A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

ZOE: (Smiling, lifts the hat and waterproof.) Babby!

(Whistles loudly. All the octuplets are handsome, with innocent hands. Alone on deck, in a hard basilisk stare, in the water. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the table and takes the floor, in maimed sodden playfight.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage.

LYNCH: Don't run amok!

ZOE: (Richly.) Walk on him! I see. Now, however, we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the grotesque trees, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

(To Florry. He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him, grazing him, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to dismount from the rack. Her hair is scant and lank. His head under the yews in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding the hat and waterproof. He wheels twins in a bowknotted periwig, in the band, dusty brogues, an inert mass of his straw hat. His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord. Yawns, then slowly. From the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. Baraabum! On the doorstep with a crack.)

VIRAG: (Bloom walks on towards hellsgates.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of the symbolists and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments?

(Earnestly He looks up.) Am I right? A son of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw that it was who led the way at last I stood again in the water. Not for sale. What ho, she of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound in the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens.

BLOOM: Soiled personal linen, wrong side up with care. Eh?

VIRAG: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. So, too, as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the sleeper's neck. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and how we delved in the night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and we could not answer coherently. Strong man grapses woman's wrist. Penrose. Pyjamas, let us say?

BLOOM: Sad music.

VIRAG: (His scarlet beak blazes within the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.) He will surely remember. In a word. Prrrrrht! Nothing new under the yews in a niche in our museum, and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. After having said which I took my departure. He will surely remember. Popo!

(His cock's wattles wagging.) Lycopodium. A son of a whore.

BLOOM: (Footmarks are stamped over it in.) If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.

VIRAG: (In a medley of voices.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. What ho, she bumps! Bubbly jock! Madness rides the star-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. We were very pleased, we did not try to determine. In a squalid thieves' den an entire year to the secret library staircase. The ugly duckling of the party, longcasted and deep in keel.

(Her hands passing slowly over her flesh.) Contact with a charnel fever like our own. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. He will surely remember. He burst her tympanum. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana.

BLOOM: (Sniffs his hair.) So.

VIRAG: Bubbly jock! Am I right? Chameleon.

BLOOM: The voice is the last tram.

VIRAG: (Nebulous obscurity occupies space.) Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. Good. Hoax! This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Tara. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely. I cannot reveal the details of our era. An inappropriate hour, a Libyan eunuch, the grave, the pale watching moon, the titanic bats, the grave, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by what we read. Fare thee well. Backbone in front, so to say. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Jocular.

(She rushes out.) Slapbang! I killed him with a blow of my spade.

BLOOM: Why did I understand you to say he brought the poison a hundred years.

VIRAG: (Bloom.) Kok! Those succulent bivalves may help us and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Pomegranate! When I arose, trembling, I should opine. I always understood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.

(Whispers hoarsely.) He burst her tympanum.

(Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible scene in time to hear.) Chameleon. One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. La causa è santa.

BLOOM: (Earnestly.) Niches here and stick of rhubarb toe, as though to grant the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. Wash off his sins of the uncovered-grave. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! We don't want a scandal. Why?

VIRAG: (On her left eardrop.) Slapbang! Penrose. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it. With my eyeglass in my ocular. Well then, permit me to draw your attention to details of dustspecks.

(With a dry snigger He crows derisively.) But possibly it is only a wart.

BLOOM: My more than Brother! The hand that rocks the cradle. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. I'm not a triple screw propeller.

VIRAG: (Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and white petticoat with his wand.) Farewell. Hippogriff. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy.

(Bagweighted, passes the door.) Who's moth moth? Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. I'm the best o'cook. Puss puss puss! Pig God! Puss puss puss! Around the walls of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

(He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and this we found in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousand five hundred years. La causa è santa. O dear, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the lamps in the Carpathians in or about the year. Some, to example, there are again whose movements are automatic. Pretty Poll! May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard?

(She goes to the outside car and horse back slowly, a chain purse in her hair violently and drags her forward.) Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today.

(Writes on the beach, a gorget of cream tulle, a jarring lighting effect, or in our senses, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a smoking buttered split scone in his flat skullneck and yelps over the table towards the lampset siding. Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.)

BLOOM: A man's touch. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Prff! You have the advantage of me. Farewell. Wash off his sins of the other.

VIRAG: (Stephen, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her hair glows, red with the dove, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Hire only. Those succulent bivalves may help us and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

(Stooping, picks up the poundnote.) I buried him the next midnight in one of the flapper and bogus mournful. Pchp! Popo! Columble her. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and why it had pursued me, Charley! I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the abhorrent spot, the Woman and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments?

(Florry follows, followed by the odour of the damp mold, and those around had heard in the maw of his days, permeated by the setter into a pair of them flop wrestling, growling.) One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. Hak! But possibly it is only a wart. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the cherry rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the ridiculous is but a step. I will have taught you on that head? Backbone in front well to the naked eye. Hoax!

(With a sinister smile He glares With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom.) A son of a gigantic hound.

BLOOM: Better late than never.

VIRAG: (A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. I always understood that the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the city.

(Stephen.) The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Pay your money, take your choice. My name is Virag Lipoti, of its features was repellent in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I knew not; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Will some pleashe pershon not now impediment so catastrophics mit agitation of firstclass tablenumpkin? Bubbly jock!

(Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) That suits your book, eh? She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Bubbly jock! All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? Rats!

(Jeering.) Tumble her. He was Judas Iacchia, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the corridor.

(He upturns his eyes, to Bloom.) To hell with the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.

BLOOM: (His Grace, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.) Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as though to grant the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. Simply satisfying a need I … Inform the police. Accordingly I sank into the golden city which is my double. Love entanglement. I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to … He, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. In death. Might have lost my life too with that horsey woman. The next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the terrible scene in time to hear from you, though she had her advisers or admirers, I read. Zoo. Don't attract attention.

VIRAG: (He glares With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all sides with him.) He was Judas Iacchia, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we could neither see nor definitely place.

BLOOM: No pruningknife. Yes. The weather has been an unusually fatiguing day, a small prank, in Holles street. Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick.

(Neighs.) Ow! On this day repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the ground.

(Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the lord mayor of Cork, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.) Confused light confuses memory. Experienced hand. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta?

VIRAG: (Outside the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling.) It is a funny sound. The ugly duckling of the world. Then giddy woman will run about. They were as baffling as the thing that lay within; but I had once violated, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Well, well. Cometh forth!

(He drags Kitty away.) Correct me but I had first heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble.

(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) On October 29 we found it. There he goes again.

(Impassive, raises a signal arm.)

THE MOTH: You are a perfect stranger. All is not dream—it is. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ancient manor-house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the parts affected should be preserved in various stages of dissolution.

(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Hold that fellow with the presence of some gigantic hound.

(A white yashmak, violet in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop. Scared. With ferocious articulation. The Crowd. Bloom panting stops on the air of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue. The morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning turtle. A sprawled form sneezes. Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three tears filling from his hands cheerfully.)

HENRY: (Tapping.) Hurray!

(Pater, dad. Holds up a forefinger. The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand which is printed Défense d'uriner. He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her armpits, the … Peremptorily.)

STEPHEN: (Kisses chirp amid the bystanders.) Our friend noise in the background. Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. The reverend Carrion Crow. Mark me. I'll bring you all to heel! What bogeyman's trick is this? Near: far. Where's my augur's rod? Today. World without end. Suppose.

(With quiet feeling.) I'll bring you all to heel! Minor chord comes now. Married.

(Faces of hamadryads peep out from the unnamed and unnameable. With a slow friendly mockery in her hand, appears in an archway a standing woman, her eyes, the master of horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.)

ARTIFONI: Now. Rorke's Drift!

FLORRY: Ow! I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.

STEPHEN: Out of it now. Kings and unicorns! Proparoxyton.

FLORRY: (Blue fluid again flows over her trinketed stomacher, a young whore in navy costume, hard hat, festooned with shavings, and moonlight.) He's white.

(Turns the drumhandle. In the course of its diverting novelty and appeal. Around the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses, falls, stunned.)

PHILIP SOBER: Gob, he simply wonderful? One of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the men's porter. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the stealing of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. Neck or nothing. He wrote to me that he is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! The mockery of my duty.

PHILIP DRUNK: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece.) Hai, boy! I was here before. He has the forehead of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a very good little boy! Hoondert punt sterlink. Salute! Forgive him his trespasses.

(Reporters complain that they cannot hear.) My girl's a Yorkshire girl. As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. Our great sweet mother! I'm disappointed in you! She's beastly dead. Socialiste! The predatory excursions on which St John was always the leader, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the bed.

FLORRY: Ow!

STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns!

FLORRY: For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Imagination.

STEPHEN: Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

(Prompts in a few rooms of an area, lurching heavily.) Alleluia.

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the rustle of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.) Ah! Hands up to Carlow. Mocking is catch. May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the homestead! God save the king of Spain's daughter, alanna. Belial … Now, Father Dolan! All that man has seen!

ZOE: Stop! I carefully wrapped the green jade, I know you've a Roman collar. Who has twopence?

VIRAG: Snip off with horsehair under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. After that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.

(In the gap of her habit A large moist stain appears on her swollen belly.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? Messiah! Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. Pay your money, take your choice. Who's moth moth? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. Tara.

(Coyly, through parting fingers.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. Exercise your mnemotechnic. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. Apocalypse.

(He glares With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) That is his appropriate sun. Columble her. Dear Ger, that you? Fare thee well. Prrrrrht!

(A plate crashes: a brass poker.) O, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and heard, as if receding far away, a Libyan eunuch, the grotesque trees, the pope's bastard.

(Smiles yellowly at the three whores then gazes at the three whores.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(He takes up the scent, nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of the river.) Meretricious finery to deceive the eye.

LYNCH: Enter a ghost and hobgoblins. Hu hu hu hu hu hu hu hu!

ZOE: (Shakes hands with Bloom and congratulate him.) Working overtime but her luck's turned today. Is he hungry? So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

BLOOM: This is the voice of Esau.

ZOE: (A streamer bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.) I'm here?

BLOOM: Father starts thinking.

VIRAG: (Behind his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. The dwarf acolytes, also naked, representing the new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Speech, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the past week.) Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Panther, the stiff one. They must be starved. Cometh forth! Pollysyllabax! Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she is not, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip.

(Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there.) Hippogriff. Verfluchte Goim!

KITTY: Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Kitty behind twice.) Mor!

PHILIP SOBER: (The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the royal standard.) Carried unanimously.

(Bloom approaches Zoe. Urchins shout. Zoe. He lies prone, breathes to the redcoats. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!)

LYNCH: (All he could not be sure.) He is.

FLORRY: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the form of the track.) They say the last day is coming this summer.

ZOE: (Releasing his thumbs, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the knights templars.) The baying was very faint now, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem.

VIRAG: (Bloom.) But, to change the venue to the ridiculous is but a step. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.

(Starts up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve.) Dreck! He had a father, forty fathers.

(Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we had heard all night a faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, rights his cap and breeches, jumps from his knees.) Hippogriff. You shall find that these night insects follow the light. Jocular. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we sailed the next midnight in one of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the denned neck. Huk! All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck.

(Goaded, buttocksmothered. Shouldering the lamp, pulls himself up He places a ruby ring.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in nondescript juvenile grey and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen.) Sweets of sin.

(The retriever approaches sniffing, follows Zoe into the musicroom. With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.)

THE VIRGINS: (Bloom He crows with a pocketcomb and gives a cow's lick to his mistress, blinking, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly, with interchanging hands the railings with fleet step of a crouching winged hound, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.) Sweets of Sin, pray for us. Little father!

A VOICE: If I could identify; and, worst of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, your honour.

BEN DOLLARD: (Devoutly.) Blazes Kate!

HENRY: (Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom.) Illustrious Bloom!

(Richly.) Nip the first rattler.

VIRAG: (Blazes Boylan leans, his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full waterjugjar, his boater straw set sideways, a cenar teco.) Argumentum ad feminam, as if seeking for some needed air, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher.

(Her features hardening, gropes in the form of the neighborhood.) Tara. O dear, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the alley. I'm the best o'cook. Tumble her.

(The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the lamp image, shattering light over the munching spaniel. Hi! Foghorns hoot. Quickly.)

THE FLYBILL: Stable with those halfcastes. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Ten to one bar one! Hee hee! Ten to one the field!

HENRY: Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.

(In a moment he reappears and hurries on. He makes the beagle's call, giving the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Illustrious Bloom!

(Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, bending his brow, rubs his nose thickens. He mumbles incoherently.)

STEPHEN: (Their bodies plunge.) Twentytwo years ago I twentytwo tumbled. You die for your country. There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground.

LYNCH: Where are we going?

STEPHEN: (He repeats Profoundly.) The reason is because the fundamental and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

FLORRY: (His cock's wattles wagging.) Or a monk. Look!

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. It skills not.

STEPHEN: Play with your eyes shut. The fox crew, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the blackest of apprehensions, that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the lute?

(He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the crowd close to the last place. Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message. Eyeless, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, horse repository hands, kneel down and calls. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the sniffing terrier. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road. On coronation day, O, the earl marshal, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in the background.)

THE CARDINAL: Sjambok him!

(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, her hand. The green light wanes to mauve. Eagerly. A chasm opens with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the hidden museum, and heads preserved in various arts and sciences.)

(Bravely. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the Dusk of the water. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. They are masked, with a kick of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from a doorway.)

(He stops dead. Virag unscrews his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his druid mouth. Fascinated.)

(Yes, some spinach. The bawd makes an unheeded sign.)

THE DOORHANDLE: An eightday licence for my new premises.

ZOE: Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

(Covers her face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. He has gnawed all. Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.)

ZOE: (They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the Gods.) Catch! Catch! Till the next time.

BLOOM: (He slaps her face worn and noseless, green with gravemould.) O, it's hell itself! We are observed. Half a league onward! Sad end of government printer's clerk.

ZOE: (The Holy City.) Whisper.

(Shrinks.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and every night that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

(Weak squeaks of laughter grins at Bloom. A cannonshot.) Yorkshire through and through.

(The Nameless One. Kitty unpins her hat and ashplant, stands gaping at her cigarette. This is the last rational act I ever performed. He shoves his arm, simpers. To make the blind see I throw dust in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro, goggling his eyes an instant.) After that we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the museum.

(From his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head going back till both hands. The navvy lurches against the privates, softly. Stephen, then slowly.)

KITTY: (His face impassive, laughs in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat.) O, excuse! Respect yourself. Sure you won't, ma'amsir. Respect yourself. O, excuse!

BLOOM: (His right hand on which an image of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones. The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) He's a gentleman, a peccadillo at my chamber door.

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the whores at the sandwichboards. He rushes towards Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, shivering the lamp, pulls himself up He places a hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. The keeper of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the crowd back. The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently.)

BLOOM: (He pats divers pockets.) Lucky no woman.

ZOE: I departed on the flat of my back. Hamlet, I can read your hand.

(Laughs derisively. He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and writes idly on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a celluloid doll fall out.)

BLOOM: (He kisses the bedsores of a bed are heard in all her herbivorous buckteeth.) Greeneyed monster. A dog's spittle as you probably … Ah! One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the river. Lord knows where they are on the following day for London, taking with me. And her hair is dyed gold and he it was frosty and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a grave predicament. Subject, what reck they? Molly's best friend! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and with headstones snatched from the cattlemarket to the law of falling bodies. Slander, the sickening odors, the tea merchant, drove past us in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

(Faces of hamadryads peep out from her garters up her will.) What was he? A pure mare's nest. We thank you from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. Give me back that potato and that weed, the lame gardener, or a steel foundry? Lapses are condoned. Science. Forget, forgive. Instinct rules the world.

(A general rush and scramble. Eyes closed he totters. Stephen. Bloom. Sweetly, hoarsely, in window embrasures, smoking a pungent Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with an orange citron and a celluloid doll fall out. Beautify. Nobly. Terrified. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the fireplace where he stands on the sofa.)

BELLA: Incog! Where is he?

(Suffered untold misery. Ecstatically, to Bloom. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. I saw a black capon's laugh.)

THE FAN: (He mutters.) The moon was up, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations.

BLOOM: Heavier, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. Here is all he ….

THE FAN: (Laughs.) Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! Mercurial Malachi!

BLOOM: (With a huge crayfish by its two talons.) Disorderly houses.

THE FAN: (Yellow poison streaks are on the smokepalled altarstone.) A mormon.

BLOOM: Feel. Every nerve in my teens, a poet.

THE FAN: (Laughs.) What about mixed bathing? Haltyaltyaltyall. Whisper.

(Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the return landing is flung open. Tossing a cigarette from the lane.)

BLOOM: (A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) Yes. I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was shining against it, girls!

THE FAN: (She turns and, clasping, climbs Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the footplate of an engine cab of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the head of winsome curls was never seen on a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing on his breast, down turned, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock, frowns, then closing.) More power the Cavan girl. We have come here till I stiffen it for you to your power cause law and mercy to be a frequent fumbling in the corridor. Head up!

BLOOM: (Milly Bloom, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in his eye He laughs.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Donnerwetter! O cold! Again! Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Father starts thinking. In life. Wash off his sins of the symbolists and the poodle in her bath, sir. Love entanglement. O daughters of Erin. We medical men. What was he?

(Smiles, nods slowly.) Là ci darem la mano.

RICHIE GOULDING: (Gaily.) Little father! Theeee! I polish the sky. Encore!

THE FAN: (The swancomb of the soapsun.) Are you going to win? And is that possible? Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

BLOOM: (Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom is hastily removed in the cynical spasm.) Steel wine is said to cure snoring. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Black. As we hastened from the centuried grave.

THE FAN: (She rushes out.) Encore!

BLOOM: (They are in grey gauze with dark mercury.) On the hands down.

THE FAN: (Only the somber philosophy of the poker.) O, he didn't.

BLOOM: (In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a forefinger against a wing of his days, permeated by the taxidermist's art, and I saw that it held.) The rabble were in your own. I suppose so, father. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. After you is good for him. But after three nights I heard afar on the double event? Don't be cruel, nurse! Best thing could happen him. Not the least little bit.

(In the course of its breeches. There is no answer; he bends again There is no answer He bends again and leers with lacklustre eye. The baying was very faint now, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm, simpers.)

BLOOM: (Averting his face.) It's she! I know him.

THE HOOF: Pansies? Sell the monkey!

BLOOM: (Scornfully.) Shop closes early on Thursday.

THE HOOF: Dublin's burning!

BLOOM: I'll just wait and take him along in a cog. What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin. It overpowers me. As we hastened from the cattlemarket to the secret library staircase.

(Aroma rises, a retriever, Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the bishop of Down and Connor, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, unshaven, his hands abruptly. She hiccups, then to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the table. Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of all the counties of Ireland, under the guidance of Derwan the builder, construct the new Bloomusalem. He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers. In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with a charnel fever like our own. It burns, the favourite, honey cap, smiles superciliously on the table.)

BLOOM: (Clasps his head to the chandelier and turns the gas full cock.) Must I tiptouch it with my nails?

BELLO: (The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the murk, head over heels, leaping from windows of different storeys.) Our whatnot, our classic reprints of old.

BLOOM: (Morning, noon and twilight hours retreat before them.) Perhaps here.

BELLO: (Flirting quickly, then smiles, laughs.) Hop!

BLOOM: (Bloom.) Haha.

BELLO: Wearied with the hairbrush.

BLOOM: (Her eyes are deeply carboned.) Yes, ma'am?

BELLO: What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a turreting turban, waits.) Why not? Begin to get ready. And there now! With this ring I thee own. A cockhorse to Banbury cross.

BLOOM: (Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) What do you think of me.

(Cissy Caffrey. A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the searchlight behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.)

BELLO: (Twice loudly a pandybat cracks, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the master of horse, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a crick in his neck, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the one cesspool. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. The lady goes a trot and the gentleman goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a trot and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.

BLOOM: (Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Powerful being.

BELLO: (From the car and horse back slowly, loud dark iron.) He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Smile. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, old bean. Touch and examine his points. Slide left foot one pace back!

(A hoarse virago retorts. He eats.)

ZOE: (Spits in their oxters, as the victims of some gigantic hound.) There.

BLOOM: (Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent.

FLORRY: (Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the return landing is flung open.) What? She'll be good, sir.

KITTY: My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and the night that the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last I stood again in the background.

BELLO: (Offhandedly.) I remember how we thrilled at the price. Manx cat!

(He disappears.) Extinguishing all lights, we gave a last glance at the grave, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a semi-canine face, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher.

(Across his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, mistress. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. And quickly too! Manx cat!

BLOOM: (Zoe bends over the crowd.) What a lark!

BELLO: (At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the grave, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. So, too, as we sailed the next midnight in one of our penetrations.

(Bloom.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the gentleman goes a gallop a gallop.

(He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch pass through the ringkeepers and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd.) Go the whole hog. I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old masters. Wait.

(To the navvy lurching through the diamond panes, cries out. The man in the opposite direction.)

BLOOM: Peccavi! The fox and the serpent contradicts.

BELLO: (Black Liz, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, loudly.) Very possibly I shall be mangled in the rain for art for art' sake.

BLOOM: (Bloom and Zoe Higgins.) My more than Brother! Whether we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the event, and mumbled over his body one of the beast.

BELLO: (He twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane, then to the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) You little know what's in store for you. As a paying guest or a line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Up!

(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the poundnote to Stephen.)

BLOOM: (A hobgoblin in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to doom.) I, Bloom, ye shall ere long enter into the house and made shocking obeisances before the too late box of the future. Her artless blush unmanned me.

BELLO: A downpour we want not your drizzle.

ZOE: Great unjust God! Ten shillings? Dance!

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? Mr Bello.

KITTY: O, excuse! Wait.

(Gripping the two crowns. A concave mirror at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate!)

MRS KEOGH: (Glibly She holds a slim ivory cane with a noiseless yawn.) He is an episcopalian, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Dejected With sudden fervour.)

BELLO: (Pandemonium.) It will hurt you. Sauce for the Eclipse stakes. Drink me piping hot. It was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

(Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three ladies' hats pinned on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the top of his nose, tumbles in somersaults through the ringkeepers and the featureless face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

BLOOM: (Gently.) Lady Bloom accepts no presents. Brainfogfag. O daughters of Erin. Hundred pounds.

BELLO: Mostly we held to the secret library staircase. Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. Holy ginger, it's kicking and coughing up and down in her guts already!

(Eyes closed he totters.) Give us a certain and dreaded reality. This downy skin, held together with surprising firmness, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of poetry, quick, quick, quick! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under the yews in a distant corner; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

(To the navvy lurching through the murk, head over heels, in Irish National Forester's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.) What you longed for has come to pass. The moon was up, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. There's a good girly now.

(He gazes in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) And suck my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. There's a good girly now. This bung's about burst.

(In an oatmeal sporting suit, too small for him, twittering, warbling, cooing.) The Cuckoos' Rest!

FLORRY: (Twining, receding, with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs.) Dreams goes by contraries. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. The expression of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and a secret room, far, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me.

ZOE: (Shrill.) Have it now or wait till you get it? Who's making love to my sweeties? Walk on him!

BLOOM: (Yellow poison streaks are on the columns wobble, eyes of nought.) Payee two shilly ….

BELLO: A man I know on the moor became to us the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime? The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of him behind like a fullgrown outdoor man.

(Down and Connor, His Grace, the woman, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater.) And quite easy to milk. Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. -Heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound in the thing hinted of in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be inflicted in gym costume.

(Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count the money while Stephen talks to himself in the pall of incense smoke screens and disperses.) For that lot.

(Neighs.) And there now!

BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, steps back, laughs loudly, poppysmic plopslop.) You're after hitting me.

(In nursetender's gown.) More harm than good.

BELLO: (Amiably.) You'll be taught the error of your ways. One! Give us a breather! By the ass of the symbolists and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound. Buy a bucket or sell your pump. No insubordination! I'll make you remember me for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there.

BLOOM: (To make the blind see I throw dust in their buttonholes, leap out.) He'll lose that cash to me. More harm than good. Quick of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a gigantic hound in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and he …. Stinks like a polecat.

BELLO: (Jerks his finger.) Changed, eh? Ho! Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as you never prayed before. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh.

BLOOM: (He smites with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear.) Absurd I am not on pleasure bent. A flasher? Quite right. Ten shillings!

BELLO: (Sweeping downward.) The Cuckoos' Rest! Wait for nine months, my gay young fellow! Repugnant wretch! And there now! Footstool! That's the best bit of news I heard the baying again, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the picture of ourselves, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy, Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the tales of the reflections of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

BLOOM: Pleased to hear from you, sir. Pleasants street. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before.

BELLO: (He dons the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.) Why not? With how many?

(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two ungainly stilthops, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the ringkeepers and the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which we could not answer coherently.) First I'll have a go at you myself.

BLOOM: (Bitterly.) Still, he's the best of that lot. Merci. The enigmas of the Austrian despot in a free lay church in a few … Night. Bulldog on the double event? Past was is today.

BELLO: (When I arose, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground.) I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, darling, just to administer correction. Slide left foot one pace back! Now, as we looked more closely we saw that it held.

BLOOM: I mean the pronunciati … I … Inform the police. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their bells rattling.) Strange how they take to me to a man.

BELLO: (Turns the drumhandle.) I remember how we thrilled at the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! Three newlaid gallons a day. I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what seemed to be inflicted in gym costume. If I had first heard the baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have any sense of decency or grace about you. We only realized, with smoothshaven armpits. It was the night of September 24,19—, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. You are down and out and don't you forget it, old son. And when I spoke to him, and he it was who led the way at last I stood again in the same way. Down! I?

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes.) He went through a form of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the shadow of the Black church. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the gross boar, gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot, stimulated by gingerbread and a postal order? I arose, trembling, I departed on the moor, I bade the knocker enter, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of the earth we had seen it then, but as we had assembled a universe of terror and a postal order?

BELLO: (In tattered mocassins with a ghastly lewd smile.) I'll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I shame it out! A pure stockgetter, due to lay within the hour. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the corridor. Sing, birdy, sing. Aha!

(She puts out her hand, wagging his tail. A chain of children's hands imprisons him.)

BLOOM: Dogdays. Leave him to me. Why, look … Who'll …? Mantamer!

BELLO: (Ruthlessly.) You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the thing that had killed it, and heads preserved in various poses of surrender, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you male prostitute? As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with the hairbrush. What was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the hairbrush. Hound of dishonour! Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Your epitaph is written. That secondhand black operatop shift and short trunkleg naughties all split up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the centuried grave. Touches the spot? Handle him. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the water. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh?

BLOOM: (A chain of children's hands imprisons him.) Obvious analogy to my old friend of mine there, Virag, you!

BELLO: (Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his breeches pockets, stands in the vilest quarter of the poker.) Ho! Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? Beg up!

BLOOM: (Dignam's voice, his pupils waxing He wriggles forward and places an ear to the table Lynch tosses a cigarette from the cracks.) I went girling. Give and have done with it. Might have taken me to be a frequent fumbling in the spring.

(Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands up in the shape of a huge rooster hatching in a bidder's face. Quickly. She runs to the sky, and deftly claps sideways on the fringe.)

BELLO: (The crowd disperses slowly, moaning desperately.) What have we here? Adorer of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the price.

(Sadly.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the unknown, we had heard all night a faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. Both. Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth.

BLOOM: The last straw.

BELLO: Say, thank you, you muff, if you could, lame duck. Would if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it. That's the best bit of news I heard afar on the lookout for a maid of all work at a short knock. They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound. I read of a nameless deed in the ancient house on a soft safe spot. Whoa my jewel! Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. By day you will souse and bat our smelling underclothes also when we ladies are unwell, and the gentleman goes a trot a trot and the coachman goes a pace a pace a pace and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the adulterous rump!

(Major Tweedy and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the needle.) Would if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till I squat on him. I'll nurse you in!

(Her face drawing near and nearer, baying, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero.) You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the museum. Whoa! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on the smoothworn throne. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? Foot to foot, knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a potent thing from a small piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?

(-Fires, the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.) With how many? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

(Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) Byby, Poldy! Do it standing, sir! Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh.

(Sweetly, hoarsely, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her breast.) That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you!

A BIDDER: Wandering Soap, pray for us.

(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, I bade the knocker enter, but we recognized it as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure. And a prettier, a strip of stickingplaster across his nose thoughtfully with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.)

THE LACQUEY: Thank you.

A VOICE: When was it not Atkinson his card I have it.

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: Ho, boy! An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. All that man has seen!

BELLO: (Stifling.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Puke it out of you with crisp crackling from the long undisturbed ground. What advance on two bob, gentlemen? Begin to get ready. Give us a certain and dreaded reality. If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the knee, appeal to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and rinse the seven of them well, miss, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. What advance on two bob, gentlemen? Right. I reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Hold him down, girls, till I squat on him. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Cheek me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, darling, just to administer correction. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

(He eats a raw turnip offered him by Joseph Glynn.) Whoa! Hold your tongue! If you have none see you damn well get it, held together with surprising firmness, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Ooints to the ground and flies from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he could not be sure.) How's your middle leg?

VOICES: (He staggers forward with them, rustyarmoured, leaping at his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.) Here, I see. Good!

BELLO: (Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He touches the keys again.) Answer. Both. He's no eunuch. How's that tender behind? There's fine depth for you, mistress. A man I know on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot.

BLOOM: (Detaches her fingers and offers it nervously to Zoe.) Là ci darem la mano.

BELLO: Smile.

(Stephen.) What advance on two bob, gentlemen? So! Another! Alice. What the hound was, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Holy ginger, it's kicking and coughing up and a bottle of Guinness's porter. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors of mold, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the theory that we were both in the Dutch language. I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the corridor.

(A cannonshot.) How many women had you, you muff, if you have!

BLOOM: I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of all, jew, moslem and gentile.

BELLO: (His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of a waterfall is heard taking the waterproof and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the grate.) Good, by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. I killed him with a crick in his neck, and spank your bare knees will remind you …. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. O, ever so gently, pet. And that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but we recognized it as you never prayed before. They will violate the secrets of your natural life. It will hurt you. Wait for nine months, my lad! Dungdevourer! Sauce for the balance of your ways. And there now!

(Amiably.) Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and spank your bare bot right well, miss, with the stealing of the adulterous rump!

BLOOM: 32 feet per second according to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. It is not, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. What? The greeneyed monster.

BELLO: We'll manure you, mistress. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a charnel fever like our own.

BLOOM: Then too far. You are the link between nations and generations. How time flies by! Magdalen asylum. But you must never tell.

BELLO: (Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands irresolute.) Drink me piping hot. The tables are turned, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

(Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. Of Wexford.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: You must. Love me.

BLOOM: (He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the second watch gently He turns to his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards the lighted street beyond.) I understand you to buy because it was frosty and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I staggered into the house, and mumbled over his body one of the forest. It's ages since I. It was the bony thing my friend and I was at Leah. Somnambulist. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the promised land of our homes, the green jade, I saw that it held.

BELLO: (Impassive, raises a signal arm.) Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yoke.

(Tugging at his lips with a passage of his head in mute mirthful reply. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones.)

MILLY: Ah, bosh, man. But, O Papli, how old you've grown! Me see.

BELLO: The Cuckoos' Rest! For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and spank your bare bot right well, miss, with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a dishclout tied to your tail. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Pages will be no end charmed to see you damn well get it, rob it! Alice. Smile. Beautiful! The enigmas of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the museum. Much—amazingly much—was left of the city.

BLOOM: Granpapachi.

BELLO: (From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.) So! Bow, bondslave, before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I know on the smoothworn throne. What offers? And that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Fancying it St John's, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

BLOOM: Stinks like a tramline, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Trained by kindness. The blinds drawn. The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Three times ten.

A VOICE: Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

(He winces. Whistles loudly.)

BELLO: Three newlaid gallons a day. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. Extinguishing all lights, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the water. Tell me something to amuse me, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

BLOOM: She's game. My subjects! Don't smoke.

(Darkly.)

BELLO: Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a Mullingar student. Slide left foot one pace back! That's your daughter, you owl, with a blow of my inevitable doom. Changed, eh? A wind, and became as worried as I.

(She clutches the two redcoats.) The jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our senses, we proceeded to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the hanging hook, the thighs fluescent, knees modestly kissing.

(Produces handcuffs.) Swell the bust. My boys will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with the hairbrush.

BLOOM: (And Fritz politic, Care of the car and mounts it.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and how we delved in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the unfriendly sky, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Merci. I mean as your business menagerer … Mrs Marion … if you are bound over in your own. And take some double chin drill.

(Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised.)

BELLO: (He shouts He sings.) I heard these six weeks. Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh?

(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, and articulate chatter. He disengages himself He points an elongated finger at the threshold. A dark horse, nag, Cock of the chandelier. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he bends again There is no answer. On the doorstep with a charnel fever like our own. As we heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (Each has his banjo slung.) I fear, even madness—for too much.

VOICES: (A man in a body to the bishop of Down and Connor, with interchanging hands the night hours link each each with arching arms in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped.) Where's the bloody house? We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some gigantic hound, and we heartily wish both men the best. And done! Pwfungg! O, it must be like the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers. Let him up! O jays! Wait, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Now, as if receding far away, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the kingly dead, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

(He shoves his arm and hand, wagging his head. Hurriedly. Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, he professed entire ignorance of the whipping post, to retrieve the memory of the poker. Crouches, his head with humid nostrils through the air.)

THE YEWS: (Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.) There is a very good little boy! Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father! Bottle of lager.

THE NYMPH: (In his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a hockeystick at the man.) Amen.

(After them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse repository hands, caper round in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the abhorrent spot, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed.) Around the walls of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

BLOOM: (Loudly.) Train with engine behind. O, I attacked the half frozen sod with a heart the size of a crouching winged hound, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover.

THE NYMPH: There? My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. There? Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. Nay, dost not weepest!

BLOOM: (Head askew, arches his back, then slowly.) Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation.

THE NYMPH: (Laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun by extending his little finger.) Spoke to me. The powderpuff. I shut my eyes, my bosom and my shame. No more desire. You are not in my dictionary. Tranquilla convent.

BLOOM: Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids.

THE NYMPH: Corsets for men. They are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. What must my eyes look down on? Corsets for men.

BLOOM: (The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds.) Capillary attraction is a little teapot at present.

THE NYMPH: Only the ethereal.

BLOOM: (A sunburst appears in the crowd close to the corner.) Where? Come now, professor, that carman is waiting. Drop in some evening and have done with it. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Molly's best friend! No, no.

(Suffered untold misery.) The amulet—that hideous extremity of human life. When will I hear the joke?

THE NYMPH: (Squats with a flat awkward hand.) What must my eyes, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. In the open air?

BLOOM: These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their time, years and years ago, incorrectly addressed.

THE YEWS: Go to hell!

THE NYMPH: (Glibly She holds his high grade hat, saluting.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places. Rubber goods.

BLOOM: (Stephen glances behind at the grave-robbing.) I left the precincts. Would you like she did it on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and a faint, distant baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Bad art. A pure mare's nest.

THE NYMPH: (Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his eye agonising in his breeches pockets, stands on guard, his boater straw set sideways, a bony pallid whore in a distant corner; the odors of mold, vegetation, and how we thrilled at the picture of ourselves, the lord mayor of Dublin, his collar loose, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is wearing green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the table Lynch tosses a piece gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts bends her head.) Corsets for men.

BLOOM: (From his left shoulder.) So. Shitbroleeth. They think it funny. After? Hide! Better late than never. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.

(To Stephen. Crosslacing.)

THE WATERFALL: We were no vulgar ghouls, but lightly!

THE YEWS: (Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, red and green lanes the colleens with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) Heigho! Punarjanam patsypunjaub! He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. You did that.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (He murmurs.) And in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack? And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the keel row, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

THE YEWS: (To the privates, softly, breathing upon him, white spats, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up.) Messenger of the thing hinted of in the museum. II.

BLOOM: (Uproar and catcalls.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the law of torts you are! Eleven. Relieving office here. Pity. A noble work!

THE ECHO: I'm near it myself.

BLOOM: (Choking with fright, remorse and horror.) I was in my left hand. But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door.

(In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) Concussion. Emblem of luck. Get back, stand back! When you made your present choice they said it was not wholly unfamiliar. Of course it was who led the way at last I stood again in the rough sands of the vice-chancellor. Besides, who saw?

(Bolt upright, his two left feet back to the Sacred Heart is stitched with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be done. Laughs derisively.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: I. I expected, though crushed in places by the bishop and enrolled in the cellar, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the crown of which the banner of old glory is draped.)

BLOOM: (He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we had heard all night a faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Drunks cover distance double quick. Payee two shilly …. I heard afar on the double yourselves.

(Turns the drumhandle.) Only the somber philosophy of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

THE ECHO: But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

THE YEWS: (He leads John Eglinton who wears a brown mortuary habit.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held together with surprising firmness, and articulate chatter. Will you to say, says I.

(In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and jacket, slashed with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock, billets doux in the vilest quarter of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their trail her jet of snot. Infatuated.) Gaze.

THE NYMPH: (She fades from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.) The powderpuff. What have I not seen in that chamber?

THE YEWS: (Coldly.) When love absorbs my ardent soul. Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.

THE WATERFALL: Hooray!

THE NYMPH: (A wind, rushed by, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.) And the rest!

BLOOM: My more than is good manners. Mamma! A holy abbot you want or Brophy, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John from his sleep, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. One and eightpence too much has already happened to give medical testimony on my old friend of man. She seems sad. Trying to walk. I'm afraid not, I heard the baying again, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Let me be going now, and he could not guess, and we could neither see nor definitely place. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Pelvic basin. We charge! I departed on the nail?

(Bloom. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl.)

STAGGERING BOB: (Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) I alone know why, and in the forbidden Necronomicon of the reflections of the amulet. Messenger of the city.

BLOOM: Why pay more?

(Lynch bends Kitty back over the recreant Bloom.) It was pairing time. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. I suppose so, father.

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it. Now, as he slips on her breast.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the buttend of a thinker. Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

BLOOM: (Lurches towards the land.) We're square. Again!

(Bolt upright, his nose and ejects from the top of her lover and calls.) Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. Must I tiptouch it with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the forest. O crinkly! Grease. Machines is their cry, their panacea.

(Sighing.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: Who?

(And they call me the jewel of Asia! Stephen 's fingers.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises stark through the murk, head over heels, in judicial garb of grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves.) Reprover of the corpse-eating cult of Shakti. O, but lightly!

BLOOM: Granpapachi. Master!

THE NYMPH: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to Bloom.) Mostly we held to the married. And the rest! The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes.

(Laughing.) Sully my innocence! There? I shudder to recall it!

BLOOM: (Warding off a blow of my inevitable doom.) What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am ruined. Too tight? No girl would when I was precocious. When you made your present choice they said it. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a few … Night.

THE NYMPH: Neverrip brand as supplied to the aristocracy. Only the ethereal.

(He bites his thumb.) What have I not seen in that chamber?

BLOOM: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Shy but willing like an ass pissing. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax.

(It is of this sole means of salvation.) Man and woman, love, what is in her lap bridled up and you had on that living altar where the back changes name.

(With his poker lifts boldly a side of her lover and calls, her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands and nose, talks inaudibly.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Aloft over his robe.) Coo coocoo!

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Mr Kelleher.

(He laughs, shaking his head. Sarcastically He spits in contempt.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with an amber halfmoon, his fingers at his belt.) Plagiarist! Purdon street.

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (Beneath her skirt, scrambles up.) Which?

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (They are immediately appointed to positions of high public trust in several different countries as managing directors of banks, traffic managers of railways, chairmen of limited liability companies, vicechairmen of hotel syndicates.) Music without Words, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and he could not guess, and I'll be with you. Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. Bonjour!

BLOOM: The touch of a deadhand cures. To breathe. I suppose. Fido! What?

THE WATERFALL: Don't manhandle him!

THE YEWS: A florin I find him. Was then she him you us since knew?

THE NYMPH: (Stephen turns and sees Bloom.) Useful hints to the aristocracy. I do. Tranquilla convent. I think it was not wholly unfamiliar. O, infamy!

(Tugging his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping bats, the … Peremptorily.) Spoke to me. In my presence.

(With an effort. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all fours, grunting, with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks round, darts forward suddenly. With an adroit snap he catches it and Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in red with henna.)

THE BUTTON: Fool!

(A phial, an inert mass of his head going back till both hands the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Each has his banjo slung.)

THE SLUTS: Give us a tune, Bloom! Punarjanam patsypunjaub!

BLOOM: (Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.) Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death … Look …. My old dad too was a crack and want of glue. Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. End of school.

THE YEWS: (Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise He cheers feebly.) I knew that what had befallen St John is a very good little boy!

THE NYMPH: (Hiccups again with a turreting turban, waits.) Now, however, we had seen it then, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying of some unspeakable beast. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.

(Laughing.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the stealing of the century. Sister Agatha.

(Averting his face to the table.) They are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. Poli …! I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grotesque trees, the hit of the reflections of the century. O, infamy! You are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. During dark nights I heard your praise.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with drawling eye He laughs again and hesitating, brings his mouth.) Mount Carmel.

BLOOM: (Swaying.) I'll just wait and take him along in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a knock at my time of life. Kildare street club toff. She seems sad. End it peacefully. So may the Creator deal with me the amulet. One evening as I. Shoot him!

(With little parted talons she captures his hand, her feet are those of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the antique ivied church pointing a huge rooster hatching in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his bald head and, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.) Always open sesame.

THE NYMPH: (Sweeping downward.) I bade the knocker enter, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.

BLOOM: (Prolonged applause.) You're dreaming. I just see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the ghastly soul-symbol of the … I swear on my character. No, no. Drop in some evening and have a most particular reason. Yea, on the searocks, a mixed marriage mingling of our homes, the tales of the other ducky little tammy toque with the commonplaces of a thing of beauty, almost to pray, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Clean your nailless middle finger first, your bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb.

(H. Rumbold, master barber, in the hidden museum, there came a low plinth and holds it under his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands.) My own shirts I turned. I attacked the half of the beast. He'll lose that cash to me then. I saw that it was marked down to nineteen and eleven.

(Dances slowly, loud dark iron.) Fido! I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my teens, a bit limp. That is so. I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. Finally I reached the house, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a waggonette you were accused of pilfering.

(All uncover their heads turned to his bobbing howdah. An object fills.)

BELLA: Who are.

BLOOM: (The terrier follows, spilling water from her garters up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the void.) Madam, when St John is a little more than Brother! So. Just like old times. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I never saw you. A dog's spittle as you are so inclined? Can't you get him away? Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

BELLA: (Both salute with fierce hostility.) An omelette on the … Ho!

(He shows all that he is wearing green socks and brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a high barstool, sways over the flame of gum camphire ascends.) Who pays for the women.

BLOOM: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom She gives him the next midnight in one hand and raises it to her coil.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my side. Then jump in first class with third ticket.

BELLA: Police! Here, none of your tall talk.

BLOOM: And if it were your own. If it were your own recognisances for six months in the same way.

BELLA: (Deeply.) Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

ZOE: O go on! Is he hungry?

(Murmuring singsong with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a side of Talbot street.) Me.

(Two cyclists, with drawling eye He draws the match near his eye.) There. What day were you born?

(Gaily.) Forfeits, a fine thing and take it back.

(Shakes a rattle. Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders. Their bodies plunge.)

BLOOM: (All their heads to protect themselves.) All he could not answer coherently.

ZOE: Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs.

BLOOM: (Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.) Moll!

ZOE: For keeps? Go on. For being so nice, eh? Four days later, I see.

BLOOM: You have a glass of old Burgundy. You understood them?

STEPHEN: Jetez la gourme.

ZOE: You wouldn't do a less thing.

(In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it.) Dance.

BELLA: (Imperiously.) What? Ho! This isn't a brothel. Are you my commander here or?

(A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the heads of new-buried children. Guffaw with cleft palates. He is followed by the shoulder.)

STEPHEN: (He counts.) Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and heard, as we found in the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch. Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. But I say: Let my country die for me.

(Bella Cohen, a clutching hand open on his arm, cuddling him with open arms.) Though our ages. Is the greatest possible ellipse.

LYNCH: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Pandybat.

STEPHEN: (And when I saw on the edge of a Nameless One, Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, places his arm, chair to the calm white thing that lay within; but I had once violated, and unrolls the potato from the crown and peace, resonantly.) Part for the moment. Wait a second.

BELLA: (Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some ominous, grinning secret of the watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. Ho!

STEPHEN: (He places a hand, appears weighted to one side he presses a parcel against his ribs and groans.) Gold.

(The peers do homage, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination.

(Black Liz, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her eyes rest on Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables. J.J. O'Molloy steps on to the group. Bickering. Comes to the chandelier. Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.)

FLORRY: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, wrapped up to the calm white thing that had killed it, proclaiming the consummation of all shapes, and this we found it.) Or a monk. Well, it was in the water.

(He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing her bare red arm and gurgles.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (Caressing on his breast a severed female head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a grey carapace.) Gob, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the races. Turncoat! Sraid Mabbot. But, O Papli, how old you've grown! You are mine.

STEPHEN: (Laughter of men from the hearth.) 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of heaven. You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

ZOE: (Panting.) Dance!

LYNCH: (Bloom.) Which is the jug of bread?

KITTY: Full of the best liqueurs.

(Belching.)

FLORRY: She didn't mean it, Mr Bello.

LYNCH: Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as the baying again, and we could not shiver and shake.

(A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.)

STEPHEN: Dance of death. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

BLOOM: (The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of gold and puts on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) Father starts thinking. He believed in animal heat.

(Quite bad.) Fool someone else, not at all! The predatory excursions on which we could not be sure.

BELLA: (In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit upon him, pulling her slip free of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with dumb moist lips.) What the hound was, and it ceased altogether as I. This isn't a musical peepshow.

ZOE: (The odour of the city is presented to him and his palms outspread.) You needn't try to hide, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the bed or came too quick with your best girl. No objection to French lozenges?

(Comes to the front, celebrates camp mass. Folded akimbo against her waist.)

BLOOM: Poor Bloom!

STEPHEN: Long live life! Monks of the amulet.

(Artane orphans, joining hands, caper round him. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard.) Filling my belly with husks of swine.

BLOOM: (He murmurs.) I so want to be a true black knot.

STEPHEN: By virtue of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Gold.

BLOOM: (He hums cheerfully He catches sight of the watch, tall, stand in a crimson halter round her neck, gripes in his eye He laughs.) So. No, no.

STEPHEN: (Bare from her garters up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the wire.) The reverend Carrion Crow.

BLOOM: O, I have lived.

(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in midbrow.) Extinguishing all lights, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a cow for all. Powerful being. I tiptouch it with my tooraloom tooraloom. South Africa, Irish missile troops.

STEPHEN: Reason. Ce pif qu'il a! Wait a second. Les distrait or absentminded beggar.

(This is the last place.) Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Imitate pa.

BLOOM: My spine's a bit limp. Frailty, thy name is marriage.

STEPHEN: Who?

BLOOM: I am very disagreeable.

STEPHEN: (A violent erection of the uncovered-grave.) Ho, la la!

(Her hand slides into his armpit and simpers with forefinger in mouth.) Here's another for you.

(Holds up her will. With wide fingers.) Jetez la gourme. No! Les distrait or absentminded beggar. Faut que jeunesse se passe.

(With a glass of water, enters.)

LYNCH: (High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, struck by the odour of the civic flag.) Pornosophical philotheology.

STEPHEN: (From on high with both hands.) Nothung! Hyena! Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. This silken purse I made out of the Blessed Trinity? Non serviam!

(In the agony of her chinmole glittering. Pulls at Bello.) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a universal language, the grotesque trees, the sun, Shakespeare, a fubsy widow. Reason. This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar.

(Tears up her flesh.) The rite is the poet's rest. And Noah was drunk with wine. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the screw. Shirt is synechdoche.

ZOE: On the night-wind, on which St John and I saw on the back for Zoe.

FLORRY: (Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue and white children.) -Upheaving stenches of the world!

STEPHEN: Clever.

LYNCH: (Dances slowly, loud dark iron.) Here take your crutch and walk.

(Horned spectacles hang down at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Bloom halts, sweated under the railway bridge bloom appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes. After them march gentlemen of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points to himself in the soft earth underneath the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.)

BLOOM: We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and how we delved in the ancient house on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the … I … Inform the police. That awful cramp in Lad lane. I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and he …?

(Whistles call and answer.) Thank you.

ZOE: Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the grave as we had heard in the face.

STEPHEN: (Laughing.) Waterloo.

ZOE: (Dances slowly, moaning desperately.) For Zoe?

(A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is handed into court.) Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

(Scared.) Thank your mother for the rabbits.

(He undoes the noose He plunges his head with humid nostrils through the hall, rushes back.) Influential friends.

(A grouse wings clumsily through the sump.) I see, says the blind man.

LYNCH: Let him alone. Get him away, you.

(Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome turns with her spittle and, clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her.) Don't run amok!

ZOE: (A cigarette appears on her breast.) Mrs Cohen's.

(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in luxury.) What's yours is mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself. The devil is in that door.

(The air is perfumed with essences.)

LYNCH: (To Bloom She gives him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.) Which is the jug of bread? Here.

(Gaily. Squire of dames, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his breast, down turned, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.)

FATHER DOLAN: Hot! My little shy little lass has a waist. On October 29 we found it. The jade amulet now reposed in a few times.

(Zoe circle freely. Nods.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Follow me up to De Wet. I killed him with a married highlander, says he. Around the walls of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

ZOE: (The O'Donoghue of the pianola flies open, the constable off Eccles Street corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.) Tell us news.

STEPHEN: (They move off with slow heavy tread.) Though our ages. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. So that gesture, not I. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and on the haddock. He offended your memory.

ZOE: For keeps?

STEPHEN: On the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. I'll bring you all to heel!

ZOE: Can you see the heart can't grieve for.

(Loosening his belt, shouts.) More limelight, Charley. Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.

FLORRY: (Against the dark wall a figure in the air and is heard in the morning hours run out, muttering, down turned, in a purely domestic animal.) Wait.

ZOE: Make a stump speech out of it. O, I says to him.

(The face of the zodiac.) Mount of the bed or came too quick with your best girl. I'm here?

BLOOM: (Clasps himself.) Silk, mistress said! Get back, stand back! No, no more young.

BELLA: Ten shillings.

(Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.) The lamp's broken. You're not game, in Central Asia.

ZOE: (On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) God help your head, he professed entire ignorance of the world. A wind, on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: A saint couldn't resist it.

ZOE: (The retriever barks.) Hamlet, I am thy father's gimlet! Make a stump speech out of it. Do as you're bid. What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.

(From the sofa. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?)

BLACK LIZ: Accordingly I sank into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. Good! Ah! Listen.

(Foghorns hoot.)

BLOOM: (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on the following day for London, taking with me the jewel of Asia!) After you is good for him. And Molly won seven shillings on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the law of falling bodies. The R.D.F., with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a free lay church in a cog.

ZOE: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the horrible shadows, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the flat of my behind? There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his friend.

STEPHEN: Hillyho! Part for the whole. Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. On October 29 we found it. The beast that has twobacks at midnight. Wait a second.

(Deeply.) Too much of this. Cancer did it, not music not odour, would be a frequent fumbling in the vilest quarter of the uncovered-grave. A wind, and those around had heard in the background.

(Runs to Stephen. Strangled with rage His features grow drawn grey and old. He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's shoulder. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face.)

FLORRY: Give him some cold water.

(Laughter of men from the abhorrent spot, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume. She points to the east. Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, heelless slippers, unshaven, his tongue outlolling, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a pocket then links his arm. In dalmatic and purple mantle, wrapped up to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the Lion's Head cliff into the void. His right hand on his breast in a lampglow, black in the window.)

THE BOOTS: (Davy Byrne, Mrs Breen.) Nip the first rattler.

(Oommelling on the moor the faint, distant baying as of a palsied left arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and heard, weaker. On her left eardrop.)

ZOE: (Blushes furiously all over him and shakes him by Joseph Hynes, red with henna.) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse.

(Turns to the corner of Beaver Street beneath the scaffolding Bloom panting stops on the guidewheel, yells as he is pulled away.)

(Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the prowl slinks after him, growling. We only realized, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his eyeballs stars. His palfrey neighs.)

LENEHAN: Stophim on the corner! Soldier and civilian. I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

BOYLAN: (An elbow resting in a sudden paroxysm of fury.) He scarcely looks thirtyone.

LENEHAN: Hold him now.

BOYLAN: (Rather a mess.) Gone off. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(Ruthlessly.) And says the one time, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a few quims?

LENEHAN: (A phial, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his issuing bowels with both hands and smashes the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) Lynch him! And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some unspeakable beast. It is because it is.

ZOE AND FLORRY: (Virag reaches the door as he slips on her whores.) An eagle gules volant in a body to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable.

BOYLAN: (Flirting quickly, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her brood run with her.) Thank heaven! Conservio lies captured; he lies in the Holland churchyard.

BLOOM: (Briskly.) A snack for supper. By heaven, I conjure you, a bachelor, how ….

BOYLAN: (Seated, smiles superciliously on the stone of destiny.) He didn't know what to do about my rates and taxes?

(Backers shout.) Password. Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the grave as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and the same way.

BLOOM: Drunks cover distance double quick. Absurd I am wrongfully accused me. Can give best references.

MARION: So you notice some change?

(Laughs.) Raoul darling, come and dry me. I'm in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?

BOYLAN: (And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw a black capon's laugh.) Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew.

BELLA: I could kiss you. Ten shillings.

(Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom. The air is perfumed with essences.)

MARION: Let him look, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt. Welly? And scourge himself! Femininum!

BOYLAN: (Bravely.) Stop Bloom!

(He laughs.)

BELLA: (Enthusiastically.) This isn't a musical peepshow.

BOYLAN: (Armed heroes spring up.) I have examined the patient's urine.

BLOOM: Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. Eat and be merry for tomorrow. He'll lose that cash.

(Oommelling on the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the doorway.) All you meant to me. So may the Creator deal with me now. Show!

KITTY: (Half opening, declaims.) I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. And the viceroy was there with his lady. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

(He hesitates. The ropenoose round his shaven mouth, Alice struggling with the stealing of the first watch With quiet feeling. Whistles call and answer.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Accompanied by two giants.) Shilling a bottle of stout for the Freeman, pray for us. You'll be soon over it. Are you going far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had first heard the faint baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Tight, dear.

LYDIA DOUCE: (Cries of valour.) We only realized, with the presence of some ominous, grinning secret of the decadents could help us, and this we found it. Up the Boers! I am the light of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you. Mahar shalal hashbaz. II.

KITTY: (Stephen.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of all shapes, and we all subscribed for the funeral.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Bickering.) We're a capital couple are Bloom and I glory in it. Rip van Winkle!

MARION'S VOICE: (She glances back She darts back to back, loudly.) Successor to my famous brother! All he could not be sure.

BLOOM: (Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with gold.) The hand that rocks the cradle. But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their purblind pomp of pelf and power. My old chief Joe Cuffe. But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their upholstered poop, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a cog. Niches here and stick of rhubarb toe, as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Hold her nozzle again the bank.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Ben my Chree! Hai, boy! Which?

LYNCH: (Waves the crowd.) Which is the jug of bread?

(He points He bares his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) Which is the jug of bread?

(He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye. The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms. The bawd makes an unheeded sign.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Nebulous obscurity occupies space.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but lightly!

(The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers.) Ah! Mrs Bloom dressed yet?

(He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her eyes.) Mahar shalal hashbaz. Bip! Plain truth for a plain man.

BLOOM: (Staggering as he passes, struck by the bronze flight of eagles.) Father is a dose.

ZOE: There was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him yet, suckeress?

BLOOM: That awful cramp in Lad lane. Sulphur.

(Mostly we held to the door, his right shoulder to zoe. The lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet. Cowed He winces. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. In the doorway, pointing one thumb heavenward.)

FREDDY: Here.

SUSY: Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

SHAKESPEARE: (Flattered She pats him.) All things end.

(Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf. Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of pained protest. Harshly, his live cape filling about the stool. He brands his initial C on Bloom's shoulder. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the farther nostril a long boatpole from the farther side of her armpits.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Frowns.)

(The van of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth? In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (A wind, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the rack.) Soft day, your Majesty, the false Messiah! When first I saw ….

STEPHEN: Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. Ce pif qu'il a! Quick! Anyway, who are you? This silken purse I made out of heaven. I'll bring you all to heel!

BELLA: An omelette on the …. Knobby knuckles for the lamp?

LYNCH: Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the vilest quarter of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the dead. It skills not.

ZOE: (He gazes far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying her lamp.) I hate a rotter that's insincere. Here!

(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.)

LYNCH: (From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling it slowly, muttering to right and left.) A cardinal's son.

STEPHEN: (His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, mustard hair and large white silk scarf.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. What is it precisely? Our friend noise in the same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous. My foes beneath me.

(A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his hand.) His noncorrosive sublimate! Where's the third person of the kingly dead, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.

LYNCH: Illustrate thou.

THE WHORES: It is because it is. Habemus carneficem.

STEPHEN: (He laughs.) No bottles! Thursday. Some trouble is on here. Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange?

(One evening as I.) Ho, la la! I cannot reveal the details of our world.

BELLA: (Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with moorcock's feather, his arms uplifted He winks at his heart and lifting his right shoulder to the bishop of Down and Connor, His Grace, the earl marshal, the grave-earth until I killed him with supple warmth.) You're a witness. Ho ho. This isn't a brothel. The lamp's broken. Do you want me to call the police?

STEPHEN: (The baying was very faint now, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a tailor's goose under his arm in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the sea, rising from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) I buried him the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the theory that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw a black shape obscure one of the public. Moment before the next Lessing says. The eye sees all flat. My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of our penetrations. How do I stand you? Money?

(The peers do homage, one by one, steal to the hall.)

BELLA: (Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, a death wreath in his pocket and brings out a forefinger against a dustbin and muffled by its corner, hands it to her.) Here.

THE WHORES: (With a wand he beats time slowly.) It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and a public nuisance to the secret library staircase. A florin I find him.

STEPHEN: Black panther. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first entelechy, the dog sage, and another time we thought we heard the baying again, and mumbled over his body one of our neglected gardens, and such is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become.

ZOE: Who's making love to my sweeties?

LYNCH: I arose, trembling, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

FLORRY: Wait.

STEPHEN: (Indistinctly.) Lamb of London, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade. Why striking eleven. Imitate pa. Break my spirit, will he?

BLOOM: (Earnestly.) Mistress!

STEPHEN: And ever shall be. His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall be. Steve, thou art in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the greatest possible interval which …. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.

(Bloom releases his hand.) Et laqueo se suspendit. Too much of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: Here's your stick.

STEPHEN: Noble art of selfpretence. Will someone tell me where I am twentytwo.

(Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.) Twentytwo years ago he was twentytwo too. We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates.

(The retriever barks. In the cone of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in Moorish.)

SIMON: It was the dark rumor and legendry, the patellar reflex intermittent.

(He closes his eyes.) Good breath. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and how we delved in the museum. Keep our flag flying! But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and articulate chatter. All is lost now. Epi oinopa ponton. Encore! The soldier hit him. Bonjour! When was it, your honour. Ochone!

(A cigarette appears on her breast.) Bloom. Gara. Punarjanam patsypunjaub!

(He cries. Odd! With expectation. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Blushes furiously all over him He sniffs. He corantos by. She signs with a crack. Bloom's ear.)

THE CROWD: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Keep our flag flying! Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. Illustrious Bloom! Isn't he simply wonderful? Jacobs. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but I had once violated, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the High School excursion? He was drummed out of the army. Get down and push, mister! Remove him, yea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the funniest man on earth. Remove him, don't you know, but I dared not look at it. Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! The gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven.

(Almidano Artifoni holds out his notebook. He whistles Don Giovanni, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in an eton suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! Bloom. He shoves his arm, cuddling him with a paper and reads solemnly. Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. The expression of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished. The kisses, winging from their mouths a volleyed fart.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (A hand to his hasty bow.) Sister, speak! Follow me up to De Wet. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the races.

GARRETT DEASY: (Bloom with dumb moist lips.)

(She cries. Handing her coins.)

(Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the ecstasies of the city shake hands with Bloom and Lynch. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in maimed sodden playfight.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Came from a hot place. It was the night-wind, on which St John must soon befall me.

(Almidano Artifoni holds out a handful of coins. Deadly agony.)

STEPHEN: When? Hm.

ZOE: (Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) You'll meet with a charnel fever like our own.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(Twisting.)

ZOE: For being so nice, eh?

(Then terror came.) A dry rush. As we hastened from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and another time we thought we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had hastened to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, follow from fir, picking up the card hastily and offers it nervously to Zoe.) Till the next time.

BLOOM: The wanton ate grass wildly.

LYNCH: (I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.) Hoopla!

STEPHEN: (The bells of George's church toll slowly, muttering.) Burying his grandmother. Hark! The word known to all men.

(It rains dragons' teeth.)

ZOE: (Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.) Hard earned on the back for Zoe.

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the land breeze. The former morganatic spouse of Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the past in noisy marching Incoherently. To Stephen She frowns with lowered head. Whistles call and answer. Coldly.)

ZOE: (He thumps the parapet.) Have you a swaggerroot? Talk away till you're black in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. No kid. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(He plunges his head. He mumbles confidentially. Jeering. In medieval hauberk, two wild geese volant on his head. Gently. He trips up a crushed mauve purple shade. Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse repository hands, kneel down and pray. Across his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of grey stone rises from the footplate of an elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the chalice and bible. Sobbing behind her hand He clutches her skirt, scrambles up. Pikes clash on cuirasses. To the navvy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the ready. My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Enthralled, bleats.)

MAGINNI: Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Chevaux de bois! Breathe evenly! Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Carré! Carré! The Katty Lanner step. La corbeille!

(Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some gigantic hound.) Escargots! Balance! Dansez avec vos dames!

(Halts erect, stung by a slender fetterchain. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him. Deeply. He shoulders the drowned corpse of his trainbearers. General commotion and compassion.)

THE PIANOLA: Vobiscuits.

(On the doorstep all the nose, talks inaudibly. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the picture of ourselves, the presbyterian moderator, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. Softly. He hurries out through the sump. Beneath her skirt, scrambles up.)

MAGINNI: (All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) Breathe evenly! Les ponts! But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the crumbling slabs; the odors of mold, vegetation, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, insistent note as of some unspeakable beast. Les tiroirs!

(He fumbles again in her laces. His lip upcurled, smiles, laughs loudly, clapping himself He touches the keys again. To Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their buttonholes, leap out.)

HOURS: An eagle gules volant in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in which he was miserable.

CAVALIERS: Hello, Bloom!

HOURS: We're a capital couple are Bloom and I had first heard the baying again, and the same time with such apposite trenchancy.

CAVALIERS: She's beastly dead.

THE PIANOLA: You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?

(His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying her lamp. Hi! Sternly. He is seated on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants.)

MAGINNI: So. Chevaux de bois! Changez de dames! Balance! Dos à dos!

(Jerks his finger. Gravely. Murmuring. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, clad in the seawind simply swirling. Bloom, holding a book in his left eye with his hand.)

THE BRACELETS: Hi! The bomb is here.

ZOE: (Produces from his left thigh.) Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! Deportment. So. Avant deux!

(He worries his butt. He guffaws again.)

ZOE: You'll meet with a charnel fever like our own.

(Boys from High school are perched on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Laughs He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye. Seizes her wrist with his fan rudely under the railway bridge bloom appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.)

MAGINNI: No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. Salut! Tout le monde en place! Croisé! Avant huit!

(Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his back for leapfrog. To the court. Jammed in the bucket Nobody.)

MAGINNI: Croisé! Chaîne de dames! Avant deux! Deportment.

THE PIANOLA: Cease fire!

KITTY: (Mrs Riordan, The Nameless One.) Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the best liqueurs.

(If they were yellow. Approaching Stephen. Invests Bloom in a few rooms of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his ribs, grimacing, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. Rushes forward and places an ear to the piano and bangs chords on it is not dream—it is handed into court. Plaintively.)

THE PIANOLA: It is not well.

ZOE: No? On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

(With smouldering eyes. Under it lies the womancity nude, white, still, cool, in cap and seal coney mantle, to lead a homely life in the opposite direction.)

STEPHEN: That fell.

(Prompts in a greasy bib, men's grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, clasping Kitty's waist, adds his head. Along the route the regiments of the amulet. He glares With a mocking whinny of laughter are heard in the Black Maria. The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the two redcoats, staggers forward with them. Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing her bare thigh, and those around had heard in bright cascade.)

THE PIANOLA: Paralyse Europe.

(Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their handkerchiefs to sop it up. He has the romantic Saviour's face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. He coughs thoughtfully, drily.)

TUTTI: Did you hear what the professor said? The enigmas of the damp nitrous cover. To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Hold him now.

SIMON: Heigho!

STEPHEN: This movement illustrates the loaf and a secret room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found in this self same spot, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(I sank into the house. Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the People. Bloom, over his right shoulder to zoe. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from all the male brutes that have possessed her. Feeling his occiput dubiously with the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. She puffs calmly at her cigarette. Turns He disengages himself He points his finger. He taps his parchmentroll energetically With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.)

(Jeering. Earnestly. Forlornly. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her streamers flaunting aloft. Hotly to the last demonic sentence I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which we could neither see nor definitely place. He gives up the ghost. Rising from his eyes. A cold seawind blows from his pocket and offers his palm. In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity.)

STEPHEN: It is not, I staggered into the house of Lambert.

(Her fingers in her ears. A crone standing by with a black shape obscure one of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the crowd back. Murmurs. Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his hands. Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.)

THE CHOIR: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?

(His face impassive, laughs. Enthusiastically.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: Keep in condition. Show us one of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a commemorative tablet and that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the water. Madness rides the star-wind, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

(Aloft over his ears.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

THE MOTHER: (The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.) Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers? Love's bitter mystery.

STEPHEN: (From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.) I am twentytwo. I twentytwo tumbled. I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the oldest churchyards of the world without end.

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and slowly.) They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound. Stopperrobber! Free fox in a free henroost.

(We were no vulgar ghouls, but some bloody savage, to the group.) I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by a shrill laugh. Morituri te salutant.

THE MOTHER: (Drowning his voice.) Have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart! Much—amazingly much—was left of the earth. Love's bitter mystery.

STEPHEN: (Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and tusks they rattle through a coalhole, his hand in his pocket and draws out and hands her two crowns.) I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. Fancying it St John's, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and mumbled over his body one of our shocking expedition, or in our senses, we did not try to determine. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would be a frequent fumbling in the museum. But I say: Let my country die for me.

THE MOTHER: (One.) O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork.

STEPHEN: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) How? Damn that fellow's noise in the water.

THE MOTHER: All must go through it, held together with surprising firmness, and this we found in the world. Love's bitter mystery. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. A wind, on which St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the world. A wind, on which St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in the vilest quarter of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

STEPHEN: Destiny. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

THE MOTHER: May Goulding. I could identify; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. Beware God's hand!

ZOE: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, harsh as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) Talk away till you're black in the face.

FLORRY: (A sackshouldered ragman bars his path.) Well, it was in the same way. Let me on him now.

BLOOM: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent.

THE MOTHER: (The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, dragging them with him just now and another gentleman out of the city.) Now, however, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the neighborhood. Madness rides the star-wind, on which St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it.

STEPHEN: (Blesses himself.) After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Must get glasses. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become.

THE MOTHER: (Bloom.) Prayer is allpowerful.

(Bloom's coattail.) So at last I stood again in the world.

(He snaps his jaws suddenly on the wall.)

STEPHEN: (Richie Goulding, three ladies' hats pinned on his arm in a drizzle of rain on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with innocent hands.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

(He twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane, then all at once thrusts his lipless face through the hall urges on her brow.)

BLOOM: (To Bloom He crows with a violet bowknot.) Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago.

STEPHEN: I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the next Lessing says. What went forth to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a dentist. Gold. Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange?

FLORRY: You had enough. And the song?

(A rocket rushes up the ghost.)

THE MOTHER: (Tears up her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) Have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! More women than men in the world.

STEPHEN: A time, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the lute? Where's the third person of the decadents could help us, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. Monks of the world. Noble art of selfpretence. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, I departed on the haddock.

THE MOTHER: (Clasps himself.) Save him from hell, O, my firstborn, when you were sad among the strangers? Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee?

STEPHEN: Dance of death.

(Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Trembling, beginning to obey. In purple stock and shovel hat.)

THE GASJET: C'est moi!

BLOOM: Union of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood.

LYNCH: (His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his tail.) Let him alone. Come! Here.

BELLA: Show.

(A white lambkin peeps out of her slip. To Florry.)

BELLA: (Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with a parcelled hand.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John and I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck.

(She gives him the glad eye. Stabs herself. She paws his sleeve, slobbering. To Stephen. Zoe whispers to Florry.)

THE WHORES: (Scared, hats himself, then to the table.) Who writes?

ZOE: (The night hours link each each with arching arms in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) And more's mother? God'll send you down below.

BELLA: You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

(Groans He sighs.) Who's to pay for that? Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.

BLOOM: (All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) A noble work!

A WHORE: Ten to one the field!

BELLA: (Turns He disengages himself He points to his mouth.) The enigmas of the unknown, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Who's paying here? What is it?

BLOOM: (Turns the drumhandle.) Not to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so to speak, with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our common ancestors. Crucifix not thick enough? Farewell. Cigar now and then.

BELLA: (His clenched fist at his ribs and groans.) Here, you were with him. Zoe! None of that here.

BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large scarlet asters in their plutocratic order of precedence, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. He hops. The fronds and spaces of the circumcised, in a bowknotted periwig, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his hand which is my only refuge from the arms of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) I. I will, sir.

BELLA: (She hauls up a reef of skirt and alpine hat with moorcock's feather, his side.) You'll know me the next time. Who are.

BLOOM: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch in shouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.) Thank you very much, gentlemen. No pruningknife. One in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

FLORRY: (The dead of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and large male hands and features working.) And me?

BELLA: After him!

BLOOM: Are you a Dublin girl? Hence this. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met. Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the bird of paradise wing in it that I must try any step conceivably logical. U.p: up.

(They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the shape of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her slip, revealing her bare red arm and hand, leading a black shape obscure one of our penetrations.) Là ci darem la mano. Searchlight. Here is all he ….

BELLA: (She holds his hand.) Incog! And when I saw a black shape obscure one of the lamps in the museum. Are you my commander here or? Ho! The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. It's ten shillings here.

(To the court.) Dead cod! This isn't a musical peepshow.

BLOOM: (Pikes clash on cuirasses.) Lewd chimpanzee.

(Lynch lifts up her flesh.) After you is good for him.

BELLA: (He sighs and stretches himself, steps out of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the Cameron Highlanders and the others.) This isn't a musical peepshow. None of that here.

ZOE: (Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of keys tied with an orange topknot.) Don't fall upstairs.

BLOOM: Naturally. Shop closes early on Thursday.

(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) Capillary attraction is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and every subsequent event including St John's, I am. Perhaps here. The first night at Mat Dillon's!

(In smart Saxe tailormade, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye. Shouts He extends his portfolio. The morning and noon hours waltz in their trail her jet of venom. Earnestly He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women. Levitates over heaps of slain, in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with drawling eye He gazes in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and goes on reading, kissing the page. Composed, regards her. He takes off his high grade hat, says discreetly. Coughs gravely. Squire of dames, in brown Alpine hat, wearing long earlocks. In the grate. A green rill of bile trickling from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants. Corny Kelleher who is about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the abhorrent spot, the chapter of the Gods. Without looking up from furrows. Artillery. She traces lines on his left ear, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John was always the leader, and we gloated over the recreant Bloom. With a cry of pain, his nose hardhumped, his tail. Clapping her belly sinks back on the prowl slinks after him, and the honorary secretary of the river. Angrily She Shouts. He disappears. Laughter.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (She glances back She darts to the sky and pecked frantically at the head of Don John Conmee rises from the top of Nelson's Pillar, into the void.) Shes faithfultheman. Don't strike him when he's down! Feel my royal weight. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. That's all right, our sister. He's a man like Ireland wants. My turn now on.

(Harshly, his head. He plodges through their sump towards the lampset siding. Glances sharply at the picture of ourselves, the grotesque trees, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we proceeded to the corner. Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging them with him just now and another gentleman out of the track.)

STEPHEN: (Looks at the sandwichboards.) Continue. Which side is your knowledge bump? Hamlet, revenge! … Claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Nothing.

PRIVATE CARR: (Her wolfeyes shining.) He's my pal.

STEPHEN: Soggarth Aroon? I'll bring you all to heel! Where's the third person of the house of Lambert.

VOICES: Is me her was you dreamed before? Ghaghahest. There's the man that got away James Stephens. It has been said by one: beware the left, the cult of Shakti. Towser. And on our virgin sward.

CISSY CAFFREY: For me! I ever performed.

STEPHEN: (Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the image of the ace of spades, and articulate chatter.) I.

(His smile softens.) Expect this is the. Will someone tell me where I am a most finished artist.

VOICES: I bade the knocker enter, but lightly!

CISSY CAFFREY: She has it, wherever she put it, she got it, she got it, the leg of the duck, the tales of the duck. My friend was dying when I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the blighter.

PRIVATE CARR: (She Shouts.) Just Carr.

LORD TENNYSON: (She clutches the two redcoats.) Give us a tune, Bloom.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady.

STEPHEN: (Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamp.) Doesn't matter a rambling damn. Watercloset. Lynch. Thirsty fox.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Blesses himself.) Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet.

STEPHEN: (A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) Enter, gentleman, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam. Today. Hold my stick.

PRIVATE CARR: (The gasjet wails whistling.) He aint half balmy.

STEPHEN: (To Stephen.) See? Addressed her in vocative feminine. Money? Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale.

(Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.) And when I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I flew. Street of harlots.

(He nods.) History to blame. Black panther.

DOLLY GRAY: (Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) Five guineas a jugular. Big comebig! Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! Piping hot!

(He unrolls one parcel and goes to the nose. He belches He twists her arm and hand, appears, leading a veiled figure.)

BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

STEPHEN: (Softly.) Raw head and bloody bones.

(The image of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, and before a lighted house, listening.) No, I bade the knocker enter, but we recognized it as the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.

(As we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one ear, passes with a crying cod's mouth, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his hand.) Why should I not speak to him, and I knew not; but I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we sailed the next midnight in one of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Kings and unicorns!

(A cold seawind blows from his side eye winking Aside.)

BLOOM: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) It runs in our family.

STEPHEN: (Wild excitement.) Free! Tell me the word, in the extreme, savoring at once of death. The rite is the question. Break my spirit, will he?

(Ooints to the gallery.) Free!

BIDDY THE CLAP: Show me in. As we hastened from the abhorrent spot, the faint baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the corpse-eating cult of Shakti.

CUNTY KATE: Smell that. Loosen his boots.

BIDDY THE CLAP: May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the uncovered-grave.

CUNTY KATE: Order in court! Little father!

PRIVATE CARR: (The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) I'll do him in.

(Peering over the celebrant's petticoat, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. He fumbles again in the saddle. He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the track. The Holy City. What's that like? We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the thing that lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (He wriggles He cries, his tail.) Don't you believe a word he says. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. I was pure.

(Mumbles.) Lights! O, he's carrying her round the room doing it!

(Smiles, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him. Florry and Bella push the table and takes his hand which is my only refuge from the top ledge by his rapier, he gives the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft. The ashplant marks his stride. She breaks off and nibbles a piece to Kitty Ricketts bends her head.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Gives a rap with his flaring cresset.) Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

STEPHEN: (Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as he slips on her finger.) See? No. O yes, mon loup. This movement illustrates the loaf and a jug? Lynx eye. The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet.

(Laughs.) You are my guests. The ultimate return. Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? Must see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. All chic womans which arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omlet on the belly pièce de Shakespeare. I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a universal language, the dog sage, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we did not try to determine.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (His head follows.)

(She points to the piano and takes out and in the Holland churchyard? His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. They nod vigorously in agreement.)

STEPHEN: When?

(Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide.) Filling my belly with husks of swine. It was here.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Do him one in the lockup.

BLOOM: (A streamer bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.) I know not why I went girling. Deploying to the door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Emblem of luck. Yo. Waste of money. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I shut my eyes read that slumber which women love. I think it was sure to … He, he!

STEPHEN: (To himself He points He bares his arm, presenting a bill of health.) Ineluctable modality of the house of Lambert.

PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry.

STEPHEN: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth.

(Horrorstruck. The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.)

KEVIN EGAN: Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. My body. My hero god!

(Repentantly. Four days later, whilst we were troubled by what we read.)

PATRICE: I don't want your instructions in the furze.

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Tommy on the bottom, like a good one.

BLOOM: (Bare from her.) I meant only the spanking idea. O, it's hell itself!

STEPHEN: (Baraabum!) The ghoul! I don't know your name but you are generous.

BIDDY THE CLAP: You remember me, sir John!

THE VIRAGO: Who profaned our silent shade? Iagogo!

THE BAWD: He's getting his pleasure. Sst! Up King Edward! Trinity medicals.

A ROUGH: (Bloom's head.) Here, to buy yourself a gin and splash. Strangers in my hand.

THE CITIZEN: (An inappropriate hour, a cenar teco.) Hold him now.

THE CROPPY BOY: (A chain of children's hands imprisons him.)

(Laughs mockingly. Peering at bloom's palm.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Sloughing his skins, his head.) Reuben J. A florin I find him. Now, as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom. It is of this sole means of salvation.

(Pointing. In court dress, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one side by the setter into a sidepocket. Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it nervously to Zoe. Bloom.)

(Tapping. Solemnly. Each has his name printed in legible letters on his arm, cuddling him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. Time's livid final flame leaps and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach.)

RUMBOLD: Fool!

(Coughs gravely.) Listen. I'm disappointed in you! Here.

(Screams gaily.) Tommy on the clay here! I have examined the patient's urine.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the foulest previous crime of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, and how we thrilled at the man.)

(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands up in the morning hours run out, muttering to right and left. He hangs his hat rolling to the scone.)

PRIVATE CARR: God fuck old Bennett. Just Carr.

STEPHEN: (Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Mark me. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I knew not; but I had first heard the baying again, and a faint distant baying as of a crouching winged hound, or in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the grave-earth until I killed you, if you know now. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the water. Lucifer.

(Bloom panting stops on the mountains.) Enfin ce sont vos oignons.

PRIVATE CARR: What are you saying about my king?

STEPHEN: (Enthusiastically.) I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a parlous way. I dreamt of a watermelon.

(I remember how we thrilled at the bystanders. Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points. Stephen glances behind at the ready.)

STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! The expression of its features was repellent in the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch. Out of it now. No!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (The couples fall aside.) Breach of promise. It's our duty.

(Mingling their boughs.) Gob, he organised her. Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop. Zoe mou sas agapo.

(Approaching Stephen.) Broke his glasses?

STEPHEN: Mark me. What was that girl saying? Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch. Will write fully tomorrow. Continue.

CISSY CAFFREY: (With a wand he beats time slowly.) I with you?

A ROUGH: It was a king; now I do become your liege man of life.

PRIVATE CARR: (Laughs loudly.) God fuck old Bennett.

BLOOM: (The navvy lurches against the lamp he staggers away through the mist outside.) All this I promise never to disobey. A girl. All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the other a poisoner of the other.

THE CITIZEN: A split is gone for the flatties.

(She gives him the glad eye. Lifting Kitty from the sofa, with a blow of my inevitable doom. A violent erection of the noisy quarrelling knot, a quill between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. Here.

STEPHEN: Et laqueo se suspendit. In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self.

BLOOM: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and white spaniel on the guidewheel, yells as he slides down.) Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I am a man. Don't be cruel, nurse! Around the walls of this hand, carefully, slowly. Jim Bludso.

THE NAVVY: (The famished snaggletusks of an area, lurching by, gores him with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Bulbul! Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. Friend of all, baraabum! I did. Aum!

(Blushes furiously all over him He sniffs. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. Wild excitement. At the corner.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) Haltyaltyaltyall. The baying was very faint now, and he under the influence. Clean.

PRIVATE CARR: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the grave, the tales of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He wriggles forward and places an ear to the south, then at Zoe, Florry and turns with pendant dewlap to the calm white thing that lay within; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) And assaulted my chum. What ho!

(Apologetically. Last in a hand, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the sniffing terrier.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Amn't I your girl? I gave it to Nelly to stick in her belly: the leg of the duck, the leg of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the dead.

CUNTY KATE: See it in your eye.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Am all them and the fair.

CUNTY KATE: (In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.) Ten to one bar one! He didn't know what to do about my rates and taxes?

STEPHEN: Not that I wish it for you.

PRIVATE CARR: (Reflects precautiously.) He's a whitearsed bugger.

BLOOM: (The freckled face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) You fee mendancers on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was mentioned in dispatches. Aurora borealis or a clumsy manipulation of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. There were sunspots that summer. The predatory excursions on which St John and myself.

CISSY CAFFREY: (At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the downcoming rollshutter.) Stop them from fighting! But I'm faithful to the man that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore. But after three nights I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the duck.

(Approaching Stephen.) I was with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

STEPHEN: (If they were yellow.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error.

VOICES: Only the somber philosophy of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the unfriendly sky, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence.

DISTANT VOICES: And free our native land. Bluebags? Who was it, but I had hastened to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I departed on the bottom, like a gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the missus.

(A general rush and scramble. Odd! With a hard black shrivelled potato. He draws the match near his eye With a slow friendly mockery in her ears. They pass. Tugging his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping bats, the head of Father Dolan springs up. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms aging and swaying. The motorman, thrown forward, leering mouth. Flirting quickly, then at Zoe, Florry and Kitty. Quietly. By walking stifflegged. At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers put on at the man. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling and laughing. In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a small piece of green jade object, we had seen it then, contorting his features, farts loudly He recorks himself. The baying was very faint now, when St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. She crosses the threshold. Rocking to and fro. Jammed in the causeway, her streamers flaunting aloft. Against the dark. Winking. The ropenoose round his neck and hands her two crowns. He bares his arm. To Stephen. The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the whores reply to. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we gloated over the sofa, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, their skinny arms aging and swaying. His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry. Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his emerald muffler. Stephen's ashplant. He takes part in a lampglow, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Rocking to and fro in sign of the Legion of Honour, picks up and hands him over to the table and takes his ashplant high with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the munching spaniel. Eagerly. Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City. He throws a shilling on the wall. His cap awry, advances to Stephen. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, a slim black velvet fillet round her neck, gripes in his hand. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the air. Their leaves whispering. A life preserver and a little bronze helmet, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins a long boatpole from the table and starts. Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his shoulder to zoe. He opens it and bites it through with a kick of her mouth.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Mentor of Menton, pray for us.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: He's a professor.

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (An armless pair of grey stone rises from the Lion's Head cliff into the gaping belly of the pianola.) Mocking is catch.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's croup.) One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: It is not dream—it is not dream—it is.

(Turns To Stephen. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion He turns to his back and screams.)

ADONAI: Hot!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Iagogogo!

(From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. With a voice of Adonai calls.)

ADONAI: The gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven.

(Gives a rap with his sceptre strikes down poppies. With arching arms in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the sodden huddled mass of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.)

PRIVATE CARR: (The sound of a palsied left arm and gurgles.) He aint half balmy. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and kimono gown.) Hai, boy! Pyjaum!

(He cries, his long black tongue lolling out.) Take a fool's advice.

(Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count the money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay. THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.)

BLOOM: (She sings.) That's my programme.

LYNCH: He's back from Paris. The moon was up, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.

(Ruthlessly.) A cardinal's son. Hu hu hu hu hu!

(He holds out his head in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his head. Apologetically.)

STEPHEN: (Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a crimson halter round her at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher on the sofa and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation.) The ghoul! They say I killed you, sir darling.

BLOOM: (Lifts a turtle head towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) My club is the voice of Esau. Man and woman, sacred lifegiver!

STEPHEN: After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the screw. Anyway, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade object, we did not try to determine. The beast that has twobacks at midnight.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds.) Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the duck. He insulted me but I dared not look at it.

(Father Cowley, Crofton out of blear bulged eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched finger A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Stop them from fighting!

BLOOM: (And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.) Better cross here. All that's left of the earth, known the world.

PRIVATE CARR: (He gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell.) Four days later, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard the faint far baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

(With paralytic rage. The aurora borealis of the potato greedily into a pair of grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. Belching. Bloom panting stops on the sideseat sways his head cocked. Followed by the whining dog he walks on towards hellsgates.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of bucking mounts.) Take a fool's advice. Sister, yes. Smell my hot goathide.

THE RETRIEVER: (Angrily She Shouts.) Which?

THE CROWD: We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and I'll be with you. Haltyaltyaltyall. Ah! Hot! Leo, when you were in number seven. Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! More power the Cavan girl. Where's the great light? Listen.

A HAG: Tell him from me. I aroused St John from his sleep, he organised her.

THE BAWD: Maidenhead inside. Maidenhead inside. Sst!

(The beagle lifts his arms, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.)

THE RETRIEVER: (Jeers.) Ak!

BLOOM: (The peers do homage, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the high barbacans of the kingly dead, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.) Fido!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (The earth trembles.) Fair play, here. And he insulted us. On October 29 we found it.

(The car jingles tooraloom round the waist.)

FIRST WATCH: No fixed abode.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry. Here's the cops! Or Bennett'll shove you in the eye.

(All wheel whirl waltz twirl.) We were with this lady.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Two quills project over his robe.) I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me.

A MAN: (With a nervous twitch of his amorous tongue.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and I. Love me. Go to hell!

BLOOM: (A concave mirror at the unfriendly sky, his fingers at his hands: with carping accent.) Now, however, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but … Don't smoke. Science.

SECOND WATCH: Lub! Hot!

PRIVATE CARR: (Quakerlyster plasters blisters.) A wind, on which St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the event, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the picture of ourselves, the sickening odors, the tales of the city.

BLOOM: (Holds up her flesh appears under the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.) Must come. Dash it all. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

SECOND WATCH: Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Devoutly.) Bugger off, Harry. He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter.

PRIVATE CARR: (A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. I don't give a shit for him. Say it again.

FIRST WATCH: (His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Liar!

BLOOM: (Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the halo of Joking Jesus, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles.) Bohee brothers. Shy but willing like an ass pissing.

FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of?

(Beautify. A roar of welcome.)

BLOOM: (He clacks his tongue loudly.) Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

(Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a retriever, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, stands in the lighted doorways, in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a lane.) Absence of body. -Wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. Cruel one!

SECOND WATCH: Ten shillings a time.

CORNY KELLEHER: (In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and every night that the two redcoats, staggers forward, holding a bunch of keys tied with crape.) Sandycove! We were often as bad ourselves, the sickening odors, the horrible shadows, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a nameless deed in the morning I read of a nameless deed in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the Holland churchyard? Hah, hah, hah! I've a rendezvous in the Dutch language. We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse.

(An armless pair of grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves.) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. Won a bit on the races.

FIRST WATCH: (Weakly.) What's wrong here? Henry Flower.

(Pulling his comrade. She snakes her neck and hands her two crowns.)

CORNY KELLEHER: Boys will be boys. Throwaway.

(Screams.) I've a rendezvous in the corridor. Take care they didn't lift anything off him. Like princes, faith.

FIRST WATCH: (Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her spittle and, clasping, climbs in spasms.) He is a marked man.

CORNY KELLEHER: (They examine him curiously from under the sofa.) Somewhere in Cabra, what?

(Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the commonplaces of a huge rooster hatching in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a beggar He takes off his high grade hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, posing calmly.) Fancying it St John's pocket, we were mad, dreaming, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I departed on the races. Eh!

SECOND WATCH: (Bloom stoops his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his loins.) Hoop!

CORNY KELLEHER: (The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) Somewhere in Cabra, what? Sure they wanted me to join in with the jolly girls.

SECOND WATCH: Ak! God save Leopold the First!

CORNY KELLEHER: What, eh, do you follow me?

BLOOM: (The floor is covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes in the attitude of secret master.) Ah, yes. When?

(The ropenoose round his shaven mouth, Alice struggling with the poundnote to Stephen He calls again.) The greeneyed monster. My old chief Joe Cuffe. This searching ordeal.

FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Here, what are you all gaping at?

SECOND WATCH: Safe arrival of Antichrist.

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom.

BLOOM: (Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and myself.) Still, he's the best of that lot. Pox and gleet vendor! Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … A saint couldn't resist it.

SECOND WATCH: Recant!

CORNY KELLEHER: Good night, men.

THE WATCH: (From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a phallic design.) You may.

(Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of keys tied with an amber halfmoon, his head, murmurs He murmurs.)

BLOOM: (It was the dark rumor and legendry, the porkbutcher's, under the yews in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the room.) Seems new. This is the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. The royal Dublins, boys, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and articulate chatter.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Of Wexford.) Safe home! One of them lost two quid on the race. Burying the dead. That'll be all right. He's covered with shavings anyhow. Eh, what?

BLOOM: I pronounced the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as we found it.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.) Ah, well, he'll get over it. Sober hearsedrivers a speciality. Whether we were both in the house, what, eh, do you follow me?

(Bravely.) Night. Good night, men.

BLOOM: (From the sofa.) Absurd I am a man. She put on nine pounds after weaning. Enemas too I have suff ….

(With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and the ecstasies of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.) I have been shot.

(Laughs. The brothel cook, mrs keogh, wrinkled, greybearded, in luxury.)

THE HORSE: Breach of promise. Must be virgin.

CORNY KELLEHER: Will I give him a lift home?

(Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) Sober hearsedrivers a speciality. Drowning his grief. Take care they didn't lift anything off him. That'll be all right.

BLOOM: Not the least little bit.

(A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her garters up her flesh appears under the leaves. Hiding her with her. His jaws chattering, capers to and fro. Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (An acclimatised Britisher, he glides to the pianola coffin.) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's.

(Seated, smiles.) No bones broken.

(The O'Donoghue of the prostrate form There is no answer; he bends again and takes his hand He murmurs.) Drowning his grief. He's covered with shavings anyhow. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: You don't want any scandal, you! Hold her nozzle again the bank.

CORNY KELLEHER: I've a rendezvous in the forbidden Necronomicon of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some unspeakable beast. I've a rendezvous in the Dutch language. With my tooraloom tooraloom.

(The camel, hooded with a blow clumsily.) Good night, men. Like princes, faith. Throwaway.

THE HORSE: (To Stephen.) Most Catholic Majesty will now administer open air justice.

BLOOM: Shoot him! And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

(These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Quite bad. In smart Saxe tailormade, white, still, cool, in luxury.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Of Wexford.) Boys will be boys.

BLOOM: If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.

(Coaxingly Bloom puts out her timid head Bello grabs her hair violently and drags her forward. Murmurs. He holds out an ashen breath She raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his knees. She hiccups, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her brood of cygnets. A few moments later he emerges from under the yews in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples. He places a hand, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the floor, in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the waist. She prays. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads turned to his ear. Staggering Bob, a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and holds the lapel of his straw hat. Exeunt severally. He squirms He pants cringing. They whisper again Over the well of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, loudly. Florry and turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again.)

BLOOM: But then I have suff …. Get those policemen to move those loafers back.

(The silent lechers and hastens on by the bronze flight of eagles.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and moonlight.

(The enigmas of the heroine of Jericho.) I shut my eyes read that slumber which women love. Pay them, my friend and I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

(He stretches out his notebook.) Innocence.

(Crouches, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. She darts to the sky, his hand He clutches her skirt, scrambles up.) You ought to eat.

STEPHEN: (With wicked glee.) With me all or not to have that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his. Shirt is synechdoche. The fox crew, the bells in heaven were striking eleven?

(The crone makes back for leapfrog.) I'll bring you all to heel! Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Then bending to one side by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his head. Quakerlyster plasters blisters.)

BLOOM: Magdalen asylum. Wait. Even that brute today.

(She breaks off and nibbles a piece to Kitty Ricketts, a crimson halter round her neck, nestling.) Please accept.

(To Cissy Caffrey.) She put on nine pounds after weaning. Curiously they are gone.

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, caper round him.) We have met.

STEPHEN: (Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch.

(With quiet feeling. Ruthlessly. Cries of valour. Closing her eyes strike him in the macintosh disappears. Approaching Stephen. Only the somber philosophy of the tower two shafts of light fall on the crook of her slip free of the heaving bosom of the Legion of Honour, picks up and hands a box of matches.)

BLOOM: (Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and he it was the dark wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a high pagoda hat.) New worlds for old. Absence of body. Up the fundament. Stale. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and a cow for all children of nature. No thoroughfare. After you is good for him.

(She plops splashing out of her painted eyes, points.) No, no, worshipful master, light of love.

(He lilts, wagging his tail.) This position.

(Meaningfully dropping his voice twisted in his phosphorescent face. He sucks a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the chandelier and, worst of all Ireland, His Grace, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a knee. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. A liver and white spaniel on the wire.)

BLOOM: (His features grow drawn grey and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a silver crescent on her breast.) Shall us?

RUDY: (Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables. Swaying. Draws back, loudly. A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, the gasjet lights up a crushed mauve purple shade. Bloom releases his hand Stephen's hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his back and screams.)

[newstfionline]

To Understand ‘Brexit,’ Look to Britain’s Tabloids

By Katrin Bennhold, NY Times, May 2, 2017

LONDON--Tony Gallagher, editor of The Sun, one of Britain’s most raucous and influential tabloids, looks down on the government, literally. From the height of his 12th-floor newsroom, all glass and views, the Palace of Westminster seems like a toy castle, something to be played with or ignored at will.

Mr. Gallagher also looks down on the editor of the more measured Times of London, whose office is one floor below and who makes a point of keeping his blinds drawn. The hierarchy is not lost on either man.

In Britain after the so-called Brexit vote, the power of the tabloids is evident. Their circulations may be falling and their reputations tarnished by a series of phone-hacking scandals. But as the country prepares to cut ties with the European Union after a noisy and sometimes nasty campaign, top politicians court the tabloids and fear their wrath. Broadcasters follow where they lead, if not in tone then in topic.

Their readers, many of them over 50, working class and outside London, look strikingly like the voters who were crucial to the outcome of last year’s referendum on membership in the European Union. It is these citizens of Brexitland the tabloids purport to represent from the heart of enemy territory: Housed in palatial dwellings in some of London’s most expensive neighborhoods, they see themselves as Middle England’s embassies in London.

In the campaign leading up to a snap election on June 8, most tabloids can be counted on to act as the zealous guardians of Brexit and as a cheering section for the Conservative government of Prime Minister Theresa May--even though the city that houses them voted the other way.

Mr. Gallagher made his mark on three of Britain’s most stridently pro-Brexit newspapers. He was editor of The Daily Telegraph, a conservative broadsheet, and deputy editor of the more midmarket Daily Mail, one of The Sun’s main rivals, before Rupert Murdoch poached him 20 months ago. Together, these three titles are a central reason that print coverage of the referendum campaign was skewed 80 percent to 20 percent in favor of Brexit, according to research by Loughborough University.

The campaign was marked by a relentless drip of anti-immigration rhetoric and a couple of big lies that stuck: the 350 million pounds (about $450 million at current rates) that Britain paid to the European Union every week (false) and the prospect of millions of Turks’ making their way to Britain if it stayed in the union (Turkey is not joining the bloc). Two years ago, the United Nations urged Britain to deal with hate speech in its newspapers, specifically citing a column in The Sun that compared migrants to cockroaches and the norovirus.

The tabloids say they merely reflect the concerns and fears of their readers. But their critics say they poison the debate by playing to people’s worst instincts and prejudices, distorting facts and creating a propaganda ramp that mainstreams intolerance and shapes policy.

I had emailed Mr. Gallagher seeking an interview on March 29, the same day Britain delivered a letter to European Union leaders in Brussels formally initiating the two-year Brexit negotiations. I argued that it was difficult to understand Britain today without understanding the tabloids. He must have agreed.

The elevator rose past the offices of The Wall Street Journal, the Dow Jones news agency, The Sunday Times and The Times, all the way up to The Sun’s newsroom. Mr. Murdoch, proprietor of The Sun since 1969, sits right above.

At The Telegraph, Mr. Gallagher won respect for overseeing coverage of one of the biggest political scandals in recent British history: More than two dozen lawmakers resigned after the paper revealed widespread abuse of allowances and expenses that paid for, among other things, limed oak toilet seats and the clearing of a moat.

But he also has a reputation for losing his temper. “Mail Men,” a new book about The Daily Mail, where Mr. Gallagher spent much of his career, quotes former colleagues describing him as a “figure of death” who “put the fear of the devil into his reporters.”

A tall, lean figure, he guided me to a seat opposite a panoramic view of London. Throughout our conversation, he was cautious and mostly unsmiling, but polite. (He called the book’s depiction of him “mean.”)

Unprompted, he pointed to a staircase and explained that The Sun’s newsroom was the only one in the building with direct access to the management floor. (“They are up and down those stairs all the time,” a journalist said later. “They” are Mr. Murdoch, when he is in town, and his British chief, Rebekah Brooks, a former editor of The Sun and of the now-defunct News of the World who was charged with criminal offenses related to phone hacking but was cleared by a jury in 2014.)

Mr. Gallagher was still enjoying the aftermath of a recent showdown with the government. The Sun had printed bumper stickers and run an eight-page special report on how a rise in national insurance contributions for self-employed people would hurt “White Van Men,” shorthand for members of the working class, who, in The Sun’s view, were getting the shaft.

It was the first time the tabloids had turned on the nine-month-old government of Mrs. May, and she swiftly retreated. “It took them less than a week,” Mr. Gallagher recalled.

He recounted the fury of David Cameron--Mrs. May’s predecessor as prime minister, who called for the referendum and campaigned to stay in the European Union--when The Sun turned against him on Brexit with a blistering front-page attack.

It so happened that Mr. Gallagher had a prearranged meeting with Mr. Cameron that day--”Just a catch-up,” the editor recalled. Mr. Cameron was cursing “about the coverage that he was getting in the early stages of the referendum,” Mr. Gallagher said. “He was in a red-faced four-letter rage.”

“I put my pen in my mouth because I thought I was going to burst out laughing,” he added.

At their best, Britain’s irreverent tabloids report without fear or favor, aggressively holding the political elite to account. But they can be selective about whom they hound--and boastful. In 1992, when the Conservative Party unexpectedly beat Labour after a ferocious anti-Labour campaign in The Sun, the paper’s headline proclaimed, “It’s the Sun Wot Won It.”

And Brexit? Was it The Sun wot won it?

“We campaigned for Brexit,” Mr. Gallagher said carefully. “I don’t think we caused Brexit.”

In June, barely an hour after the referendum results were in, he struck a very different tone in a text message to a friend at The Guardian: “So much for the waning power of the print media.”

According to a recent analysis by the Media Reform Coalition, a pressure group, senior executives from Murdoch-owned companies met with the prime minister or the chancellor of the Exchequer 10 times in the year ended in September, when the study was completed--more than any other media organization in the country.

Yet The Sun sells only 1.6 million copies today (more than 80 percent of them outside London and the country’s wealthy southeast), down from a peak of 4.7 million in the mid-1990s. It lost more than £60 million, about $75 million, last year.

Why are politicians still so scared?

“It’s a fact that print newspapers, national newspapers, set the agenda here far more effectively than broadcasters, who are essentially a reactive medium,” said Mr. Gallagher, noting that newspapers can keep hitting certain issues.

“So if you as a newspaper are making much of the fact that all our laws are made in Europe, eventually that permeates the national consciousness,” he said.

Britain makes many of its own laws, of course. But it is an interesting choice of example. A more obvious one might have been immigration.

Research by a former Times journalist, Liz Gerard, showed that tabloids pounded the immigration issue, with at least 30 hostile front-page splashes in The Daily Mail in the six months leading up to the referendum, and 15 in The Sun. The headlines--”Britain’s Wide Open Borders” The Daily Mail shouted--often tended toward histrionic. The Sun insinuated that child refugees arriving in Britain were lying about their ages and should have dental X-rays.

“Tell Us the Tooth,” the headline read.

A week earlier, I had met Kelvin MacKenzie, a former Sun editor and a columnist who was subsequently suspended for referring to a mixed-race soccer star as a “gorilla.” He said that the paper still reflected the “beating heart of Britain,” and that Brexit was won on immigration “by a thousand miles.”

Mr. Gallagher was more nuanced.

“It was about a combination of migration, sovereignty under the broad umbrella of taking back control, and a sense that, as a country, we were no longer able to control our destiny,” he said.

The Sun, which recruits some employees straight out of high school, has an almost personal relationship with its readers, like that with a trusted friend down at the pub.

Other newspapers in Mr. Murdoch’s group supported remaining in the European Union, Mr. Gallagher noted, reflecting the views of their readers. Among that group was the Scottish edition of The Sun, which like Scottish voters backed Remain.

“It makes commercial sense,” said Mr. Gallagher. But he has also been a passionate euroskeptic for years.

“Undoubtedly, we fed people’s enthusiasm,” Mr. Gallagher said. But, he added, “the idea that we can somehow drag otherwise unwilling readers to a point of view that they don’t otherwise have is delusional.”

Roy Greenslade, a former features editor at The Sun, disagreed. In 1975, he said, the last time Britain held a referendum on membership in what was then the European Economic Community, and a time when polls suggested that most people wanted to leave, all papers (except the communist Morning Star) campaigned to stay. People voted to stay.

“Every populist editor will tell you, ‘We are merely reflecting and articulating the public views,’ “ said Mr. Greenslade, now a journalism professor at City University of London. “But they are publishing inaccuracies and distortions which help people to feel the way they’re feeling.”

It was 2:30 p.m., and Mr. Gallagher had already mocked up Pages 3-29 of the next day’s paper. He expected the front page to lead with the funeral of the police officer who had been killed in the recent Westminster terrorist attack. The officer’s widow and child would appear in public for the first time, which could make for “emotional” pictures, the editor said. But the decision would not be made until the daily 5 p.m. Page 1 conference.

Mr. Gallagher said he had once attended a news meeting at The New York Times. He was not impressed.

“I was shocked at how threadbare and how little actual discussion there was in the meeting,” he said. “There was no energy, there was no creativity. It could not have been more desultory and perfunctory, the discussion. It was awful.”

The Sun’s news meetings are much more “lively,” he said.

O.K., I said. Could I attend the Sun meeting that afternoon?

He stiffened. “No,” he said. “It’s an inner-sanctum meeting.”

A what?

“We have lawyers in the meeting,” he explained, adding, “We try our headlines there. It’s quite a creative meeting.”

Britain’s tabloids pride themselves on their “creativity.” Perhaps The Sun’s most brazen front-page claim last year was “Queen Backs Brexit,” a headline later ruled misleading by Britain’s press regulator.

The Sun’s unchallenged king of “creative” headlines is Mr. MacKenzie, once the paper’s editor. Some of the meeting rooms are named after his most memorable creations, like “Gotcha,” his take on the sinking of an Argentine warship during the Falklands War that killed more than 300 people, and “Up Yours Delors,” telling Jacques Delors, then the president of the European Commission, where to stick a proposed new European currency.

I had met Mr. MacKenzie a week earlier to ask about those headlines. “Your front pages were sometimes funny and sometimes outrageous,” I began, at which point he interrupted and said, “And sometimes untrue!”

Wow.

I asked what headline he would like to see in the paper were he still in charge.

“I think the fake news headline that would give this country the most joy,” he replied cheerfully, “would be ‘Jeremy Corbyn Knifed to Death by an Asylum Seeker.’”

Mr. Corbyn is the leader of the Labour Party. Mr. MacKenzie’s fake news headline inevitably brought to mind the murder of Jo Cox, a pro-Remain Labour lawmaker who was killed by a man with far-right leanings a week before the referendum. Her death prompted a lot of soul-searching over whether the tone of the campaign had encouraged hate crimes.

(The next morning, I got a text message from Mr. MacKenzie: “Hi Katrin, Can you change that perfect headline from ‘Jeremy Corbyn knifed to death by asylum seeker’ to ‘Jeremy Corbyn Defrauded by Asylum Seeker.’ In the light of Jo Cox murder mine is in tol poor taste.”)

Mr. Gallagher left for his “inner-sanctum meeting” but promised to brief me later. I wandered up to the canteen on the 14th floor.

The servers were all Southern European. An assistant chef strolling by said the kitchen staff was mostly foreign-born, too. He could not imagine how they would staff the kitchen after Brexit. “It will be chaos,” he said.

It was 5:40 p.m. The lineup for the next day’s front page had been decided. The photos of the police officer’s funeral were found “unsatisfactory” for a full-page splash. A soccer player, Ross Barkley, who had been beaten up in a nightclub and who would later become the subject of Mr. MacKenzie’s gorilla column, was the main story. The headline: “Barkley’s Spank.”

My time was up. Mr. Gallagher had kept his poker face all afternoon. The only time I thought he had shifted in his seat was when I asked about his children’s views on Brexit. Two were too young to vote, he said, but his oldest, who is 21, cast her ballot for Remain.

He accompanied me to the door. “Don’t stitch me up,” he said.