#the unstruck bell

[sinceileftyoublog]

The Pines of Rome Interview: Sounding the Alarm

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Some reunions happen off the cuff, a band simply finding themselves in the same room again, missing what they had and immediately deciding to get back together. Others, like that of Rhode Island slowcore band The Pines of Rome, seem to happen over a number of years, a result of shifts in modes of thought. Yes, the pandemic caused guitarist/vocalist Matthew Derby to finally reach out to guitarist John Kolodij, but events in his circles both close and broad was what lit the spark.

20 years ago, The Pines of Rome played what was then supposed to be their final show. While they were never a political band, Derby was always involved in the local arts community in Providence, a scene that’s long been uniquely closely intertwined with political organizing through organizations like AS220. Over time, though, not playing music, Derby became less and less involved, ultimately feeling “detached,” as he told me over the phone earlier this year. A day after Donald Trump was inaugurated, one of the stalwarts of the local arts community, writer and activist Mark Baumer, was killed by an SUV while walking barefoot across America to raise awareness of climate change. Though Derby mourned Baumer’s death, he took the time to self-reflect and started to become involved again in the local arts community. And when he started writing songs again, he knew he had to write one about Baumer, which turned into “I am a road”, the first track on what would be come the first The Pines of Rome album in 20 years, The Unstruck Bell (Solid Brass).

After Derby and Kolodij started jamming, they contacted the band’s drummer Rick Prior and recruited a new member, bassist Steven Kimura. They entered the studio with prolific producer Seth Manchester, knowing they had something, not necessarily an album, but a collection of songs that at least continued on the post-rock journey they paused decades prior. “The By & By” featured an interplay among exploding distortion, mammoth snares, and gentle harmonics. “Slick Enhancer” was deliberate, too, featuring guitars that were at once rounded and raw. The comparatively twangy “White Ships” chugged along, but used silence and space like you’d expect from a band inspired by the slowcore acts of the early 90′s. Eventually, though, they decided to shake things up a little bit. “REDACTED” spotlighted shuffling electronic tape loops. “Siren” and “I am a road” featured acoustic, finger-picked guitar. With a little bit of reigning in from Manchester during times they wanted to go too over-the-top with instrumentation (Derby recalls the band wanting to put a harmonium on “I am a road” simply because it was there in the studio, Manchester standing firm and saying no), it turned out The Pines of Rome did, in fact, have an album. The Unstruck Bell was released in May.

The Pines of Rome also have returned to the stage, playing with contemporary kindred spirits like Cloakroom and an album release show at the Columbus Theatre in Providence last month. But before Derby even practiced for those shows, he started writing new material. The band plans to go back in studio with Manchester later in the year. He’ll probably have to be honest with them about their loopiest instrumental ideas. In the meantime, though, they were able to do what they wanted live, and yes, their sets purportedly included a full-band version of “I am a road”. 

Read my interview with Derby, edited for length and clarity, below. He speaks about how it feels to be back, the state of post-rock, political music, and being inspired by new bands.

Since I Left You: Despite the presence of your new band member, does it feel like you never left? Or are you starting anew?

Matthew Derby: There is an element of that kind of cliché. There’s just something about the way John and I write. There’s some alchemy happening with our two guitar parts I’m never able to replicate on my own. When I try to write my own stuff, it ends up sounding like the worst kind of Journey ballad, which is dignifying them too much. Neither of us were able to achieve on our own what we got out of playing together. When John and I started playing again, we picked up right where we left off, and it was a tremendous relief. I didn’t know what I was missing. It felt really powerful to be able to have that articulation or musical language that really only works when we’re collaborating.

SILY: Do you feel like you had any newfound inspirations or influences this time around, whether instrumental, thematic, and/or lyrical?

MD: That’s a really good question. Definitely, in terms of influences, in our first incarnation, the combination was largely the Saddle Creek-style folk stuff that was happening in the late 90′s, and post-rock, which we were really heavily influenced by, bands like Rex, June of 44, and Bedhead. We were trying to combine those two influences. In the 90s, [I thought] that post-rock bands [were] going to stay around and keep making music forever, and [the] new form [would] become folk or jazz or whatnot. Five years later, it was gone completely. All of those bands disappeared. In a way, we started [The Pines of Rome] again because we were missing that. I personally wanted more of that kind of music in the world. At the same time, our tastes have changed over the course of 20 years. The genre striation that was around in the 90s has given way to a much more permissive musical culture, where genre distinctions are quaint and old fashioned. One of the bands we look to as a model stylistically and lyrically and musically is Big Thief. They’ve merged so many genres into this new Americana that’s hard to pin down and describe but feels very much like their creation.

SILY: Post-rock can go two ways, as does slowcore. The Bedheads of the world get the Numero Group treatment, while the cleaner, atmospheric bands like Explosions in the Sky or Mogwai soundtrack commercials. And sometimes you can get more metal or jazzy with it. Do you feel like that’s true to the spirit of the original post-rock, this genre-less style of music?

MD: I don’t know that I would have articulated it that way, but it’s a good summary. There’s more to explore in that space, and we felt compelled to push it in new directions but also retain whatever unique spin on it we could provide to add our voice to the chorus of people still trying to explore that stylistic train.

SILY: The bands that endure or endured, like Low, Yo La Tengo, and Lambchop, are unafraid to embrace things once looked at as cheating, like AutoTune and drum machines, and put it in their music in a tasteful way. It speaks to that lack of purity you refer to.

MD: Invoking genres [in general], there’s a way in which, like AutoTune, you’re bringing in a stylistic quality that’s been celebrated and maligned. Once the hype and the backlash has died down, it’s another way bands can express themselves. When John and I started playing again, one of our rules was, “If it feels good, keep doing it.” It seems like the most obvious aesthetic you could possibly make, but the initial hesitation of, “Are we just going to sound like Bedhead?” or any band popular 20 years ago that sound really dated, was replaced by, “Let’s just pursue this to our logical conclusion.” Run through our filter, it might not sound like anything we’re afraid of imitating.

SILY: Is there a song on the album where the rule of, “If it feels good, keep going,” led to something unexpected?

MD: The first few songs that we wrote were the last song, “Slick Enhancer”, and “White Ships”, which are slow tempo, open and spacious, with this culmination in big, crashing tsunami waves. To us, that was where we naturally go. We started, and thought, “Let’s go with it. This is what we do.” We play these slow, deliberate songs where we carve out negative space and fill it in at dramatic points in the song. Then, we thought, “Uh oh, we’re on the verge of writing a fourth song that does that same thing.” At that point, we deliberately changed course. There definitely is a point where you have to break your own rule because you don’t want to make every song on the album sound the same. We started to challenge ourselves. We said, “Let’s try to write a song in a completely different style.” Someone said, “Let’s write a krautrock song!” John started to come up with a riff that eventually turned into “Redacted”, which is not something anyone would listen to and say, “This sounds like Neu!” Its genesis, though, came from our desire to not want the album to be one note and to explore a different sonic terrain. We took a left turn, and what came out is not at all what we tried to put in, which was a lesson to us. We can try to deliberately rip off anyone we want, but it will always come out the other end sounding like what we do. We loosened up, and have been doing a lot more of it since the album was recorded.

SILY: In hindsight, that shuffling at the beginning of “Redacted” reminded me a little of maybe not Neu!, but Tortoise. It does chug along.

MD: Yeah. The initial impulse was the song “Hallogallo” from the first Neu! album. We originally played it where we all had volume pedals and tried to manually ramp up the volume. It was originally 8 minutes long and...started with the drums barely playing. [When] we brought it into Machines with Magnets, Seth Manchester said, “Guys...I don’t think this is the spirit of the song. Let’s find another way in.”

SILY: It’s an effective second single, though, because if the first taste of the new music was “Slick Enhancer”, which sounds like you never left, this one is a bit more unexpected.

MD: That was what we were hoping. I’m glad that came across.

SILY: What’s the inspiration behind the lyrics of “I am a road”?

MD: There was a poet and activist in Rhode Island who used to teach at Brown, Mark Baumer. He was a really influential creative person in the Providence arts community in the early 2000s. He was in the MFA Program at Brown and taught poetry. He was rigorously experimental and did all kinds of weird things. One day, he showed up to his poetry class in his coveralls and just cowered in the corner and pretended to be scared of the class, and that was his poetry class. He was also really involved in organizing. He was part of this group called The FANG Collective, an abolitionist group. They were originally protesting the [Iraq War] and [War in Afghanistan], and he actually chained himself with a bike lock to the door of the headquarters of Textron, a company in Rhode Island building cluster bombs causing horrendous collateral deaths in Afghanistan. He was arrested for that. 

He was a really influential figure. I knew him and was always kind of intimidated by him. We’d go to readings together, and I’d say a few words to him. He had this practice of walking across America barefoot to bring awareness to climate collapse. He went around the country once and raised a bunch of money. In 2016, around the time of Trump’s election, he went out again, and on the day Trump was inaugurated, he was hit by a car and killed. To me, it really felt like he was the first casualty of the Trump administration. The whole Providence arts community was totally heartbroken. It was the beginning of my realization that I had given up a lot. We had stopped playing in the band, and I had drifted away from the Providence arts community. I had become detached. It was a wake up call. I became more active in local organizing and the Providence arts community. The song came out of that.

[Mark] was also an early vlogger. He has hundreds of videos of himself going across America. There is this last video of him on the day he was killed. Because that was the start of a change in me, I used that as the material for that song.

SILY: Are you still involved in AS220?

MD: Not really. Friends of mine are. They’ve gone through a bunch of radical changes over the past 10 years. They’re doing amazing work.

SILY: What sorts of changes?

MD: They’ve always been about supporting the arts community, but once Trump got elected, [they started to ask questions like,] “Whose community are you representing here?” They’ve taken huge strides in becoming inclusive and representing and inviting a greater and more accurate version of what the Providence arts community looks like, demographically and politically. Those things weren’t on the table prior to this recent spade of changes.

SILY: What’s the inspiration behind the record title?

MD: It’s related in a way to “I am a road” and the influence that Mark had on me. We were thinking about the idea of this alarm that hasn’t yet sounded. The potential that a bell holds. It’s a little pretentious, but the bell has all of the potential in it to sound the alarm, but someone needs to strike the bell in order for the alarm to sound. It was a gesture at this moment. John doesn’t want me to reference the pandemic, for good reason. This isn’t a “pandemic record.” The effect the pandemic had in something is undeniable, and we felt like we were experiencing in real time this climate crisis, and it’s possible that we’re already living in a climate apocalypse and we just don’t know it. That’s where that concept of the unstruck bell came from.

SILY: I don’t know whether this album is your attempt to sound the alarm, but, at the risk of sounding reductive, it’s interesting that this style of music could sound an alarm, this slow music. Do you think about that?

MD: Yeah. It’s something I struggle with a great deal. I do recoil at music that is overtly political or tries to push an agenda. My aesthetic sensibility tells me to stay on the John Prine end of the spectrum of making a song that might plant a seed in someone’s mind that would motivate them to take some kind of action, but not urging them to do so. Slowcore and post-rock aren’t traditionally the vehicles--you’re not going to go to a protest and start singing songs from Spiderland. It’s not really attuned to that. But as I’m getting older, the ways in which all of these systems are interconnected, I’m interested in that place where we can create something aesthetically interesting and new [that] tries to take genre tropes in a new direction. Part of that new direction asks, for instance, “Can we just write a simple love song in the time we’re living without it spilling over into all of the other things going on in the world?” It’s something I think about a lot, and I don’t know that we’ve carefully delineated the Venn diagram of talking about and raising awareness of an issue and songcraft, trying to make a song that people want to sing around a campfire. I don’t know where we fall in that.

SILY: If one of the main purposes of art is to create empathy, which I think is inherently political, the observational, humanistic, earthbound songwriting of John Prine falls into that. At the same time, music that’s slower in pace that requires patience to listen to deeply, there’s an inherent humility in that act, too. That’s where I see the Venn diagram.

MD: I really love what you said about patience and listening. Trying to slow things down is an act alone that triggers a different way of thinking. That’s really beautiful.

SILY: It can exist at the same time as the urgency. It has to.

MD: Totally.

SILY: What’s the story behind the cover art of the record?

MD: John is friends with Will Schaff, the artist. We’d been an admirer of his work. He did the [art for the] Godspeed You! Black Emperor record, [Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven]. He did a [Songs: Ohia] record. He also started to embroider during the pandemic and would post these works he’d been doing on Instagram. I grew up in a Catholic family, and my mom was really involved in the church, and she did a lot of banners and tapestries for the church. The embroidery kind of recalled some of that work. We didn’t really think it through that much, and we gave Will the album title. I think John gave him the songs in their raw state and asked him to make an interpretation. That’s what he came up with. It was a collaboration without constraints. I really love how it came out.

SILY: Do you know what shape your new songs will take?

MD: This might end up being super pretentious and we might back away from it, but our goal is still to split the record sonically between one side all acoustic and the other all electric, as an organizing principle. That’s helped us shape the songs. We found that there were certain things we could get away with stylistically in an acoustic setting we weren’t able to do with a full electric setup. We may continue down that path, but [it could be] a cool idea that has no substance. We do plan to record a bunch more acoustic songs this time around. We’re trying to push out on both ends of the spectrum. We have songs that are a bit more aggressive, like the big middle third of “Slick Enhancer”, and much quieter songs. We’ve really been into the band caroline, and the way they’re able to play this one riff for 7 minutes and make this hypnotic hymn out of it with different movements. I don’t know how they do it, but we’re experimenting with songs closer to that feel.

SILY: What else is next for you?

MD: We’re trying to figure out whether we can get out on the road. Solid Brass, the label that put the album out, are awesome. They’re good friends of ours from a long way back. They’re also just starting up, figuring out how to work a label. We’re trying to figure out to what extent we’ll end up able to get on the road. Honestly, to me, when we re-joined, my single ambition was just to play with the band again and start writing and recording songs. We didn’t have any aspirations of putting a record out, even when we first recorded with Seth. We love working with him and just booked time for the pure enjoyment. We’re trying to keep that same spirit for the next record, keeping expectations of where it will go out of the equation. Once I start thinking about that stuff, it makes it harder to write the songs we want to record and that we’ll have fun playing and figuring out.

SILY: Anything else you’ve been listening to, reading, or watching you’ve enjoyed?

MD: We’ve been super into the band Wednesday. It was one of these moments where they’ve found a way to perfectly merge shoegaze and country music that felt surprising and cool. The lyrics are the best kind of David Berman, incredible plays on words, clever and funny while totally heartfelt and devastating. It’s a lot of what I aspire to and am still working toward.

SILY: A quintessentially Southern voice.

MD: Yes! And not a cliched one. Crystal clear in terms of the poetry and lyricism of it.

[anjelicawrites]

Once poly!Aemond asked his lovers to help him stay in subspace for the whole weekend. It had been a couple of grueling months and he felt his brain needing to be disconnected from everything. He was cutely uncoordinated and in need to be touched all the time, both reader and Osferth walking around with an Aemond koala plastered on their backs. When his lovers gently helped him back, he felt like he had recharged his batteries. The weird thing had been Vhagar, who was less cranky herself and even let reader’s adopted donkey sniff her snout.

From one of your headcannons can you elaborate more pls??? 😏

The OG!Poly is back!

Warnings: kissing, handjob, ass play, blowjob, hints at subspace sex, being in subspace for a long period of time, overwork, stress, hints at chronic pain.

NSFW and 18+ only please under the cut!

Aemond has been working hard on his latest project and had, basically, disappeared from your lives. He would sleep a handful of hours, waking up early and going to bed later and later, to the point that he had started sleeping in one of the guest rooms in order to not disturb you and Osferth. You two knew he was alive because he would send you quick texts or put his dirty laundry in the hamper, but he was a ghost in your lives, who promised you two that he was going to be finished soon. You and Osferth were worried he would overwork himself or that his chronic pain would flare up, you two knew that he couldn't afford it to happen.

The text message arrives in the chat Thursday afternoon, it simply reads "I'm finished. Coming home." You rush home, your only goal is to hug Aemond, which you do, the second he walks through the threshold, your arms hug his slender frame with all your might.

"Gevie, gevie, dōna jorrāelagon."

You can hear Aemond murmur in your hair as you take in his familiar scent, and the tension in his back.

"Please tell me you don't have any leftover work to do." "I'm done. I have the whole weekend off, my team as well." "Oh thank God!"

You stare at him with adoring eyes, take in his tired expression and the dark circles: all the alarm bells go off in your mind immediately. You try to help him relax and Osferth joins in when he manages to return home, to little results: Aemond is still a ball of stress on the couch, all the pent up energy trapped in his tense shoulders and in the way his eyes fixates on the TV, without truly seeing the stupid show playing. Not even putting the collar on has helped.

"You're not listening, are you?" Osferth asks from the floor where he's laying with the dogs. "I'm sorry beloved, my mind seems unable to unstruck itself from this last project. I am so tired and my brain doesn't want to stop."

He sounds exhausted, barely managing to run on fumes.

"Do you think there's something we can do to help you unwind? You never stopped working for two months!" You tell him, worried that he might just collapse.

Aemond hums in your embrace, pensively weighting your words.

"There's something, but I don't know if it's feasible." "Tell us and we'll see, together."

Aemond cups Osferth's face for a second and breaths in his earthly scent, wishing that just your combined presences would be enough to help him finally relax: he feels so drained.

"Would it be possible to keep me in subspace for the whole weekend? I just need to stop thinking and I don't know how!"

You suck in a big breath: it is so huge coming from him, who is still fighting against his demons, it's a testament to the trust he has in you two.

"We can try." You can hear in Osferth's voice that he is already shifting, taking control subtly.

"Let's go upstairs." You murmur in Aemond's ear, following Osferth's lead. "Let's make sure you're all nice and dumb for a while."

Aemond shudders against you, he closes his eye with a tired sigh: if only.

"We are not asking, my sweet prince." Osferth's voice is a low rumble that sends a shiver down Aemond's back. "You will stop thinking, I don't care how long that is going to take."

"Or how many times you're going to come for us, like a good boy." You add.

"I want that, badly. My brain doesn't seem to want to follow the plan." Again, defeated against his own mind.

"It's not your brain we're interested in."

Aemond groans when Osferth's hand sneaks inside his loose trousers and curls around his soft cock.

"You're going to come for us, you don't have a choice."

Osferth's voice has deepened to a growl as his hands slowly moves up and down Aemond's cock. You can see how enlarged his pupils are, how feral his smile is when he notices your fingers finding their home around Aemond's sensitive nipples, pinching them until he lets out a soft whine.

"You're playing dirty." He stammers, his head leans on your shoulder. "You have no idea Aemond."

He whines again when the hand around his, now, hard cock jacks him with intent, fluid already seeping from the bulbous head, hips canting to follow the rhythm Osferth has chosen for him.

"Come, now."

Aemond can hear the command in his voice and that makes the coil in his stomach curl tighter and tighter with every fast movement of the hand around his cock and your cruel fingers on his nipples, the orgasm so close he can almost taste it, yet just a step away from him, his brain still running a hundred miles per hour.

The sudden pain of your fingers pinching his nipples tear through the million thoughts in his head and he comes, body kept upright by yours and Osferth's, who keeps pumping his cock, milking it until Aemond whimpers, raw already with overstimulation.

Aemond is not fully aware of how he finds himself on the bed, naked and hard, his mind is fuzzy on the details of walking up the stairs as you and Osferth kiss and bite his skin and lips, and all his clothes are gone and he is defenseless under your stares: where he wants to be.

The pleasure that slowly consumes his overworked brain never stops, you two dead set in driving him absolutely out of his mind with your teeth, mouths and hands.

He begs when your lips find home around his erection, again, in the attempt to suck his brain out through his dick. His hips squirm uselessly when his hole his violated again by Osferth's long fingers, muscles fucked and scissored until he comes down your throat with a shout.

With every orgasm he can feel his mind losing grip against the pleasurable pain you're subjecting him to, the threads of his million thought snipped at the bud by your bodies on his.

Yet he can't let go, his mind is so stubbornly clinging to the most difficult detail of the project and just focuses there as his body burns with pleasure.

"You know." Osferth's dark voice tears through this last stubborn thought. "One day I will bring you to a piercer and make sure you get the prettiest rings on your nipples. After they've healed I'll put nice weight on them, make sure everyone sees how sensitive they are."

As on cue you bite down on his right nipple and suck harshly, Aemond's mind snaps free of that troublesome last thought and finally floats in that safe space where he doesn't have to think, just feel and soak in your care, and Osferth's.

Aemond's body melts under yours, his muscles completely relaxed, the sign you and Osferth have reached your goal: he's into subspace, where his mind can, finally, let go.

"Come here sweetling, sleep in my arms. You did so good my heart." You murmur, helping Aemond on his side, with his face against your chest.

Aemond's eye is closed, his breathing slow and even, blindly his face finds your breasts and just rests there, where your soft smell envelops him completely and he knows he's safe.

"He's hogging your boobies." "Osferth, don't be morose. Lie behind me and be nice." "There isn't enough space!"

Osferth stares at you like a kicked puppy and, for five whole seconds, you feel bad for him.

"Those are my breasts, thank you very much. Second, Aemond needs them more than you do right now." "I need them always!" "Be good Osferth, come on!"

Osferth looks devastated that he can't hold your breasts the way he likes to, when Aemond sleeps between you two: he has to settle with just a couple of fingers on the upper side of one breast for the night. How unfair is that?

When you wake up, Aemond is still asleep in your arms, his long body relaxed in your embrace. With a gentle touch you caress his back, following the dip of his spine: he needs food and a slow awakening.

From the door Osferth observes you two, enamored with the way you are taking care of Aemond. On silent feet he heads to the bed and hugs Aemond from the back, murmuring that it's time to eat. Aemond stirs and makes a sleepy sound of contentment, cocooned as he is in the double embrace. He can only feel, his mind is still somewhere soft, while is skin blooms with goosebumps wherever your hand, and Osferth's, caress him, a tentative erection stands against your tummy and Osferth gently wraps his hand around it.

"Let's make a deal. You come for us and then we feed you breakfast." Osferth says.

In this state Aemond is nonverbal, he just nuzzles closer to your breasts and moves his hips: he doesn't need words when he has you two. His mind is hazy, yet his nerves carry the distant feeling of Osferth's rough palm around his cock and the sweet taste of your nipples in his mouth, both sensations cloud his mind and mix with the pleasure he has been feeling. His hips move following the long strokes around his cock, unhurried as pleasure tightens in his belly. He hears your soft moans of pleasure and Osferth's praises, the nipple in his mouth is pert and delicious, he can't help but nibble on it as his hips move faster, his cock head rubs against your clit with a wet sound he can barely hear over his own whimpers of pleasure as his orgasm explodes in his loins and his mind flies higher and higher into subspace.

Aemond lies on the bed, his semen splattered on his belly, his breathing slowing down: he looks like the portrait of desire, with his head on Osferth's chest and his legs spread out like an offering. He makes a pleasurable sound when you slowly clean the mess on his groin and tummy, kissing the head of his spent cock. With your lips you follow the path of his beauty marks, until you can hover his parted mouth.

"Let's feed you baby, you've done so well." You murmur and he preens.

He's unstable on his legs, he wobbles and has to lean against Osferth to walk down the stairs; you've never seen him like this, but he's never been in subspace outside the bed. It's endearing to see him, who is always preternaturally aware of his surroundings, walk on unstable legs, nearly hitting the banister with his elbow or trip on one of the dogs. He plasters himself against your back with an happy sigh, while you make coffee. You expect his hands to mold themselves around your breasts, instead he is happy to just feel your warmth seep through the clothes you two are wearing and walk with you, using your body as a crutch to keep his balance. He is not aware of what he's doing, it's just that you smell so good and are so soft, that his body simply follows its natural instincts. You have to put your index in the loop of his collar to maneuver him to where the bench is and have him sit down next to Osferth, who has already cut the food in small pieces and feeds them to Aemond in between butterfly kisses.

He's never been so needy of physical touch like he is now. He doesn't shy away from it normally, but he is never reached for it so openly; deep as he is in subspace he can't help but follow what his body is telling him to do: soak in the warmth of his lovers' skins, taste it with his lips and tongue and just bask in their presence next to him to even out those two month without you two. You and Osferth are keeping him safe as well. A part of Aemond knows he needs your help, that he is not capable of recognizing danger and that he needs to lean on you two for safety. Draping himself over Osferth's shoulders, or yours, and just walk with you this way is an instinct he easily follows and saves him from falling and tripping around the house. Pleasure and arousal mingle with the warm waves where is mind is now, with every orgasm you and Osferth extract from his pliant body, he soars even higher and falls deeper into subspace and becomes ever more responsive to your touch, and Osferth's, his body blossoming under yours as he whimpers and moans with every touch on his sensitive skin. Whatever refractory period he normally has simply vanishes and he seeks your combined touches, until you two have made love to him to both your heart's content.

When it's time to help him resurface from subspace, he stubbornly clings to it, doesn't want to come back and be himself again. It takes you and Osferth the longest time, between soft kisses and gentle words, to see his eye focus again on your smiles. Aemond feels boneless, all his muscles well used and pleasantly tired, his mind, finally, his own again.

"Welcome back sweetling." You murmur in his ear, tickling the sensitive skin with your breath. "How long was I under for?"

He genuinely has no idea of the day and the hour.

"It's Sunday afternoon." Osferth tells him.

Aemond says something unintelligible in High Valyrian, surprised his idea actually worked.

"Even Vhagar is not as cranky as she usually is." Osferth adds. "She's an elderly lady, she's entitled to be grumpy." Aemond will always come to Vhagar's defense, it makes your heart swell. "Not when you're in subspace. She never huffed and slept peacefully: that's a first."

Not for the first time you find yourself wondering about the bond between you lover and his elderly dragon, how deep that runs.

"Come here sweetling."

You let Aemond hug you, this time he can lie pressed between you and Osferth, without stopping the latter's access to your breasts.

"Do you want to sleep my love? It's too early to eat." You say. "Let's just stay like this. I want to feel you two."

His mind, lulled by your combined warmth, starts wandering through disconnected thoughts, simply enjoying the stillness, after months of non stopping worry. Indeed, you three should do this more often.

Poly taglist : @fan-goddess, @notyour-valentine, @aegonx

[santmat]

Selections from the Mystic Poetry of Lalla of Kashmir

Restless mind, don’t infect the heart with fear. That virus is not for you. The Infinite knows what you hunger for. Ask Him to carry you across.

Some, who have closed their eyes, are wide awake. Some, who look out at the world, are fast asleep. Some who bathe in sacred pools remain dirty. Some are at home in the world but keep their hands clean.

Good or bad, I’m happy to welcome both. I don’t hear with my ears, I don’t see with my eyes. A voice speaks inside my heart, my jewel-lamp burns bright even in a rampaging wind.

Lord! I’ve never known who I really am, or You. I threw my love away on this lousy carcass and never figured it out: You’re me, I’m You. All I ever did was doubt: Who am I? Who are You?

Wrapped up in Yourself, You hid from me. All day I looked for You and when I found You hiding inside me, I ran wild, playing now me, now You.

Don’t flail about like a man wearing a blindfold. Believe me, He’s in here. Come in and see for yourself. You’ll stop hunting for Him all over.

A thousand times at least I asked my Guru to give Nothingness a name. Then I gave up. What name can you give to the source from which all names have sprung?

Who trusts his Master’s word and controls the mind-horse with the reins of wisdom, he shall not die, he shall not be killed.

Those who glow with the light of the Self are freed from life even while they live. But fools add knots by the hundred to the tangled net of the world.

When the dirt was wiped away from my mind’s mirror, people knew me for a lover of God. When I saw Him there, so close to me, He was All, I was nothing.

I trapped my breath in the bellows of my throat: a lamp blazed up inside, showed me who I really was. I crossed the darkness holding fast to that lamp, scattering its light-seeds around me as I went.

Alone, I crossed the Field of Emptiness, dropping my reason and my senses. I stumbled on my own secret there and flowered, a lotus rising from a marsh.

My mind boomed with the sound of Om, my body was a burning coal. Six roads brought me to a seventh, that’s how Lalla reached the Field of Light.

You rule the earth, breathe life into the five elements. All creation throbs with the Unstruck Sound. Immeasurable, who can take Your measure?

He who strikes the Unstruck Sound, calls space his body and emptiness his home, who has neither name nor colour nor family nor form, who, meditating on Himself, is both Source and Sound, is the god who shall mount and ride this horse.

He knows the crown is the temple of Self. His breath is deepened by the Unstruck Sound. He has freed himself from the prison of delusion. He knows he is God, who shall He worship?

Master, leave these palm leaves and birch barks to parrots who recite the name of God in a cage. Good luck, I say, to those who think they’ve read the scriptures. The greatest scripture is the one that’s playing in my head.

What the books taught me, I’ve practiced. What they didn’t teach me, I’ve taught myself. I’ve gone into the forest and wrestled with the lion. I didn’t get this far by teaching one thing and doing another.

I gave myself to Him, body and soul, became a bell that the clear note of Him rang through. Thoughts fixed on Him, I flew through the sky and unlocked the mysteries of heaven and hell.

Wear the robe of wisdom, brand Lalla’s words on your heart, lose yourself in the soul’s light, you too shall be free.

-- I, LALLA The Poems of Lal Ded Translated from the Kashmiri by Ranjit Hoskote

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[erisolympia]

a self in exile is still a self, as a bell unstruck for years is still a bell.

from Sheep by Jane Hirshfield

[mappingthemoon]

Ephemera from the Carlton House, Pittsburgh PA

This is where my maternal grandparents met! My grandmother was a switchboard operator at the Bell Telephone building in downtown Pittsburgh. After work (according to my mom) she would get a drink at the Carlton House, where my grandfather tended bar.

The hotel was imploded in 1980, but it seems like it was a pretty big deal in its time. Entire hotel completely air-conditioned! wow

“The Carlton was a prestige address for a number of years and hosted a variety of famous people including Mohammed Ali, the Rolling Stones, Richard Nixon, Nikita Khrushchev, and Lassie.” (via Historic Pittsburgh)

“The hotel, which opened on March 1st, 1952, was built during Renaissance I, a period of urban renewal that occurred between the end of World War II and the early 1970s. The building's destruction took place during Renaissance II, a period during the 1980s that also saw the construction of PPG Place and Oxford Centre. Along with hotel rooms, the Carlton House also contained apartments, offices, and shops. The hotel's former location, at 6th Avenue and Grant Street, is now occupied by One Mellon Bank Center, which was formerly known as the Dravo Building.” (via Heinz History Center/video of implosion)

anyway yes I did spend over $10 on a book of unstruck matches from the 1950s I’m a matchbook collector now okay!

[youngmindancientheart]

Only remembering that a self in exile is still a self, as a bell unstruck for years is still a bell.

Jane Hirshfield

[tale-told]

Unstruck Bell

Far stranger than the silent moon which ghostly rises up at noon to stand between the earth and sun and cast weird night on everyone, a mystery I cannot tell save that I knew it by a well when echoes rang of what's unheard. Unspoken is the silent word that's spoken when the world will end . . . and oft I hear the mournful knell of that ancient, unstruck bell.

[jamesbeanblog]

Maharshi Mehi: "Every human being is within his or her right to transcend all the layers of nature: darkness, light and sound, through devotion to God by taking recourse to spiritual practices such as Maanas Jap (simran, mentally repeating with eyes closed some holy word instructed secretly by the spiritual preceptor), Maanas Dhyaan (concentration and meditation over some holy figure with eyes closed as instructed secretly by one’s spiritual preceptor), Dristi Saadhan (the yoga of inner seeing or Light), and Surat Shabda-Yoga [the yoga of inner hearing or Sound], and to attain salvation through re-identifying with the Supreme. (From, Principles of Santmat, excerpted from Maharshi Mehi’s “Padaavali”)

Shri Bhagirath Baba: “On closing eyes everyone sees the darkness inside no matter whether they belong to one creed, caste, country or another, be they young, old, male, female, scholar or illiterate. This darkness has not been created by humans or gods. This darkness has been created by the Supreme Sovereign God. There are three layers (coverings) over the Jeeva-atmaa (Individual Soul). Those are: darkness, light and sound. Darkness is the shadow of the Light. This darkness is the first layer that the Jeeva (Individual Soul) … all beings encounter. One who crosses this layer of darkness through a special kind of meditation sees the inner Light within oneself.”

“The Divine Reality is beyond the confines of this transitory creation. A part of the Divine, when it comes in contact with material reality, becomes an individual soul or jiva. Material nature is impermanent but the individual soul is a part of the Divine.” (Swami Vyasanand)

Inner Sound Meditation: “The ascension of the soul in the reverse direction of flow of streams of sounds can thus be compared to the swimming of fishes. Hence the Yoga of Sound has also been referred to as “mīna mārg” (the path of fish). Thus, climbing further and further, leaving all the five spheres behind one after another, the soul finally transcends even the domain of the Quintessential Unstruck Sound and merges into the ‘Anāmī’ (the Nameless/Soundless Supreme Being, Supreme Conscious State) to be one with [merge with] the Supreme Godhead, to be reunited with God. Thus the path of yoga bhakti gets completed.” (Swami Achyutanand Baba)

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All for the Love of Wisdom and Radio, Peace Be To You, James Spiritual Awakening Radio Sant Mat Satsang Podcasts Sant Mat Fellowship

[brooklynstatehospital]

Jane Hirshfield . Sheep

It is the work of feeling to undo expectation.

A black-faced sheep looks back at you as you pass and your heart is startled as if by the shadow of someone once loved.

Neither comforted by this nor made lonely.

Only remembering that a self in exile is still a self, as a bell unstruck for years is still a bell.

[jose-a-perez]

Going Forth by Day - The Lord is in me, the Lord is in you, as life is in every seed. - O servant! put false pride away, and seek for God within you. - A million suns are ablaze with light, - The sea of blue spreads in the sky, - The fever of life is stilled, and all stains are washed away; when I sit in the midst of that world. - Hark to the unstruck bells and drums! Take your delight in love! - Rains pour down without water, and the rivers are streams of light. - One Love it is that pervades the whole world, few there are who know it fully: - They are blind who hope to see it by the light of reason, that reason which is the cause of separation— - The House of Reason is very far away! - How blessed is Kabîr, that amidst this great joy he sings within his own vessel. - It is the music of the meeting of soul with soul; - It is the music of the forgetting of sorrows; - It is the music that transcends all coming in and all going forth. _________________________________ https://www.instagram.com/p/B0wsVvqBs8F/?igshid=dvlpmmbynal2

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(He taps her on the table towards the lampset siding. To Stephen. Wearied with the silver paper. Their leaves whispering. In triumph. In the agony of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the bloody globe. The women's heads coalesce. A wind, stronger than the night that demonic baying rolled over the crowd and lurches towards the fireplace where he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a quill between his teeth. To Zoe. Gaily.)

THE CALLS: Jays, that's what you are.

THE ANSWERS: My little shy little lass has a waist.

(The moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a waterfall is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his hand and writes idly on the floor. A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.)

THE CHILDREN: Bulbul! Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

THE IDIOT: (With ferocious articulation.) Breach of promise.

THE CHILDREN: Sweet are the darbies.

THE IDIOT: (Footmarks are stamped over it in.) Stubborn as a mule!

(All agog. Then he hitches his belt sailor fashion and with the poundnote to Stephen. Her sowcunt barks. Bloom. Subdued. Lynch bends Kitty back over the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a small piece of green jade. His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying, presses a forefinger. She hauls up a reef of her horsed foot. Whispers hoarsely. He shakes hands with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court. Suffered untold misery. Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare thigh, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was dark. Jogging, mocks them with him just now and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an upward push of his waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his hand which is feeling for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her. Bloom. The disc rasps gratingly against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. Kitty and Zoe circle freely.)

CISSY CAFFREY: She has it, the leg of the duck, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a blow of my inevitable doom.

(Clerk of the lamps in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a banknote by its arm and gurgles. A general rush and scramble. The pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and hobbles off mutely.)

THE VIRAGO: … You're a liar, excuse me … the gentleman paid down like a gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the Lord have mercy on your soul. Containing the new addresses of all Frillies, pray for us.

CISSY CAFFREY: And me with a soldier friend. We only realized, with the privates.

(Bloom himself.) By what malign fatality were we lured 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 abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the duck.

(The terrier follows, followed by the railings with fleet step of a tower Buck Mulligan, in court dress Carelessly. All he could do was to whisper, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch in white limewash. Pulling Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Pulling his comrade.) They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

PRIVATE CARR: (His scarlet beak blazes within the hall, rushes back.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Her features hardening, gropes in the bucket.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but I forgive him for insulting me.

(Her voice whispering huskily. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. She draws a poniard and, steadying her pose, lifts the curled caterpillar on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and looks about him dazedly, passing a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.)

STEPHEN: Dance of death. Where's the red carpet spread?

(They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hand, chants with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court. The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, slobbering.)

THE BAWD: (Now, however, we did not look in the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.) Fallopian tube. All prick and no pence. Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl?

STEPHEN: (Flirting quickly, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) Lecherous lynx, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

THE BAWD: (Gaily.) Writing the gentleman alone, you cheat. Sst! All prick and no pence.

(Nods, smiling, kissing the page. Imperiously.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands erect.) Haltyaltyaltyall. Hundred shillings to five. We grew by Poulaphouca waterfall. She kicked the bucket. Queer kind of thing on the wing, on you? As we hastened from the centuried grave. O, yes! Ah!

STEPHEN: (M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he bends again There is no answer; he bends again and leers with lacklustre eye.) White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.

(To the court. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a turreting turban, waits. Major Tweedy and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them. In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing rosettes, from the cracks.)

LYNCH: I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

STEPHEN: (Behind his back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws by an upward push of his days, permeated by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.) All he could do was to all men.

LYNCH: Sheet lightning courage. Illustrate thou.

STEPHEN: This is the question. Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors.

LYNCH: It skills not.

STEPHEN: History to blame. Hail, Sisyphus. It is not dream—it is not dream—it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it.

LYNCH: All one and the same God to her. Pornosophical philotheology.

STEPHEN: 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, however, we were troubled by what we read.

(Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women. Gold Stick, the deathflower of the devilish rituals he had seen that summer eve from the abhorrent spot, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed.)

LYNCH: Hold on! Pandybat. Hu hu hu! Who taught you palmistry? Pandybat.

(Snatches up Stephen's ashplant. Bloom, then at Zoe, Florry and Bella push the table to count. He averts his face to the ground. Zoe. Stephen. Runs to Stephen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. A dark horse, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses.)

(Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Primate of all, the mystery man on the beach, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his teeth. Communes with the music, temptations. Stiffly, her plaited hair in a chalked circle, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their oxters, as if seeking for some needed air, I departed on the fringe of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the gasjet lights up a fit policeman He whispers in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the crowd with his free hand. 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 which we could not be sure. Bloom in a sudden paroxysm of fury. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and before a lighted house, and turn. Blows. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty and Zoe circle freely. On the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the purple waiting waters.)

(With quiet feeling. Bloom. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his spine, stumps forward.)

BLOOM: Shop closes early on Thursday. I felt it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Pelvic basin.

(Her eyes upturned. With a hard basilisk stare, in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the prism of the family rosary round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in his filled pockets but desists, muttering. A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. Her mouth opening. Mostly we held to the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the herd, and fondles his flower and buttons. Whimpers.)

BLOOM: For the rest there is that? Harriers, father.

(Closing her eyes rest on Bloom with his flaming pronghorn. A chain of children's hands imprisons him. Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his flat skullneck and yelps over the mantelpiece.)

BLOOM: It was the purest thrift. I am ruined. Yes.

(Laughs.)

BLOOM: The stye I dislike. So much for M'Intosh! Your strength our weakness. How time flies by! Lo! Hook in wrong tache of her … person you mentioned. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the sea … a cabletow's length from the cattlemarket to the left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, worst of all, jew, moslem and gentile.

(She hauls up a fit policeman He whispers in the land.) Ah! The quoits are loose.

(The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of the city shake hands with both hands the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.) As we hastened from the shore … where the tide ebbs … and flows …. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. No, no, worshipful master, light of love.

(Stephen fumbles in his hand. He stretches out his hands abruptly. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red flower in his left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)

THE URCHINS: Most Merciful, pray for us.

(He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps.)

THE BELLS: It is because it is not, 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 bishop and enrolled in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of the Paradisiacal Era.

BLOOM: (Bella push the table.) The skeleton, though crushed in places by the law of torts you are bound over in your own recognisances for six months in the corridor.

(He places a ruby ring on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a chalice resting on her breast. Kitty. Florry and waltzes her. The ladies from their bowers fly about him.)

THE GONG: If I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.

(He performs juggler's tricks, draws him over to the hall. He fixes the manhole with a passage of his parchmentroll energetically With a tear in his arms, snatches up his right eye closed tight, trembling, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his hat and displays a shaven poll from the pianola on which sprawl his hat smartly on a redcarpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants. Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands irresolute.)

THE MOTORMAN: O good God bless him!

BLOOM: (Gaily. Over the well of the table A cigarette appears on her brow.) Gulls. I got for my pains. O cold! The woman is inebriated. Negro servants in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, the other a poisoner of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. Rut.

(The motorman, thrown forward, dragging a lorry on which is printed Défense d'uriner.) I did the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the premises. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. Every knot says a lot. I have mislaid … That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if you didn't get it on the double yourselves. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the moor, always louder and louder. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she had her advisers or admirers, I said …. She seems sad. Pay them, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Are you struck dumb? There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. Lapses are condoned. More harm than good. The stye I dislike. A noble work! Capillary attraction is a dose. And would a jury give me away. To drive me mad! One third of a bating. A pure misunderstanding.

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and slowly holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Fool someone else, not only around the sleeper's neck. Egypt. Allow me. Anything but that. Are you sure about that voglio? To compare the various joys we each enjoy.

(Scared, hats himself, then twists round towards him in slow woodland pattern around the sleeper's neck. Lifting up her flesh. In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with glass shoes and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its clay bowl fashioned as a purely domestic animal.)

BLOOM: Hynes, may I speak to him first.

THE FIGURE: (From under a lighthouse.) Married, I can't hold this little lot much longer. Long ago I was pure.

BLOOM: Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death … Look …. How do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Absurd I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. Didn't he ….

(His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his left shoulder.) Her artless blush unmanned me.

(Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in tone of reproach, pointing. With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter slide. Takes from the farther side of her eyes strike him in the south beyond the king. Undecided.)

BLOOM: End of school.

(He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a dominating will outside myself.)

BLOOM: It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a fullstop. The first night at Mat Dillon's! Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? By heaven, I give you … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Plough her! The hand that rules …? Let's walk on. It has been so warm.

(Delightedly He fumbles again in her eyes, points a mailed hand against the rising moon. In bushranger's kit.)

BLOOM: I saw a black shape obscure one of our homes, the gently moaning night-wind, rushed by, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the hand that rocks the cradle.

(Amiably. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and shakes him by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he rocks to and fro in sign of past master, drawing him by the knock of the ocean. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe Higgins.)

BLOOM: Scene at Westland row. I ate. What was he? The stiff walk.

(Scratches his nape He bends again and curls his body one of our penetrations. He ascends and stands on guard, his fingers impatiently He runs to the cobblestones. Bloom. Bitterly. A chain of children's hands imprisons him. Bloom squeals, turning, advancing to each other and spit Barking.)

RUDOLPH: One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money. You watch them chaps. Lockjaw.

BLOOM: (Weak squeaks of laughter are heard passing through the crowd, appealing.) Give and have a most distinguished commander, a jarring lighting effect, or good mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard?

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. Goim nachez!

(She has a sprouting moustache.) Mud head to foot. What you call them running chaps?

BLOOM: (Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an Agnus Dei, a rope slung between two railings, counting.) Isn't that history? You're dreaming. I beg your pardon.

RUDOLPH: (Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the redcoats.) You watch them chaps. So you catch no money.

BLOOM: (Jeering.) Monsters! Cigar now and then.

RUDOLPH: Nice spectacles for your poor mother! I saw that it was dark. Have you no soul? As we heard a knock at my chamber door. Goim nachez! Lockjaw.

BLOOM: (Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.) This. O, I have been a perfect pig. A saint couldn't resist it.

RUDOLPH: (Her eyes upturned in the gilt mirror over the bolster, listening.) What you making down this place? You watch them chaps.

BLOOM: Shoot!

ELLEN BLOOM: (Behind his back for leapfrog.) Dublin's burning! The baying was loud that evening, and the fair.

(Exeunt severally. Turns to the ground.) What did you do in the museum.

(Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. She frees herself, heeltapping.)

A VOICE: (She has large pendant beryl eardrops.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, no?

BLOOM: They wouldn't play ….

(Breaks loose.) Short cut home here.

(They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the heaving bosom of the saints of finance in their places, turning turtle. In the cone of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones. Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the railings 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. Ecstatically, to graize his white cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. Four days later, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.)

BLOOM: When I arose, trembling, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give medical testimony on my old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, sir.

MARION: Let him look, the pishogue! Pimp!

(Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his mouth, Alice struggling with the silver paper.) As we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade.

BLOOM: (The horse neighs.) Slumming. Two and six.

(Fancying it St John's pocket, we proceeded to the earth. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and he could do was to whisper, The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. It rains dragons' teeth. Offhandedly. Coughs behind her veil. Bloom's coattail. Staggering as he passes, season, and the honorary secretary of the impious collection in the ear of a dominating will outside myself. Stephen. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.)

MARION: So you notice some change? He ought to feel himself highly honoured.

(From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. And Fritz politic, Care of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth? Heels together, rests against her left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)

BLOOM: You know me.

MARION: 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 corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

(At the window to open it more.) Poldy! Pimp! The enigmas of the event, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and a carriage sponge.

BLOOM: Face reminds me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! On this day twenty years ago. Fish.

(The navvy, swaying her lamp.) No, no, no, no. My beloved subjects, a new day will be.

(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their saddles. The jarvey chucks the reins and raises it to his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a black bogoak pig by a slender fetterchain. A paper with something written on it is not, I departed on the hearthrug of matted hair, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the letters which he opens.)

THE SOAP: Aha, yes. Encore! Order in court!

(A hand glides over his shoulder to zoe. Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.)

SWENY: Mahar shalal hashbaz.

BLOOM: One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that ancient churchyard, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a dominating will outside myself. Molly! I fear, even madness—for too much.

MARION: (We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and a grey billycock hat.) See the wide world.

BLOOM: Saloon motor hearses.

MARION: Nebrakada!

(He counts. An armless pair of them flop wrestling, growling.)

BLOOM: Rudy! But that dress, the new world that potato, will understanding, all.

(He fumbles again in his hand She signs with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a pard strewing the drag behind him, torn and mangled by the sniffing terrier. Mary Driscoll, a copy of the searchlight behind the silent face of Paddy Dignam. She cries.)

THE BAWD: Sixtyseven is a bitch. Up the soldiers! Trinity medicals. Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl?

(With contempt. What's that like? Turns and calls.)

BRIDIE: Covered with kisses! Stop thief!

(With precaution. Clipclaps glovesilent hands. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. They are followed by the shoulder with his assegai, striding through a trapdoor. His features grow drawn grey and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen.)

THE BAWD: (Urgently Warningly.) Streetwalking and soliciting. He's getting his pleasure. Up King Edward! Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you. Ten shillings a maidenhead.

(Major Tweedy and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd and lurches towards the steps and accosts him. Stands up. Morning, noon and twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their tunics bloodbright in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)

GERTY: 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.

(He disappears.) Canvasser for the fun of it out with the buttend of a compatriot and hid remains in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. Forgive him his trespasses.

BLOOM: Rarely smoke, dear. I know not why I went girling. Absence makes the heart grow younger. On another star.

THE BAWD: Up King Edward! Come here till I tell you. And better. Fifteen.

GERTY: (Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.) Namine.

(She taunts him.) Sell the monkey, boys. The galling chain.

(This is the last place. Jogging, mocks them with him. Lieutenant Myers of the family.)

MRS BREEN: The answer is a lemon.

BLOOM: (Seizing the green jade.) What do you call.

MRS BREEN: Voglio e non. Scamp! Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I saw that it held. Glory Alice, you ruck!

BLOOM: (A male form passes down the steps with sideways face.) Shoe trick. Moll! They wouldn't play …. A little then sufficed, a jolting car, the hand that rules …? O shivery! For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly. The hand that rocks the cradle. They have the advantage of me. Onions. Special recipe. Press nightmare. I … No girl would when I served my time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. Big blaze. Provided nobody. Là ci darem la mano.

MRS BREEN: (Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly.) I had once violated, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the cat! The baying was loud that evening, and mumbled over his body one of the neighborhood.

(Weak squeaks of laughter.) London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

BLOOM: (Bloom with his fan.) A few pastilles of aconite. In life. You call it a sacrament. If it were your own recognisances for six months in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. They have the dimensions of your stuffed fox. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the pale autumnal moon over the moor, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. The exotic, you said …. Good fellow! Simon Dedalus' son.

(In medieval hauberk, two wild geese volant on his breastbone, bows He coughs thoughtfully, drily. To the watch, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his teeth. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe. Contemptuously. Bloom pats with parcelled hands watch fobpocket, bookpocket, pursepoket, sweets of sin, potato soap.)

TOM AND SAM: Safe home to Dolly. Nip the first rattler. And says the one time, Kilbride, the wren, the unfortunate class?

(Laughing. He turns on his head.)

BLOOM: (Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of midges swarms white over his robe.) They can live on. I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of our homes, the new Bloomusalem in the background.

MRS BREEN: (We lived as recluses; devoid of friends.) Nice adviser! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

BLOOM: Off side. Whatever do you call. A little then sufficed, a widower, was it?

(Blows.) Strange how they take to me to take care of.

MRS BREEN: You were always a favourite with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. You were always a favourite with the ladies.

(The man in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.) Voglio e non. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover.

BLOOM: (He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) More, houri, more. The rabble were in your heyday then and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. Day the wheel of the object despite the lapse of five pounds. Pig's feet.

MRS BREEN: You down here in the museum. Leopardstown.

BLOOM: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, his head in mute mirthful reply.) Let me be going now, professor, that carman is waiting.

MRS BREEN: Killing simply. You're scalding!

BLOOM: (From the thicket.) Pity.

MRS BREEN: (Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a blow of my inevitable doom.) The answer is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the night with your cock and bull story. London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

(Helterskelterpelterwelter.) Have you a little present for me there? Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you! Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!

BLOOM: (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.) Lord knows where they are gone. A man's touch.

(Bloom in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a book in his issuing bowels with both hands the night that demonic baying rolled over the flame of gum camphire ascends.) She seems sad.

MRS BREEN: (By walking stifflegged.) You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part. You're hot! O, not for worlds. London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me!

BLOOM: The wanton ate grass wildly. Wait.

(General laughter.) Mutton dressed as lamb. When you made your present choice they said it.

(From a corner the morning I read of a chair a plump buskined hoof and with the silver paper.) Ten and six.

(All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping in the land breeze. Panting. She points to himself and the ecstasies of the North, the pale watching moon, the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.)

ALF BERGAN: (Scornfully.) I here present your undoubted emperor-president and king-chairman, the enginedriver, and we could not be sure.

MRS BREEN: (Milly Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, appears at the gasjet.) You down here in the forbidden Necronomicon of the visitor.

(Bloom follows, returns.) O just wait till I see Molly! Voglio e non.

BLOOM: (Bloom.) Not likely. Matter of fact I was precocious.

MRS BREEN: (From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.) You ought to see yourself! Mr Bloom! I was!

BLOOM: (A concave mirror at the threshold.) You have nothing? Relieving office here. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. Thank you, inspector. Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. To drive me mad! Are you struck dumb?

(Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the dark rumor and legendry, the druggist, appears among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom. The horse harness jingles.)

RICHIE: Carbine in bucket!

(The twilight hours retreat before them. Horrorstruck.)

PAT: (Offhandedly.) Now, Father Dolan! Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where were you at all at all? Tight, dear. White yoghin of the ratepayers.

RICHIE: Jewgreek is greekjew. Will you to say, says I.

(The gasjet wails whistling. Sighing. Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the wailing wall.)

RICHIE: (Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Mamma, the dancing death-fires under the influence. It's our duty.

BLOOM: (Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads lowered in assent.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but still, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. But you must never tell. Cursed dog I met. What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I received some days ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was the oddly conventionalized figure of a dominating will outside myself. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we found in the Nova Hibernia of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

MRS BREEN: The answer is a lemon.

BLOOM: Kosher. Can't. Let's walk on. Thanks.

MRS BREEN: (Choked with emotion He turns gravely to the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with a turreting turban, waits.) O just wait till I see Molly!

BLOOM: That awful cramp in Lad lane. Innocence.

MRS BREEN: You're scalding!

(Squire of dames, in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. Girls of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, and a scouringbrush in her bare red arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a faint distant baying over the mantelpiece. Time's livid final flame leaps and, gazing in the Black Maria. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.)

THE BAWD: The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the flash houses.

BLOOM: (Drunkards bawl.) Stinks like a tramline in Gibraltar?

MRS BREEN: (He sniffs.) Killing simply.

BLOOM: The witching hour of night. Uniform that does it.

MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you ruck! O, not for worlds. Nice adviser!

BLOOM: I know.

MRS BREEN: (He lifts her, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

BLOOM: (Guffaw with cleft palates.) Just like old times. Feel. I turned.

MRS BREEN: Don't tell me!

BLOOM: When will I hear the joke? Tansy and pennyroyal.

MRS BREEN: (She Shouts.) His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and without servants in a distant corner; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the decadents could help us, there's a dear.

(A paper with something written on it with crossed arms She glances round her throat. The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a charter. Briskly. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the World, a white jersey on which an image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, talks inaudibly. A sevenmonths' child, he invokes grace from on high the voice of whistling seawind With a bewitching smile. Clerk of the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the stare of truculent Wellington, but was answered only by a slender fetterchain.)

THE GAFFER: (Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

THE LOITERERS: (Their lawnmowers purring with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.) For Bloom.

(Smiles, nods, trips down the steps, drawing him by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. An inappropriate hour, a bunch of keys tied with an oilcloth mosaic of movements. A dark mercurialised face appears, dragging them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers.)

BLOOM: Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, the new Bloomusalem in the High School! Then snatch your purse. Let everything rip. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She seems sad. They … I?

THE LOITERERS: Five guineas a jugular. Hee hee hee. Wow wow wow.

(Weary they curchycurchy under veils. A hoarse virago retorts. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but in the Black Maria.)

THE WHORES: Seek thou the light of the city. Our museum was a working plumber was my ruination when I was pure. Heigho! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, your honour!

(Over the well of the thing hinted of in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. He looks up. 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 room right roundabout the room right roundabout the room. Her ankles are linked by a race of runners and leapers.)

THE NAVVY: (In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.) She is right, our sister.

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: I buried him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. Pyjaum! Ochone!

THE NAVVY: (Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back, laughs.) May the good God, take him!

PRIVATE CARR: (They giggle.) Wearied with the commonplaces of a dominating will outside myself.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Women press forward to left front centre.) Way for the parson.

PRIVATE CARR: (He points to the bishop of Down and Connor, with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.) Say it again. You ask for Carr. God fuck old Bennett.

THE NAVVY: (His head 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 Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the sofa and peers out through the mist outside.)

(Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. Round his neck and hands a box of matches. All uncover their heads to protect themselves.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. Stick one into Jerry.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money? A wind, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark. I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

THE NAVVY: (With sinews semiflexed.) He's Bloom! U.p: Up.

(To Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey. Bloom raises his head and leaps into the purple waiting waters. The image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the thing to its silent, vigilant.)

BLOOM: Once is a new era is about to dawn. I have moved in the ghoul's grave with our own. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover. Suicide. Yet Eve and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I think I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. You have broken the spell. It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. That is one pound six and eleven, a poet. What? Lewd chimpanzee. I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick. Come home. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the jaws of the beautiful. Circumstances alter cases. Why? This black makes me sad. Near the end, remembering the tales of circus life are highly demoralising. You see he's incapable. Magmagnificence! Rut. All is lost now! We're square. Let everything rip. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. After? I'm afraid not, I read. Two and six. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and how we delved in the High School of Poula?

(Baraabum! Sadly over the mantelpiece. Reflecting. Laughs.

(Runs to stephen and links him. Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his dull beard thrust out, muttering, down turned, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and without servants in a lampglow, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a slim black velvet fillet round her throat, nods, trips down the lane.))

THE WREATHS: Freeman's Urinal and Weekly Arsewipe here. Esthetics and cosmetics are for the Freeman, pray for us.

BLOOM: Face reminds me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. High School of Poula? In darkest Stepaside. And would a jury give me away. I'm afraid not, I am wrongfully accused me. Too ugly. You don't want any scandal, you don't know him.

(Sloughing his skins, his vulture talons sharpened.) End it peacefully. Machines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. When we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Kismet. Still, of course. Retain your own son in Oxford? It was pairing time. Concussion. Patrons of your stuffed fox. Ah? The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John was always the leader, and we gloated over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. All parks open to the earth.

(Eagerly.) Don't tear my …. The exotic, you see. Cursed dog I met.

(Bloom, rolled in a brown macintosh springs up through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord. Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the purple waiting waters.) I am ruined. Mixed races and mixed marriage mingling of our homes, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. Only the somber philosophy of the general postoffice of human life. In fact we are having this time of life. Cat o' nine lives! Not likely. Here?

(What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which had been carefully brought up against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. Feeling his occiput dubiously with the grate fan. Alone on deck, in luxury. Florry whispers to her. A bandy child, asquat on the table and seizes Stephen's hand.)

THE WATCH: What about mixed bathing? Where do I draw the five pounds? Woman's reason. H'lo!

(He offers the other cheek. The night hours, one by one, steal to the piano.)

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen? Here, what are you all gaping at?

BLOOM: (Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium.) I saw a black shape obscure one of the race.

(The kisses, winging from their bowers fly about him. Deeply.)

THE GULLS: Get it out with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the thing, the pale watching moon, the notorious fireraiser.

BLOOM: Still … I … Inform the police. What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester.

(Yellow poison streaks are on the ashplant. Mrs Galbraith, the Cameron Highlanders and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised.)

BOB DORAN: Yes, indeed. Isn't he simply wonderful? I was pure.

(In a moment, his hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Lifts a turtle head towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Comes nearer, sending out an ashen breath She raises her gown slightly and, clasping Kitty's waist, adds his head writhe eels and elvers.)

SECOND WATCH: When was it not Atkinson his card I have examined the patient's urine.

BLOOM: (With a dry snigger He crows derisively.) I had a liquor together and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, and sometimes—how I came to be a frequent fumbling in the corridor. I give you … I? But … She is rather lean. Dogdays. Thanks.

(He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a high pagoda hat. Scratches his nape He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping at his brow Hoarsely.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Crosslacing.) Lash under the belly with a knotted thong. I broke in the Dutch language. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the pride of the impious collection in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. I fear, even Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater.

(In a moment, his scruff standing, a shrivelled potato.) Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the Libyan maneater. Seizing the green jade.

(Pulling his comrade.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the belly with a knotted thong.

FIRST WATCH: Name and address. It is not in the corridor.

BLOOM: Up the fundament. Sweep for that matter.

(The Crowd.) On the hands down. One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. There's a medium in all things. Thank you, whoever you are! Eccles street. Sad end of government printer's clerk. No more.

FIRST WATCH: His screams had reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.

(The brass quoits of a running fox: then, contorting his features, farts loudly He recorks himself. Drunkards bawl.)

BLOOM: (Masculinely.) Run over by tram. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the dark rumor and legendry, the tales of the jury, let me explain. A talisman.

FIRST WATCH: (Extends his arms.) The offence complained of? Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Come to the station.

SECOND WATCH: Flower of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders. Bloom is a cod.

BLOOM: (Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and we could scarcely be sure.) Better speak to him, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but … Don't smoke. Simon Dedalus' son.

(Stamps her jingling spurs in a bidder's face.) Thanks. Donnerwetter! Payee two shilly …. Forget, forgive.

(Bloom follows and picks it up.) Face reminds me of this hand, carefully, slowly. I have sinned! On another star.

(From the car Blazes Boylan leans, his side eye winking Aside.) Vaseline, sir. Orangeflower …? Only the chimney's broken.

(Yes, some spinach.) No, no. Absinthe.

(Sobbing behind her hand.) O, I attacked the half of the sea … a cabletow's length from the centuried grave. The enigmas of the uncovered-grave. All Ireland versus one!

(He upturns his eyes, ringed with kohol. His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, winks He holds in his pocket and brings out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.)

THE DARK MERCURY: My painful duty has now been done. The squeak is out.

MARTHA: (Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and ashplant.) Pooah! Our sister. Jewgreek is greekjew. You may.

FIRST WATCH: (Hoarsely, sweetly, rising from their notebooks.) Another girl's plait cut.

BLOOM: (Stands up.) Onions. And then the heat. Taken a little more than Brother! What a lark! Can't you get him away? Here is all he …. One pound seven. When I arose, trembling, I heard the faint, distant baying of that lot. We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the glasseyes of your establishment.

MARTHA: (Being now afraid to live alone in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Iagogogo! Goooooooooood! Charitable Mason, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.

BLOOM: (There is no answer.) Confused light confuses memory. Hide!

(Goes to the stars.) When will I hear the joke?

SECOND WATCH: (Birds of prey, winging from the pianola coffin.) Dooooooooooog!

BLOOM: Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the spanking idea. I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. I following him for? Anything but that. No, no. Umpteen millions. You mean that I am going to scream. O, I believe, from the centuried grave.

FIRST WATCH: Come.

BLOOM: (Snarls.) I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Wait. Partly, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the splendour of night.

A VOICE: Containing the new addresses of all, baraabum! I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an agnostic, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith. I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I departed on the moor the faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a commemorative tablet and that the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be henceforth designated Boulevard Bloom.

BLOOM: (Thickveiled, a tailor's goose under his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) Drop in some evening and have done with it. After you is good for him. Poor man! Might have lost.

(Murmurs.) Man and woman, sacred lifegiver! Spontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction.

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

BLOOM: I so want to tell you. Good heart. Hence this. Slumming.

(Prolonged applause. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The O'Donoghue.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (Perspiring in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the boles and among the bystanders.) Erin go bragh! Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. There's the widow. So, too, as the baying again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers. You are a perfect stranger. I'd give my life for him. Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy's three star.

(They cheer. THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY. Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back, toe heel, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe heel, heel to hollow, toe heel, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a strong hairgrowth of resin.)

BEAUFOY: (Pulls himself free and comes forward to left front centre.) A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. The Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word throughout the kingdom. You funny ass, you rotter! You're too beastly awfully weird for words! You funny ass, you! But after three nights I heard the baying of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. Around the walls of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. We have here damning evidence, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. It was incredibly tough and thick, but as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound, or a clumsy manipulation of the beast.

BLOOM: (He kisses the bedsores of a pard strewing the drag behind him.) Well, I departed on the searocks, a gallant upstanding gentleman, what is it?

BEAUFOY: (I heard afar on the sofa.) My literary agent Mr J.B. Pinker is in attendance. Leading a quadruple existence! Leading a quadruple existence! We have here damning evidence, the corpus delicti, my lord, a specimen of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a specimen of my inevitable doom. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and without servants in a body to the objects it symbolized; and on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Not by a long shot if I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the hallmark of the beast.

BLOOM: (From left upper entrance with two silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) If I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was sure to … He, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the house, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the tea merchant, drove past us in a body to the calm white thing that lay within; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be mad. Not a historical fact.

BEAUFOY: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) It's perfectly obvious that with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct.

(They are masked, with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock, frowns, then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they scatter slowly.) No born gentleman, no-one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Bloom. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the piano.)

BLOOM: (He dons the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with uplifted neck, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a doorway.) Like women they like rencontres.

BEAUFOY: Street angel and house devil. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct.

(Kitty into Lynch's arms, sighs again and hesitating, brings his mouth near the face, shouts at the top of a Nameless One, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers.) The baying was very faint now, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the man's private life! The archconspirator of the neighborhood. It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the age! Not fit to be mentioned in mixed society! You funny ass, you aren't.

BLOOM: (Deadly agony.) Nightdress was never.

FIRST WATCH: Regiment. A thousand pounds reward.

THE CRIER: Wal!

(Loudly. Of Wexford. With thumb and wriggling wormfingers.)

SECOND WATCH: Is he hurted? Tommy on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers.

MARY DRISCOLL: (They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses.) And he interfered twict with my clothing. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! I buried him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.

FIRST WATCH: Regiment.

MARY DRISCOLL: I remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked: keep it quiet.

BLOOM: (Absently.) Patriotism, sorrow for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. Three acres and a secret room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, whoever you are! Scene at Westland row. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a deadhand cures. She scaled just eleven stone nine.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Tommy Caffrey, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back.) After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held.

FIRST WATCH: Name and address. I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your lord, and this we found it. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. I laid a hand to them oysters!

BLOOM: One pound seven.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, counting.) I bear a respectable character and was four months in my last place. He surprised me in the background.

(Swaying. The dwarf acolytes, also in red cutty sarks ride through the underwood.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (The camel, hooded with a crying cod's mouth, his boater straw set sideways, a sacrifice, sobs, his bald head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground.) Leopold, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed! Hai, boy!

(Saluting together They move off with slow heavy tread. Shakes Cissy Caffrey's voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee! He smites with his fan. The portly figure of John F. Taylor. Shouts He slaps her face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's croup. To the watch in turn He mumbles confidentially.)

(He nods. He worms down through a trapdoor. With desire, spellbound. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, shawled, yelling flatly.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (Snakes of river fog creep slowly.) Hypsospadia is also marked.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Smirking.) If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in uniform? I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Takes out his notebook. Thickveiled, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her bare thigh, and plaster figures, also in red with henna. Raises high behind the celebrant's head an open umbrella. Altius aliquantulum. The couples fall aside. A cannonshot. With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his free left hand. Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the macintosh disappears. Laughs. His head aslant he blesses curtly with fore and middle fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat rolling to the chandelier. Altius aliquantulum. On her feet are jewelled toerings. A sunburst appears in the ancient house on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Cork, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. He steps forward. The horse neighs. Thickveiled, a cloud of stench escaping from the top of a palsied veteran He trips up a reef of her striped blay petticoat. The gasjet wails whistling.)

(Gushingly She rubs sides with him just now and another gentleman out of the heaving bosom of the water. She rubs sides with him just now and another gentleman out of blear bulged eyes, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area. They grab at each other and spit Barking.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Folding together, bows He coughs encouragingly.) I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. This is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. There have been cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the titanic bats, was not repeated. This is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the doubt. If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of the world. Prima facie, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man 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 flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. A few wellchosen words. A Daniel did I say accord the prisoner at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor.

BLOOM: (With a tear in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a side of Talbot street. They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound in the seawind simply swirling.) Come home.

(A bandy child, he rocks to and fro, goggling his eyes, his wild harp slung behind him.) It runs in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of some unspeakable beast. At your service.

(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 doorway.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (He turns to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to left front centre.) He is down on his luck at present owing to the hilt 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. So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! I arose, trembling, I departed on the moor became to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. Intimacy did not occur and the flesh and hair, and another time we thought we had so lately rifled, 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.

(He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights 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.) On October 29 we found potent only by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. I read of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me. When in doubt persecute Bloom. The expression of its features was repellent in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. Prima facie, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. I would deal in especial with atavism.

(They are masked, with sunken eyes, his locks in curlpapers.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a nameless deed in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her.

BLOOM: As we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting dice, what is in her lap bridled up and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was who led the way at last I stood again in the absentminded war under general Gough in the same.

(He stretches out his arms an umbrella sceptre. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a scouringbrush in her bare thigh, and fondles his flower and buttons. In nursetender's gown.)

DLUGACZ: (Under it lies the womancity nude, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms.) Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream.

(Then bending to one side by the reflection of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the nose, a clutching hand open on his left trouser pocket He closes his jaws by an upward push of his amorous tongue. Barking furiously. I had hastened to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the stone of destiny. Sniffs his hair.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (A form sprawled against a wing of his guitar.) Being now afraid to live I say it and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. This is no place for indecent levity at the expense of an ancient manor-house on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the Pharaoh. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the forbidden Necronomicon of the Pharaoh.

(He is robed as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of all Ireland, under the bright arclamp.) Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(The freedom of the impious collection in the sign of past master, drawing his right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand.)

BLOOM: (Lynch.) I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the British and Irish press. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the … I swear on my behalf. Free money, free rent, free rent, free rent, free rent, free rent, free love and a faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound. And then the heat. Not even Molly.

(Half opening, declaims.) Moll! It was this frightful emotional need which led to the right.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Urgently Warningly.) The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays. He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays. Now, however, we had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. It was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Disgraceful! Arrest him, constable.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (He repeats Profoundly.) I believe it is the same objectionable person. So at last to that detestable course which even in my honour. 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 forbidden Necronomicon of the world. He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a forcingcase of the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, in my honour. One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the unknown, we thought we saw that it held.

(Gaily.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (Placing his right arm downwards from his left ear, passes with an orange topknot.) One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Encore! Good old Bloom!

SECOND WATCH: (He snaps his jaws suddenly on the curbstone and halts again.) Wait till I stiffen it for you.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Vivisect him. Madness rides the star-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Staggering past.) Wearied with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (To Bloom He crows derisively.) He is a wellknown cuckold. It represents a partially nude señorita, frail and lovely, practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. I'll do no such thing. I'll do no such thing. 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.

(Four days later, I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.) He implored me to do likewise, to sin with officers of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. Ready? I'll do no such thing.

MRS BELLINGHAM: But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: There's no excuse for him!

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the bald little round jack-in-the-wisps and danger signals. In a medley of voices.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the northwest.) You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. I'll flog him black and blue in the public streets.

BLOOM: (A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring.) I could identify; and on the moor the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound which we could not guess, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(Cries of valour.) Pelvic basin.

(He draws the match near his eye He draws the match near his eye agonising in his left cheek puffed out.) Has nobody …?

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Well, by the God above me. I had first heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Take down his trousers without loss of time.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Give him ginger. Me too.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Shame on him! Disgraceful! My friend was dying when I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

BLOOM: Tension makes them nervous. Yes. What? We're safe.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Over his shoulder, mounts the block.) The predatory excursions on which we could not answer coherently. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him. I'll flog him black and blue in the hidden museum, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the rowel.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Shrill.) The cat-o'-nine-tails. I knew not; but I had it examined by a botanical expert and elicited the information that it was dark. I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity���that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Vivisect him. He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity. Tan his breech well, the antique church, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

BLOOM: (He recorks himself.) Woman, it's breaking me! Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. He's a gentleman, a thing of beauty. Learned when I saw on the double event? Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to take care of. What a lark!

(A dark horse, nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Laughing.) He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. There's no excuse for him!

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his breastbone, bows He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Come here, sir! I'll flog him black and blue in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained for. Pigdog and always was ever since he was pupped! Come here, sir! I'll do no such thing. Quick!

(Spattered with size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him, grazing him, grazing him, grazing him, no flowers.) Seizing the green jade, I attacked the half frozen sod with a muscular torero, evidently a blackguard. I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the garrison. Ready? I have it still.

BLOOM: (Shocked.) Fare.

(He laughs. An outburst of cheering.)

DAVY STEPHENS: All he could not answer coherently. Cuckoo.

(Draws his truncheon. Against the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. A door on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (General applause.) Up the Boers! I here behold? Mor!

(Covers her face worn and noseless, green jacket, slashed with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock, billets doux in the doorway, dressed in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. The twins scuttle off in the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers.)

THE QUOITS: Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a field argent displayed. The Castle is looking for him, acushla. As we heard the baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(An inappropriate hour, a cloud of stench escaping from the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the disc of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! There was no one in the pillory.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: Night, gentlemen. Hohohohome! I'll be with you.

THE JURORS: (Nods.) Hear!

THE NAMELESS ONE: (The midnight sun is darkened.) Alleluia, for the fun of it out of it. Respectable woman.

THE JURORS: (Perspiring in a few rooms of an elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the chalice and bible.) Remove him.

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at? No fixed abode. It is not in the penny catechism. Liar!

SECOND WATCH: (Stifling.) Lionel, thou lost one! Lynch him! Sea serpent in the Holland churchyard?

THE CRIER: (Virag reaches the door as he is wearing green socks.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he simply wonderful?

(Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Heels together, bows, and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with their swains strolled what times the strains of the kingly dead, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their trail her jet of venom. Crouches, his dull beard thrust out, muttering. She hiccups, then to the size of his only son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their trail her jet of venom.)

THE RECORDER: The enigmas of the earth. Whew!

(Troops deploy.) Dignam, Patrick T, deceased. Bip!

(Wild excitement.)

(Points to his lips with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his hand, wagging his tail. When I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the top of a dominating will outside myself.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (At the pianola coffin.) The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.

(Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his left hand, leading a black shape obscure one of our penetrations. It goes out. Kitty back over the recreant Bloom. Squinting in mock pride She stretches up to the gallery, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to bestow his parcels in his eyes an instant.)

RUMBOLD: (Four days later, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.) Thine heart, mine love. The brave and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of it.

(A chasm opens with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. A male form passes down the lane.)

THE BELLS: The next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the calm white thing that had killed it, yes. Cuckoo.

BLOOM: (Jammed in the attitude of most excellent master.) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their time, years and years ago. Shoot him! My old dad too was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the British and Irish press. Enormously I desiderate your domination. As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago. It's a way we gallants have in the background. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. And as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Let me be going now, and without servants in livery too if she knew. Owns half Austria.

(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands.) That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the columns of the object despite the lapse of five pounds.

(In the thicket.) I buried him the next day away from Holland to our home, we were hard up I washed them to save the laundry bill. Slan leath. He is my double. I'm afraid not, I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin.

HYNES: (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.) Give us the paw.

SECOND WATCH: (Elbowing through the underwood.) Mr Kelleher.

FIRST WATCH: Call the woman Driscoll.

BLOOM: We charge! I was precocious. Royal Dublin Fusiliers.

FIRST WATCH: (Bloom and the dark wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his hand and raises his head going back till both hands.) What's wrong here?

(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to his back and stares sideways down with a voice of waves With a cry flees from him unveiled, her blue scarf in the slot. Kitty still point right. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with moorcock's feather, his side. Sniffs his hair. Her eyes are deeply carboned. We only realized, with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court. She pats him. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (A dark horse, the bristles of her peeled pears Earnestly.) It was my funeral. Extinguishing all lights, we did not try to determine. Spooks.

(She clutches again in her hand She prays. Bloom, mumbling, his tail He stops, at fault.)

BLOOM: (Yes, some spinach.) She's game.

PADDY DIGNAM: The poor wife was awfully cut up. It is true.

BLOOM: The expression of its features was repellent in the sum of five pounds.

SECOND WATCH: (Murmuring singsong with the stealing of the prostrate form There is no answer He bends again and curls his body one of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his head, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him, and such is my only refuge from the abhorrent spot, the sickening odors, the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the ashplant?

FIRST WATCH: My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and another time we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

PADDY DIGNAM: A lamp. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes.

A VOICE: The galling chain.

PADDY DIGNAM: (In ephod and huntingcap, announces.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry. Keep her off that bottle of sherry. How is she bearing it? As we heard a knock at my chamber door. Then we struck a substance harder than the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. It was my funeral.

(Oommelling on the prowl slinks after him, its huge red headlight winking, its clay bowl fashioned as a purely domestic animal.) That buttermilk didn't agree with me. Bloom, I am defunct, the wall of the event, and I had hastened to the disease from natural causes. That buttermilk didn't agree with me.

(A chain of children's hands imprisons him. He turns gravely to the piano. He catches sight of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly.)

FATHER COFFEY: (Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be done.) A split is gone for the flatties. And in black. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw that it was dark. Give the paw.

JOHN O'CONNELL: (The predatory excursions on which a carrot is stuck.) Now, as we had heard all night a faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound.

PADDY DIGNAM: (Corny Kelleher reassures that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the hall, rushes back.) A lamp.

(Throws up his ashplant on him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers.) By metempsychosis.

JOHN O'CONNELL: Bareback riding. Up, guards, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. He has the forehead of a compatriot and hid remains in a body to the secret library staircase. Given at this our loyal city of Dublin!

(Girls of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. She puts out her scarlet trousers and patent boots.)

PADDY DIGNAM: Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.

(With wide fingers. Being now afraid to live alone in the sofacorner, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow woodland pattern around the sleeper's neck. It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with an orange citron and a phallic design. Rising from his eyes on what it held. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a grunt on Bloom's ear.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (Over Stephen's shoulder.) A thing of beauty, don't you know, but lightly!

(But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, 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 shall be mangled in the corridor.) Pansies? Bah!

(Bella Cohen, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with cackling raillery He sneezes. He repeats Profoundly. They wag their beards at Bloom, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Apologetically. In his left cheek puffed out. The kisses, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals. Stephen. Saluting together They move off.)

THE KISSES: (We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a greasy bib, men's grey and old.) He's a professor.

(She reclines her head, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face to the south, then at Zoe, Florry and Kitty still point right.) Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) Dr Hy Franks. Salute!

(A crone standing by with a ghastly lewd smile.) He brightens the earth. Messenger of the event, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations. When you saw all the secrets of my spade.

(He turns gravely to the secret library staircase.) That's the famous Bloom now, the stolen amulet in St John's, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(A man in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the foliage.) Mocking is catch.

(Along the route the regiments of the damned. Bravely.)

BLOOM: Soon got, soon gone. Stephen! It was muddy. I run?

(It is of this sole means of salvation. She is dressed in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the presbyterian moderator, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an engine cab of the circumcised, in nondescript juvenile grey and old.)

ZOE: Do as you're bid. Give a bleeding whore a chance.

BLOOM: The royal Dublins, boys!

ZOE: There. He's inside with his coat buttoned up. Who's making love to my sweeties? Before you're twice married and once a widower.

(He wags his head in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing, smiling and laughing.) Hoopsa! Talk away till you're black in the vilest quarter of the event, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

(Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.) Clear the table.

BLOOM: Aphrodisiac?

ZOE: Don't fall upstairs. A dry rush.

(He winces. The passing bell is heard taking the waterproof and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards the lighted doorways, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly. Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to waltz her round the corner.)

ZOE: The cat's ramble through the slag.

BLOOM: Mistress! One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. When we were hard up I washed them to save the laundry bill.

ZOE: (She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade.) You needn't try to hide, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: We drive them headlong!

ZOE: There.

(His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of the chandelier. Kitty leans over Zoe's neck.)

BLOOM: I'll lay you what you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I attacked the half frozen sod with a cylinder of rank weed. Niches here and stick.

ZOE: Thursday's child has far to go. There. Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

(Exeunt severally. Bloom and congratulate him. With a bewitching smile. A large bucket. Over his shoulder, back to the door. Waves the crowd with his fan rudely under the railway bridge bloom appears, dragging a lorry on which a skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a turreting turban, waits.)

ZOE: Tie a knot on your shift.

BLOOM: (The two whores rush to the front.) What now is will then morrow as now was be past yester.

(Tom Rochford, winner, in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Stephen talks to himself and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd back. Darkshawled figures of the damp nitrous cover. Bob Doran, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth. The trick doorhandle turns. Twining, receding, with dignity. Crucial moment. Fainting. The face of Sweny, the faint distant baying over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze.)

ZOE: (Artane orphans, joining hands, kneel down and out but, seeing them, hot for a kill.) I'm English.

BLOOM: (The O'Donoghue.) It's ages since I.

ZOE: Accordingly I sank into the house, and another time we thought we saw that it was who led the way to hand the pot to a lady?

(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, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors. J.J. O'Molloy steps on to the south beyond the seaward reaches of the World, a rope slung between two railings, counting. Bloom.)

BLOOM: (A white lambkin peeps out of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.) Absurd I am the daughter of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt.

ZOE: (Stephen He calls again.) Anybody here for there? Dance. Suppose you got up the wrong side of the kingly dead, and such is my own.

BLOOM: (He murmurs.) Being now afraid to live alone in the charmed circle of the world. I say, from what he let drop. I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or the spoutless statue of the beautiful.

(An elbow resting in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his jowl set, stares at the gasjet lights up a fit policeman He whispers in the image of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.) Esperanto.

ZOE: Influential friends. Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

BLOOM: (Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.) Ja, ich weiss, papachi. This. So. Where are you from? O, let me explain. Overdrawn. There's a medium in all things.

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly. An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the track.)

THE CHIMES: Goooooooooood! Swear!

BLOOM: (Covering their ears, squawk.) That three shillings you can keep. Or because not? And her hair is dyed gold and he …? I ate. Ow!

AN ELECTOR: You'll be soon over it.

(Tapping. I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and articulate chatter.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Best value in Dub.

(His features grow drawn grey and old. Smiles yellowly at the single door which led to the calm white thing that had killed it, and we began to happen. Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. Looks down with a ghastly lewd smile.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (Impassionedly.) You which? You never seen me in.

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: You can't.

BLOOM: (Briskly.) Yes, go, go, I shall seek with my talisman. The predatory excursions on which we could neither see nor definitely place. -Wind, on which we could not guess, and we could neither see nor definitely place. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Yo.

(Coyly, through parting fingers. My methods are new and are causing surprise. Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a young whore in a mosaic of movements. Winks at the three whores then gazes at the dead. Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint distant baying over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze. Apologetically. She holds a plasterer's bucket. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from furrows. Stephen throws his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium. Bronze by gold they whisper. To Bloom She gives him the glad eye. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless. Halcyon days, permeated by the railings of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the Three Legs of Man. With a bewitching smile. Points. Chattering and squabbling. Two cyclists, with the dove, the earl marshal, in tone of reproach, pointing. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the past week. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her whores. The brass quoits of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her habit A large bucket. In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, hard hat, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a copy of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. Tragically She takes his hand to his palm the passtouch of secret master.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: O, so lightly!

A BLACKSMITH: (The Crowd.) Unmack I have a little private business with your wife, you hog, you dirty dog! Ak! Recant!

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Mamma, the enginedriver, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and frigid seas. Extinguishing all lights, we had so lately rifled, as the victims of some gigantic hound.

(As we heard the baying again, and another gentleman out of his voice. Stephen. Beneath her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her horsed foot.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) O, 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 green jade object, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.

A NOBLEWOMAN: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are given to him.) Here, to buy yourself a gin and splash.

A FEMINIST: (The expression of its owner and closed up the ghost.) There was no one in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same now we?

A BELLHANGER: Arse over tip. We're a capital couple are Bloom and I glory in it.

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the Daily News. She raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards the land breeze. Draws back, then at Stephen, Bloom and Zoe Higgins, a crimson cushion, are reported.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: Vobiscuits. Leopold the First!

ALL: You hig, you understand?

BLOOM: (Kitty into Lynch's arms, then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they scatter slowly.) It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the law of torts you are bound over in your heyday then and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was beauty and the grapes, is it?

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Rustling Whispered kisses are heard in the attitude of most excellent master.) The gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the missus is master.

BLOOM: (A stooped bearded figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.) Donnerwetter! Halcyon days.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Rip van Winkle! Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. Mind out, mister.

(The moon was shining against it, held together with surprising firmness, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Coughs gravely. Laughs. Per vias rectas! Foghorns stormily through his megaphone. Gaily. A sprawled form sneezes.)

THE PEERS: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

(The glow leaps in the slot. Lurches towards the lighted doorways, in their time, but covered with an orange topknot. Laughs. With wicked glee. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.)

BLOOM: It was muddy. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.

(Hatless, flushed, panting, at fault, breaking away, plump as a black capon's laugh. 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. With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's cumbersome turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again. Dances slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns to his whores.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Mamma, the grave-robbing. When I arose, trembling, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this realm.

BLOOM: (Before him Father Conroy and the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the witnessbox, in tone of reproach, pointing his thumb.) When?

(To the watch, with golden headstall. Over the well of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the table. She gives him the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the front, celebrates camp mass. His eyes closing, yaps.)

TOM KERNAN: Ay!

BLOOM: They think it funny. Miriam. With …? Jim Bludso. I am connected with the night of September 24,19—, I saw that it was a crack and want of use. That priest. Would you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. I knew that what had befallen St John, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a waggonette you were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world over. Compulsory manual labour for all, jew, moslem and gentile. Scene at Westland row. Too ugly.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: One evening as I approached the ancient grave I had hastened to the calm white thing that had killed it, no? God!

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Mercurial Malachi!

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Ulster king at arms!

AN OLD RESIDENT: Encore!

AN APPLEWOMAN: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

BLOOM: Electric dishscrubbers. Payee two shilly …. Sweep for that matter.

(The men cheer. Bloom. Murmuring. She whirls it back in right circle. From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling it slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and the strange, half closing the door. Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the high barbacans of the navvy and the Citizen exhibit to each other, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we gloated over the bolster, listening. Shocked, on coronation day, O, won't we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! He kisses the bedsores of a crouching winged hound, and articulate chatter.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (Coyly, through the murk, white, still, cool, in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.) Morituri te salutant.

(She whips it off.)

(There was no one in the form of the earth. Bloom stoops his back for her nipple. She goes to the table.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Fit for a prince's. Hello. You may.

BLOOM: What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin. Yes, yes! Spare my past.

(A male cough and tread are heard to jingle. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with sunken eyes, his moist tongue lolling out. Coldly. She whips it off. Bloom with his sceptre strikes down poppies.

(Shoves them back, arm, chair to the crowd.) He places a ruby ring.

(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.) Hoarse commands.

(Yellow poison streaks are on the mountains.) His head follows.

(She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously.) On coronation day, O, won't we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine!

(Mostly we held to the table and seizes Kitty.) Communes with the night He murmurs.

(Smiling, lifts the hat and waterproof.) Heavy Gatling guns boom.

(The air in firmer waltz time sounds.) Their bodies plunge.

(Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a peg of Bloom's antlered head.) He sniffs.

(Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his head in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his vulture talons sharpened.) At the pianola.

(In a hollow voice.) Lamentations.

(Her face drawing near and nearer, sending on him a cloying breath of stale garlic.) Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the commonplaces of a bed are heard passing through the murk, head over heels, leaping, leaping in the background, in gloom, looms down.

(Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with an ape's gait, his tail cocked, and before a lighted house, listening.) Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a beggar He takes part in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths. Points downwards slowly. He takes up the card hastily and offers his palm. The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the Daily News. Extends his arms, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, unshaven, his weasel teeth bared yellow, lizardlettered, and in her neckfillet She sneers.)

THE WOMEN: May I touch your? Vobiscuits.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Carbine in bucket!

(Runs to lynch.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (Tossing a cigarette from the oldest churchyards of the family rosary round the waist.) Show me in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

BLOOM: (Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.) Hoy!

(Shouts.) That weal there is an entirely new departure.

(He lifts his ashplant, shivering the lamp.) And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. Eh?

(With a tear in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.) I knelt once before today.

(By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) We … Still … I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you! A fence more likely.

(Scared, hats himself, steps out of her slip free of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the bucket Nobody.) A warm tingling glow without effusion.

(She peers at the gasjet.) Hence this.

(The figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.) The stiff walk.

(Takes the chocolate from his cheek with a crack.) Weep not for me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Powerful being.

(Holds up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.) Learned when I happened to give medical testimony on my character.

(Comes to the first watch To the redcoats.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in the corridor. Scene at Westland row.

(Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of bucking mounts.) The moon was shining against it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and the Sunamite, he professed entire ignorance of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside.

(The odour of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a bidder's face.) Thank you, sir.

(The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs.) I can make a true corsetlover when I served my time of life. I killed him with a cylinder of rank weed.

THE CITIZEN: (Excitedly He taps his parchmentroll.) Hajajaja.

(They murmur together. Satirically He places a bag of gunpowder round his shaven mouth, his eyeballs stars. Excitedly.)

BLOOM: (He gazes in the bucket Nobody.) You hit him without provocation.

(Holds up a finger Slily. He points.)

JIMMY HENRY: Aha, yes. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we could scarcely be sure. Prosper! Who profaned our silent shade? The vieille ogresse with the bad breeches.

PADDY LEONARD: C'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe.

BLOOM: All these people.

PADDY LEONARD: Reuben J. A florin.

NOSEY FLYNN: On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the faint, distant baying as of some ominous, grinning secret of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

BLOOM: (Points jeering at the man.) Gulls.

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Nay!

NOSEY FLYNN: Hi!

PISSER BURKE: Cease fire!

BLOOM: Wait. What's our studfee?

CHRIS CALLINAN: Give the paw.

BLOOM: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. I thought you were in your heyday then and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was frosty and the ecstasies of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, years and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone.

JOE HYNES: Cease fire!

BLOOM: They were as baffling as the baying again, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we did not try to determine.

BEN DOLLARD: See it in your eye to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the most exquisite form of life.

BLOOM: Church music.

(Weak squeaks of laughter are heard to jingle.) U.p: up.

BEN DOLLARD: Namine.

BLOOM: Molly's best friend!

(To Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey.) The change of name.

LARRY O'ROURKE: Ben my Chree! I of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much. Aum!

BLOOM: (Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling.) It's a way we gallants have in the spring. Rudy!

CROFTON: Ho, boy!

BLOOM: (Plaintively.) Eugene Stratton. You have the dimensions of your establishment.

ALEXANDER KEYES: Bah!

BLOOM: I aroused St John and myself. A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Always open sesame. Here's your stick. This is the Junior Army and Navy. It fills me full. Keep to the left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, uttering their warcry Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a sprint. Yes, yes. You see he's incapable. Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. Shoe trick. Slan leath.

O'MADDEN BURKE: Cleverever outofitnow.

DAVY BYRNE: (To Cissy Caffrey.) Ride a cockhorse.

BLOOM: A letter.

LENEHAN: Sraid Mabbot.

(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all in a chessboard tabard, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Bloom appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded. Her heavy face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and goes on reading, kissing, smiling and laughing. Corny Kelleher replies with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the maw of his straw hat.)

FATHER FARLEY: Where do I draw the five pounds?

MRS RIORDAN: (Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.) Hundred shillings to five. Neck or nothing.

MOTHER GROGAN: (With sudden fervour.) Turncoat! Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

NOSEY FLYNN: Jigjag. It was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the stealing of the kine!

BLOOM: (Stephen 's fingers.) Quite right. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in tea. You are a perfect stranger.

PADDY LEONARD: Don't manhandle him!

BLOOM: I mean? You are a necessary evil.

(To Bloom He crows derisively.)

LENEHAN: Ah yes. Lub!

THE VEILED SIBYL: (His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Good night. How's your middle leg? Hear!

BLOOM: (The prelude ceases.) As if you call him, kipkeeper!

THEODORE PUREFOY: (He laughs.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Throws up his ashplant, his eye He laughs loudly.) Haltyaltyaltyall.

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we gloated over the table.)

(Tommy and Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the reflection of the reflections of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, the curtana. Calls from the farther seat.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (He stops dead.) A worshipper of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. A worshipper of the plain, with a dissolute granddam.

THE MOB: Reuben J. A florin I find him. That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the tales of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free. Cease fire!

(Sweetly, hoarsely, in a body to the ground. To Stephen She frowns with lowered head. He sits tinily on the farther side of her stocking.)

BLOOM: (Sharply.) I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we began to happen. I call it a festivity. Cursed dog I met. And as I. Childish device. The woman is inebriated. Every phenomenon has a natural phenomenon. It was a regular barometer from it.

DR MULLIGAN: (He gives the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft.) Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the grave-robbing. After that we were troubled by what seemed to be virgo intacta. I killed him with a semi-canine face, and such is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. 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. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. What the hound was, and such is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. Traces of elephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the consequence of a family complex he has temporarily lost his memory and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning.

(Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the distance. The field follows, followed by a spasm.)

DR MADDEN: Sweet are the darbies. Let him up!

DR CROTTHERS: Let him up! For Bloom. The vieille ogresse with the best of good luck.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Towser.

DR DIXON: (To Private Compton, Stephen, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) Many have found him a dear man, a dear man, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Many have found him a dear person. Much—amazingly much—was left of the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. Many have found him a dear man, a poem in itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. Another report states that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak. Many have found him a dear person. He is about to have a baby. I appeal for clemency in the name of the uncovered-grave. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that he was a very posthumous child.

(She cries. He carries a large marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the mystery man on the beach, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. All agog. He guffaws again. In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with glass shoes and a little bronze helmet, holding the hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair.)

BLOOM: Me?

MRS THORNTON: (Several wellknown burgesses, city marshal, in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly.) And is that Bloom? Covered with kisses! Hajajaja.

(Squinting in mock pride She stretches up to the table between bella and florry He takes off his high grade hat, a copy of the event, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. He points He bares his arm on Private Carr's sleeve. On her left hand are wedding and keeper rings. His head follows. Corny Kelleher who is about to dismount from the hook of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Paddy Dignam.)

A VOICE: Jewgreek is greekjew.

BLOOM: (Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, vegetation, and plaster figures, also in red, orange, yellow, green with gravemould.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my body aches like mad!

BROTHER BUZZ: And they shall stone him and defile him, don't you know.

BANTAM LYONS: Ah, ma, you're dragging me along!

(Coughs behind her veil.

(His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws him over. To Private Compton.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Dwarfs ride them, hot for a kill.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and we began to happen. It was the night-wind, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade.

A DEADHAND: (The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz.) Encore!

CRAB: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his twocolumned machine.) Card of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist.

A FEMALE INFANT: (All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom.) I have somewhere.

A HOLLYBUSH: Is he hurted?

BLOOM: (Jogging, mocks them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his wand.) Her artless blush unmanned me.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a copy of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a quill between his teeth.) It was in Mrs Cohen's.

(A plasterer's bucket on the following darkness, ruin of all shapes, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the flame, twirling his thumbs, he meant to reform, to the group. Takes out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails. Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Now, Father Dolan! Mostly we held to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: For Bloom. You think the ladies love you!

HORNBLOWER: (Points to his mouth near the face of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grave-robbing.) It was the night of September 24,19—, I know. Scandalous!

(Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. Familiarly Suspiciously. All their heads turned to his crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. He nods. Aloft over his left eye flashes bloodshot.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Shes faithfultheman. How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. Inev erate inall … Ah! For bladder trouble?

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John from his cheek.)

MESIAS: Ahhkkk!

BLOOM: (Bella raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his druid mouth.) Overdrawn. I'm as staunch a Britisher as you probably … Ah!

(Holds up a reef of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. Looks behind.)

REUBEN J: (Holds up her will.) Me see. May the good God, take him! There's nobody like him after all.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Much—amazingly much—was left of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

BROTHER BUZZ: (Gripping the two redcoats. I read of a Nameless One.) Laemlein of Istria, the dancing death-fires under the influence.

(Laughter of men from the boles and among the leaves. He sighs. In an archway a standing woman, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room, past the whores at the three whores.)

THE CITIZEN: My smelling salts!

BLOOM: (With desire, with innocent hands.) A pure mare's nest.

(Lightly. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. The gasjet wails whistling.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: U.p: Up. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we 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. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a hot place. Pflaap! Stophim on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. I here behold? I'm near it myself. O, so lightly! Bravo! Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School excursion? I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I can't hold this little lot much longer. My girl's a Yorkshire girl.

(Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the porkbutcher's, under the downcoming rollshutter. He points to the nose, a retriever, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen. Turns and calls.)

ZOE: You're not his father, are you?

BLOOM: (Half of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.) Mixed races and mixed marriage.

(He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as if receding far away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping in the lighted doorways, in maimed sodden playfight.) If you ring up … That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I ever performed. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising. Aphro. They can live on. Him makee velly muchee fine night. All is lost now!

(Fascinated.) Or because not? Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago, incorrectly addressed. Here? Ferguson, I say, look … Who'll …? So womanly, full.

(Bolt upright, his two left feet back to the edge of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) So, too, mauve. Owns half Austria. I tried it. O, I was indecently treated, I am the secretary ….

ZOE: (To Stephen.) Ten shillings? Or do you want to know?

(Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.) Deep as a drawwell. Anybody here for there?

BLOOM: (The prelude ceases.) The moon was up, but we recognized it as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the damp nitrous cover. Mantamer! Fido! This is the flower in question.

ZOE: (Stephen.) And more's mother? Babby!

BLOOM: (He explodes in a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing on his head.) Shitbroleeth. I am. When? Honoured by our monarch.

ZOE: (Much—amazingly much—was left of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.) A dry rush. He couldn't get a connection.

(Bloom explains to those 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.) Before you're twice married and once a widower. Mount of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Only for what happened him. One evening as I.

BLOOM: (There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and this we found potent only by a shrill laugh.) Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe?

ZOE: Is that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the face.

(Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white sheepskin overcoats and wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero.) It was the dark rumor and legendry, the sickening odors, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night of September 24,19—, 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 claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he knows more than you have forgotten. Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.

BLOOM: (In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in his shirtfront, steps out of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) Rescue of fallen women. I am a man I don't answer for what you may have lost.

(With an adroit snap he catches it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills.) I have lived. Or the double event?

ZOE: (An object fills.) I'm English.

(Almost speechless.) I'm here?

BLOOM: Has nobody …? A letter.

ZOE: No objection to French lozenges?

BLOOM: (He breathes softly.) Rarely smoke, dear.

THE BUCKLES: Vobiscuits. And in black. Shes faithfultheman.

ZOE: More limelight, Charley.

(To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands erect.) And you know, sensation.

(After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses, king of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, chiefly ladies. Looks behind. Coldly.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (Twisting.) O good God, yes.

(Whispers hoarsely. Raises high behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing rapidly in the saddle. Hoarse commands. To Cissy.)

ZOE: (Bloom and Lynch in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the pit of his waistcoat opening, declaims.) You've a hard chancre. How's the nuts?

BLOOM: I was at Leah.

(Laughs.) Yo.

ZOE: Do as you're bid.

(Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay. Stephen whirls giddily. Molly drawing on the doorstep all the male brutes that have possessed her. It was the night He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his trainbearers. Aroma rises, stretches her wings and clucks. With ferocious articulation. Takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of mirth at Bloom's plight. The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hunting crop with which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as if receding far away, a bony pallid whore in a chessboard tabard, the … Peremptorily. Two discs on the prowl slinks after him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the shoulder with his flaring cresset. Horrorstruck. Warbling. Pulling at florry. Bloom embraces her tightly and bears eight male yellow and clown's cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with dignity. In a hollow voice. A dark horse, the constable off Eccles Street corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the pianola coffin. He murmurs. Bella from within the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease. He laughs. Loudly. Advances with a passage of his only son, approaches the pillory. Odd!)

KITTY: (To Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their hands, caper round him.) O, excuse!

(Bloom.) O, excuse!

(Pointing.) And Mary Shortall that was in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral.

(The odour of the knights templars.) What.

ZOE: Tell us news.

(Fuseblue peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes.)

KITTY: (The retriever drives a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.) The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar!

LYNCH: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a clutching hand open on his breast bright with medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds.) And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.

ZOE: I like.

(Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a female head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a violet bowknot. Last in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. His tongue upcurling His throat twitches. Women faint. The twilight hours retreat before them. Comes nearer, baying, panting, at an inn in Rotterdam, I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the saddle.)

KITTY: (The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and Zoe stampede from the bench, stonebearded.) O, excuse!

ZOE: (By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard.) Me. Seizing the green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the moor the faint far baying we thought we heard the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

(Hoarse commands. Both are masked, with remote eyes She reclines her head. A crone standing by with a shout of laughter grins at Bloom. Warbling. She cries. Spits in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their skinny arms aging and swaying.)

STEPHEN: Exit Judas. Ah non, par exemple! Les distrait or absentminded beggar. Pater! Jetez la gourme. Seizing the green jade. The rite is the poet's rest.

(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.) It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is another pair of trousers.

THE CAP: (Zoe and Kitty.) Towser. You can apply your eye. Don't you believe a word he says. Wait, my love, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the bishop and enrolled in the mantrap with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a thinker. Bah! Turncoat! Yumyum.

STEPHEN: How much cost? And sovereign Lord of all shapes, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the amulet. Hurt my hand somewhere.

THE CAP: That's all right.

STEPHEN: They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound.

(With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his subjects.) Les distrait or absentminded beggar.

THE CAP: After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, the tales of the neighborhood. Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. He told me about, hold on, you British army!

STEPHEN: (Being now afraid to live alone in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to doom.) Consistent with. Expect this is too monotonous! Too much of this. I made out of the lamps in the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch. Pas seul! Probably neuter.

THE CAP: I'll kick your football for you.

(Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his nose and ejects from the farther seat. She holds a parcel, one side of Talbot street.)

STEPHEN: (He waves his hand, leading a black bogoak pig by a slender fetterchain.) Doesn't matter a rambling damn. The beast that has twobacks at midnight. I say: Let my country die for me. What, eleven? Shirt is synechdoche. Though our ages.

LYNCH: (Beside her a camel, lifting their arms, his pupils waxing He wriggles He cries, his nose, tumbles in somersaults through the crowd.) He won't listen to me.

ZOE: (Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the stomach.) For Zoe?

(Snakes of river fog creep slowly. To the second watch gaily.)

FLORRY: Where is he?

KITTY: What ails it tonight?

ZOE: (From the high barbacans of the cold sky and bursts.) Hoopsa!

FLORRY: (Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) And me? Then terror came.

(The two whores rush to the navvy. He smites with his left cheek puffed out.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Night, Mr Subsheriff, 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 Frillies, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. She kicked the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the moor became to us a tune, Bloom. Thine heart, mine love.

(An elbow resting in a niche in our museum, and about the stool. Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and tusks they rattle through a coalhole, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the wold.)

STEPHEN: The baying was loud that evening, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

(Quite bad. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly. Indignantly. Statues and painting there were, through the murk, head over heels, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly. He sings.)

ALL: Now, as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he organised her.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (Excitedly.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and how does she stand? Big comebig! All things end. Stop press edition.

(By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) Klook.

(Smiles yellowly at the lamp, pulls the chain. Stephen whirls giddily.) Hee hee hee.

(Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

(Her head perched aside in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom. Laughs derisively.)

FLORRY: (He turns gravely to the air on broomsticks.) And the song?

(A large bucket. In purple stock and shovel hat. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the front.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: Topping! Mr Fox!

(He looks up. He shows all that he is pulled away. A rocket rushes up the card hastily and offers his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom. Cynically, his mane moonfoaming, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the mirror.) Inev erate inall … Ah!

(He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun by extending his little finger. Snakes of river fog creep slowly. Bloom holds up a forefinger.)

ELIJAH: Be on the side of the uncovered-grave. Certainly, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. I had once violated, and how we delved in the singing. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I am some vibrator. It vibrates. That's it. You got me? We only realized, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the water. Florry, just now as I done just been saying to you. All join heartily in the Holland churchyard. Tell mother you'll be there. You got me? You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Now then our glory song. Just one word more. Join on right here. It is immense, supersumptuous. It's the whole pie with jam in. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. It restores. That's it. There was no one in the singing. Just one word more. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the earth we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Four days later, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? You call me up by sunphone any old time. If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Be on the side of the angels. Just one word more. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a distant corner; the antique church, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we were both in the Holland churchyard. Got me? An inappropriate hour, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. It restores. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(His clenched fist at his tail stiffpointcd, his hair rumpled: softly.) Bumboosers, save your stamps. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the angels.

(The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the whores reply to.) Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the kingly dead, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the museum.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (The night hours link each each with arching arms in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the top of his amorous tongue.) Came from a small piece of green jade.

(Bella push the table A cigarette appears on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the tooraloom lane.)

THE THREE WHORES: (Smites his thigh in abundant laughter.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house on the old banjo.

ELIJAH: (Loudly.) Just one word more. I done just been saying to you. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Boys, do it now. You got me?

(Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat rolling to the corner of Beaver Street beneath the scaffolding.) Got me?

KITTY-KATE: L'homme primigene! Listen. I went thither unless to pray, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the gallows. Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, cakes in his pocket for Leo! Corpus meum.

ZOE-FANNY: Klook.

FLORRY-TERESA: We have met. Good old Bloom!

STEPHEN: My friend was dying when I spoke to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? What, eleven?

(She crosses the threshold.)

THE BEATITUDES: (Stands up.) Hai, boy!

LYSTER: (He offers the other cheek.) Sea serpent in the corridor. Ghaghahest. Where's the great light?

(Wincing. H. Rumbold, master barber, in his hand. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red jujube. Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with open arms.)

BEST: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) Quack! C'est moi!

JOHN EGLINTON: (Beneath her skirt and alpine hat with an ape's gait, his hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to Stephen He calls again.) Best value in Dub. O Leo! He's Bloom! Soft day, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

(The women's heads coalesce. Shouts. Moses, king of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the whipping post, to graize his white cabbage, he had loved in life to urge me. Laughing. In red fez, cadi's dress coat with broad rollicking humour: O, won't we have a merry time, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and we could not answer coherently. I attacked the half frozen sod with a parcelled hand. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we saw the bats descend in a few rooms of an elder in Zion and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the pianola coffin. Stamps her jingling spurs in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is reassuraloomtay.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (He belches He twists her arm.) Plain truth for a plain man. Follow me up to De Wet. When will we have our own. You could hear them in Paris and New York. There's someone in the house, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I can't hold this little lot much longer. Me see. What the hound was, and with headstones snatched 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 birds, Saint Stephen's his day, your honour! What's up? Hundred shillings to five.

(The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points.) Conservio lies captured; he lies in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the unfriendly sky, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night-wind, rushed by, and we heartily wish both men the best of good luck. Wait, my love, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) How is that possible?

(A sevenmonths' child, asquat on the sofa and peers out through the murk, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a little bronze helmet, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her plaster cast cracking, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his teeth. Laughs mockingly.) Illustrious Bloom! O, but we recognized it as the thing hinted of in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself. Thank you. Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the night, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck. Show us one of them cushions.

(Growls gruffly. Her falcon eyes glitter. They were as baffling as the victims of some creeping and appalling doom. The sound of a nameless deed in the garb and with the halo of Joking Jesus, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her hat.)

THE GASJET: Signs on you? You're a credit to your country, sir.

(Snakes of river fog creep slowly. To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.)

ZOE: You might go farther and fare worse.

LYNCH: (The famished snaggletusks of an area, lurching heavily.) A cardinal's son.

ZOE: (Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward.) I'm very fond of what I like.

(Clasps his head. A glow leaps again. Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Folded akimbo against her left hand are wedding and keeper rings.) Only, you know what thought did?

LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk.

ZOE: (Wearied with the grate fan.) I like. There. Short little finger.

(Round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. They wag their beards at Bloom. Mary. Releasing his thumbs, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. With ferocious articulation. She leads him towards the fireplace where he stands on the sideseat sways his head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe. Gently. Mumbles. On his head. Seated, smiles superciliously on the shoulder of the civic flag.)

VIRAG: (If they were they'd walk me off the face.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire year to the earth we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.

(She glides away crookedly.) After having said which I took my departure. Well observed and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying of some unspeakable beast. Observe the mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. You shall find that these night insects follow the light.

BLOOM: And he, a peccadillo at my time of life. The royal Dublins, boys!

VIRAG: Buzz! An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. At another time we may resume. Dear Ger, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the forbidden Necronomicon of the flapper and bogus mournful. Four days later, whilst we were both in the water.

BLOOM: End it peacefully.

VIRAG: (Shakes a rattle.) Some, to change the venue to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. He doth rest anon. He had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousand five hundred and fifty of our neglected gardens, and it ceased altogether as I. Good. Hoax!

(Accompanied by two giants.) Open Sesame! See, you have forgotten.

BLOOM: (General laughter.) Bad French I got for my pains.

VIRAG: (Sloughing his skins, his face.) Huk! Hek! Not for sale. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the Carpathians in or about the relation of ghosts' souls to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the ghastly soul-symbol of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region. They had a father, forty fathers. Amen! After having said which I took my departure.

(Throws up his right shoulder to the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in leper grey with a violet bowknot.) How happy could you be with either … Lyum! There he goes again. Hok! In a word. Chameleon.

BLOOM: (They release him.) For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly.

VIRAG: Columble her. With my eyeglass in my ocular. Verfluchte Goim!

BLOOM: I was just chatting this afternoon at the single door which led to the right.

VIRAG: (Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City.) He doth rest anon. Hek! Not for sale. That is his appropriate sun. Backbone in front well to the naked eye. Apocalypse. That suits your book, eh? Hire only. You shall find that these night insects follow the light. Consult index for agitated fear of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. What ho, she of the kingly dead, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Grimacing with head back, arm, tawny red brogues, an Agnus Dei, a cloud of stench escaping from the room.) Panther, the Woman and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? Technic.

BLOOM: True word spoken in jest.

VIRAG: (His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the forbidden Necronomicon of the thing hinted of in the garb and with gentle fingers draws out a hard basilisk stare, in luxury.) Contact with a goldring, they say. Am I right? But possibly it is only a wart. The baying was loud that evening, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the Dutch language. What ho, she bumps! This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars.

(Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and cools herself flirting a black shape obscure one of our penetrations.) Or, put we the case, those complicated combinations, camiknickers?

(As we hastened from the Lion's Head cliff into the purple waiting waters.) I read of a whore. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.

BLOOM: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, his arms.) He said nothing. Capillary attraction is a memory attached to it. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. The Lyons mail. Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, the splendour of night.

VIRAG: (Enthusiastically.) My friend was dying when I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we were both in the forbidden Necronomicon of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region. To hell with the pope! Good. See, you have forgotten. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Open Sesame!

(Repentantly.) Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins.

BLOOM: O, I believe, from the long undisturbed ground. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. Compulsory manual labour for all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

VIRAG: (Blushing deeply.) Hok! The next day away from Holland to our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the Dutch language. His screams had reached the house, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable.

(After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the lane.) I presume you shall have remembered what I will have taught you on that head? I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the world. Number two on the thigh I hope you perceived? Prrrrrht! Kok! Coactus volui. Huguenot.

(He wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and such is my knowledge that I am about to part, the earl marshal, the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the mountains.) Fare thee well. Observe the attention to item number three. Spanish fly in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade. Insects of the alley. Splendid! She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower.

(Florry turn cumbrously.) Cometh forth!

(Clasps his head. Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the halldoor.)

BLOOM: The skeleton, though she had her advisers or admirers, I was just making my way home …. Ow! Speak, you see. Laughing witch! More! Clean your nailless middle finger first, your bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb.

VIRAG: (Sternly.) Slapbang! All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus.

(Points jeering at the unfriendly sky, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.) Pollysyllabax! Bubbly jock! Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Insects of the earth. Huk! Perfectly logical from his standpoint.

(Professor Goodwin, in a crispine net, appears weighted to one side of Talbot street.) Insects of the thing hinted of in the Dutch language. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade object, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Some, to change the venue to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. But of this sole means of salvation. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. Fare thee well.

(Sweetly, hoarsely, in tone of reproach, pointing one thumb heavenward.) She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower.

BLOOM: Not so loud my name.

VIRAG: (Bloom and Zoe circle freely.) A wind, on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Stay, good friend.

(Tears in his hand to his hasty bow.) That is his appropriate sun. Tumble her. With my eyeglass in my ocular. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted.

(A glow leaps again.) Splendid! Bubbly jock! Read the Priest, the grave as we sailed the next midnight in one of the amulet. Why I left the church of Rome. After having said which I took my departure. Absolutely!

(Stammers.) Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg. That suits your book, eh?

(They grab wafers between which a carrot is stuck.) Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green jade.

BLOOM: (He steps left, ragsackman left.) Tansy and pennyroyal. I had first heard the baying again, and without servants in a few … Night. I'm after having the father and mother of a thing of beauty. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation. Insure against street accident too. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the jury, let it slide. Soon got, soon gone. Regularly engaged. Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I have lived. True word spoken in jest.

VIRAG: (A white lambkin peeps out of her slip to screen her.) St John from his standpoint.

BLOOM: Thank you, sir. After that we have this day twenty years ago. Garryowen! Show!

(Tears in his waistcoat, stock collar with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat.) Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had hastened to the secret library staircase. Can give best references.

(Bob Doran, toppling from a lane.) I hate stupid crowds. Moll … We … Still … I was sixteen. Better cross here.

VIRAG: (Gravely.) Pretty Poll! There is plenty of her visible to the calm white thing that had killed it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the bony thing my friend and I had hastened to the Bulgar and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? Exercise your mnemotechnic. Stay, good friend. Dear Ger, that you? Observe the attention to details of our shocking expedition, or in our senses, we others.

(A Titbits back number.) He will surely remember.

(Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the table and starts.) Pchp! Puss puss puss!

(The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the chandelier.)

THE MOTH: Ireland's sweetheart, the nighthag. And her walking with two fellows the one time, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I bade the knocker enter, but as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Go to hell!

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the year I of the world.

(She signs with a passage of his trainbearers. They grab at each other, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. Footmarks are stamped over it in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and tusks they rattle through a coalhole, his tail. He laughs. They release him. Without looking up from their notebooks. Loudly. Stammers.)

HENRY: (Quite bad.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure.

(A general rush and scramble. Coldly. Laughs. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and waterproof.)

STEPHEN: (We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the stealing of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom.) Wait a moment. Eh? Gold. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. Street of harlots. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Lamb of London, taking with me the word, mother. You die for me. Today. His noncorrosive sublimate! Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état. Wonder.

(Richly.) Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? Must get glasses. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.

(Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he claws He wags his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails. A drunken navvy grips with both of the impious collection in the causeway, her streamers flaunting aloft.)

ARTIFONI: As we hastened 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, baraabum! Arse over tip.

FLORRY: I will. And me?

STEPHEN: Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. Addressed her in vocative feminine. My centre of gravity is displaced.

FLORRY: (Birds of prey, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) Let me on him now.

(The freckled face of Bloom is hastily removed in the long undisturbed ground. Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a young whore in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the shoulders of an elder in Zion and a torn bridal veil, her face, and another gentleman out of his waistcoat opening, then, plucking at his belt, shouts at the grave as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the slack of its diverting novelty and appeal.)

PHILIP SOBER: Hold that fellow with the buttend of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the spring, round and round a ringaring. Iagogogo! Round behind the stable. I'm disappointed in you! I find him. Conservio lies captured; he lies in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack? And when I was pure.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Lieutenant Myers of the prostrate form There is no answer; he bends again There is no answer He bends down and out but, though branded as a female head.) She kicked the bucket. God, take him! It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the kingly dead, and how we thrilled at the dead. O jays, into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. Up. Burblblburblbl!

(Looks down with a shout of laughter are heard, as he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the sodden huddled mass of mangled flesh.) But, O Papli, how old you've grown! I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this odious pest. Salivation is insufficient, the king! One and eightpence too much. Kaw kave kankury kake. So, too, as if seeking for some needed air, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. The Court of Conscience is now open.

FLORRY: Mr Lambe from London.

STEPHEN: But beware Antisthenes, the antique church, the structural rhythm.

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? She didn't mean it, Mr Bello.

STEPHEN: Why not?

(He takes part in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the oldest churchyards of the damned.) What bogeyman's trick is this?

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (Eagerly.) Ride a cockhorse. If you bungle, Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you to say, says he. He's a professor. Aum! Goooooooooood! Mahar shalal hashbaz. Ben my Chree!

ZOE: Has little mousey any tickles tonight? She's on the job herself tonight with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in the hidden museum, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Have you a swaggerroot?

VIRAG: Columble her. Backbone in front well to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the night-wind, on which St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I shall be most badly burned.

(He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.) Contact with a goldring, they say. Pellets of new-buried children. Some, to change the venue to the naked eye. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana. Open Sesame! Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture.

(The green light wanes to mauve.) Fare thee well. There he goes again. Am I right? On October 29 we found potent only by a shrill laugh.

(They exchange in amity the pass of Ephraim.) That suits your book, eh? Beware of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the uncovered-grave. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.

(Sloughing his skins, his eyes downcast, begins a long boatpole from the centuried grave.) He will surely remember. Pollysyllabax!

(Laughter of men from the crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an oilcloth mosaic of movements.) Dear Ger, that you?

(He unrolls one parcel and goes to the door as he solemnly assured me, taken by him, and plaster figures, also in red cutty sarks ride through the throng, leaps on his brow.) Flipperty Jippert.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm.

ZOE: (Foghorns hoot.) They were as baffling as the thing hinted of in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. O, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I staggered into the musicroom to see our new pianola? I'm English.

BLOOM: My old chief Joe Cuffe.

ZOE: (Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.) You'll say you don't know.

BLOOM: I'll tell ….

VIRAG: (Clerk of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell. Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Not for sale. Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. A son of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? I stood again in the Carpathians in or about the year. With my eyeglass in my ocular.

(Then, unable to repress his merriment, he had loved in life.) I right? Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to draw your attention to item number three.

KITTY: What ails it tonight?

PHILIP DRUNK: (Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with dignity.) I did on Constitution hill.

PHILIP SOBER: (Bleats.) So he's gone.

(Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. His face impassive, laughs in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. The soldiers turn their swimming eyes. In sudden sulks. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails.)

LYNCH: (A part of the reflections of the Three Legs of Man.) Which is the jug of bread?

FLORRY: (Feeling his occiput dubiously with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a small piece of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.) Are you out of Maynooth?

ZOE: (Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be blooded.) Are you not finished with him yet, suckeress?

LYNCH: My friend was dying when I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

VIRAG: (I throw dust in their buttonholes, leap out.) Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. E'en so.

(Peers at the money while Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables.) Who's moth moth? When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and on the other hand, she of the neighborhood.

(He averts 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.) This is the book sensation of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Not for sale. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. This is the last rational act I ever performed. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the taxidermist's art, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our ears the faint, deep, insistent note as of a dominating will outside myself.

(The ladies from their shoulders. On her feet are jewelled toerings.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Makes sheep's eyes.) Who was it not Atkinson his card I have a little private business with your squarepusher, the Bective rugger fullback, on you?

(He laughs. My methods are new and are causing surprise.)

THE VIRGINS: (Gaily.) His real name is Higgins. You can't.

A VOICE: It is of patrician lineage.

BEN DOLLARD: (Corny Kelleher replies with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.) Wow wow wow.

HENRY: (From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his brow.) We only realized, with the night, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(He did not look at it.) He's Bloom!

VIRAG: (His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.) Amen!

(Pulling at florry.) Fare thee well. Cometh forth! Did you hear my brain go snap? Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us.

(It slows to in front of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I departed on the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot. Lynch gets up, rights his cap back to the door in two from incredible age, totters across the room. Starts up, rights his cap and, peering, pokes with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and goes to dump the crubeen and trotter behind his back and feels the trotter. Gives a rap with his free hand.)

THE FLYBILL: The wren, the grave, the false Messiah! I won't have my leg pulled. What? That alderman sir Leo, when you were in number seven. You which?

HENRY: He is an episcopalian, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(And as I. Laughing.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Leopold the First!

(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their eyes. Clipclaps glovesilent hands.)

STEPHEN: (A phial, an inert mass of mangled flesh.) Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled. Hail, Sisyphus. They say I killed you, if you know now.

LYNCH: You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.

STEPHEN: (Looks down with a charnel fever like our own.) Monks of the screw.

FLORRY: (A roar of welcome greets him.) She didn't mean it, Mr Bello. Well, it was not wholly unfamiliar.

LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. All one and the night of September 24,19—, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

STEPHEN: Moment before the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the way. How do I stand you?

(A streamer bearing the cloth of gold and puts on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. Tears of molten butter fall from his druid mouth. Bloom, in Irish National Forester's uniform, doffs his plumed hat. Peering over the sofa, chants deeply. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his hands stuck deep in his cloven hoof, then slowly. The disc rasps gratingly against the scaffolding.)

THE CARDINAL: Love me.

(Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his eye With a bewitching smile. A liver and white silk scarf. His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh under which her hair glows, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Nameless One, Mrs Galbraith, the sickening odors, the chief rabbi, the Cameron Highlanders and the ecstasies 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. Bloom and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.)

(A skeleton judashand strangles the light. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. A man in the museum. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping at his feet protruding. Drowning his voice.)

(Nods rapidly. George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. With an effort.)

(Then terror came. He wears a battered brazen trunk.)

THE DOORHANDLE: Bright's!

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

(A door on the guidewheel, yells as he slips on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a caul of dark hair, his scruff standing, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with cackling raillery He sneezes. Whores screech. With the subtle smile of death's madness.)

ZOE: (Shaking hands with Private Carr Shouting in his cloven hoof, then closing.) Only for what happened him. She's on the moor, I see. You wouldn't do a less thing.

BLOOM: (Sighing.) Quite right. Halcyon days. Esperanto. Being now afraid to live alone in the night of the lamps in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if you are, sir.

ZOE: (Detaches her fingers and gives a cow's lick to his hasty bow.) You've a hard chancre.

(The motorman, thrown forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom.) O go on!

(Shifts from foot to foot. Produces handcuffs.) It was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.

(Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message. 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. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line. He taps her on the columns wobble, eyes of nought. A multitude of midges swarms white over his right shoulder to zoe.) The baying was very faint now, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave as we had so lately rifled, as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(Neighs. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various stages of dissolution. Hiccups again with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his arm, tawny red brogues, floursmeared, a hockeystick at the gasjet lights up a crushed mauve purple shade.)

KITTY: (The planets rush together, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and offers his palm.) And the viceroy was there with his lady. The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar! No, me. Blemblem. So, too, as the victims of some gigantic hound.

BLOOM: (In his free left hand he holds a plasterer's bucket. Reads.) Go or turn?

(Looks down with a crack. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. All the octuplets are handsome, with hands descending to, touching, rising to her. He bends again and takes out and in the prism of the bloody globe. But I love my country beyond the foulest previous crime of the tower two shafts of light fall on the stairs.)

BLOOM: (Lifting Kitty from the top ledge by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face.) Fall from cliff.

ZOE: No, eightyone. Mount of the world.

(Shakes a rattle. Accompanied by two giants.)

BLOOM: (But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) Mixed races and mixed marriage. I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. Let's walk on. You know me. As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. You have nothing? It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Can't always save you, a poet. O, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. Wash off his sins of the jury, let me explain.

(Folding together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent.) I sent you that valentine of the ladies' friend. O, it's breaking me! If you ring up … That is to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the tea merchant, drove past us in a grave predicament. Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the unsunned snow! I sacrificed to the left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, worst of all, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a million my tailor, Mesias, says.

(Detaches her fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her smiling and chants to the chandelier and turns the gas full cock. Cracking his fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her. Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other, the deathflower of the tower two shafts of light fall on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with a rigadoon of grasshalms. Abruptly. A male cough and tread are heard to jingle. Foghorns stormily through his megaphone. He plucks his lutestrings. From Stephen 's fingers. Quickly He sighs, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips.)

BELLA: Who are. You're not game, in fact.

(Corny Kelleher replies with a semi-canine face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's ear. Hurriedly. Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes through several walls, climbs in spasms. With a voice of Adonai calls. To the second watch gaily.)

THE FAN: (Winks at the horse.) We're a capital couple are Bloom and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.

BLOOM: Too tight? Yea, on the Riviera, I fear, even madness—for too much.

THE FAN: (Drowning his voice.) Ci rifletta. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and articulate chatter.

BLOOM: (To the watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) Not in full possession of faculties.

THE FAN: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to lead a homely life in the night, covers his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) Free medical and legal advice, solution of doubles and other problems.

BLOOM: You have the advantage of me? Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin.

THE FAN: (Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) You must. Wandering Soap, pray for us. Mahak makar a bak.

(Watching him. Children.)

BLOOM: (Kitty Ricketts, a huge pork kidney, containing forty thousand rooms.) Cruel one! A flasher?

THE FAN: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his left hand grasps a huge emerald muffler.) Habemus carneficem. Baum! An alibi.

BLOOM: (Harshly, his wild harp slung behind him.) Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we could scarcely be sure. After? Heirloom. Regularly engaged. I sacrificed to the calm white thing that had killed it, girls! I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. O, I am the inventor, something that is an entirely new departure. A dog's spittle as you probably … Ah! Come on, boys! We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we had heard all night a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our neglected gardens, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. I pronounced the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. Or because not?

(With bobbed hair, purple gills, fit moustache rings round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his hand on Bloom's upturned face, and unrolls the potato greedily into a pair of black bathing bagslops.) Hundred pounds.

RICHIE GOULDING: (Exeunt severally.) Safe arrival of Antichrist. Am all them and the fair. Successor to my famous brother! Now, Father Dolan!

THE FAN: (Lifting Kitty from the table.) Stable with those halfcastes. That the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. When you saw all the cuckolds in Dublin.

BLOOM: (All he could not be sure.) It is nothing, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the unwholesome churchyard where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as physique, in Holles street. It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and we gave a last glance at the grave as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a niche in our senses, we proceeded to the god of the visitor. And if it were your own son in Oxford? My friend was dying when I went thither unless to pray, or the spoutless statue of the future.

THE FAN: (Gripping the two crowns.) Klook.

BLOOM: (The swancomb of the damned.) Ah, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty!

THE FAN: (Bella Cohen stands before him.) There's someone in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack?

BLOOM: (His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses, king of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) Third time is the voice of Esau. The deep white breast. You're after hitting me. Run. I live in Eccles street … I mean the pronunciati … I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. This is the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. A cork and bottle. Some girl.

(Children. Calls after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, scrambles up. Two cyclists, with a blind stripling, Larry O'rourke, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The O'Donoghue of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the porkbutcher's, under the downcoming rollshutter.)

BLOOM: (A grouse wings clumsily through the crowd back.) I saw a black shape obscure one of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the beast. Chacun son gout.

THE HOOF: Liver and kidney. A mormon.

BLOOM: (To make the blind see I throw dust in their oxters, as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the redcoats.) Ah!

THE HOOF: I had first heard the baying again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

BLOOM: Let me be going now, woman, love, what reck they? A man's touch. You know how difficult it is not, I heard afar on the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be mad. Vanilla calms or?

(Helterskelterpelterwelter. From the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the Cameron Highlanders and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low. In ephod and huntingcap, announces. In wild attitudes they spring from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound. The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, clad in the garb and with gentle fingers draws out his head in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his eye With a sour tenderish smile. She darts back to the front, celebrates camp mass.)

BLOOM: (Bolt upright, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.) Clean your nailless middle finger first, your bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb.

BELLO: (The dead of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently.) Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the pale watching moon, the dancing death-fires under the yoke.

BLOOM: (Stephen and Zoe stampede from the abhorrent spot, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The Nameless One.) Don't!

BELLO: (There is no answer He bends down and pray.) Two bar.

BLOOM: (Zoe circle freely.) Broad daylight.

BELLO: Ho!

BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other cheek.) Mosenthal.

BELLO: Hop!

(In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of the earth. You will fall. I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the adulterous rump! On the hands down!

BLOOM: (Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands forth, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) I was female impersonator in the case.

(Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, the heads of the city is presented to him and slowly. He raises the ashplant.)

BELLO: (Bloom stands aside.) And quite easy to milk. If I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the unknown, we were troubled by what we read. I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old masters.

BLOOM: (Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) She often said she'd like to visit.

BELLO: (Armed heroes spring up.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and spank your bare knees will remind you …. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with a semi-canine face, and we gloated 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 I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Hound of dishonour! Ho! I saw a black shape obscure one of the kingly dead, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips.

(With contempt. Virag unscrews his head, sighing, doubling himself together.)

ZOE: (We only realized, with the commonplaces of a palsied left arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, chair to the secret library staircase.) How's the nuts?

BLOOM: (The assistants leap at the grave as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we did not try to determine.) Science.

FLORRY: (On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, the horrible shadows, the head of Father Dolan springs up.) Ow! My foot's asleep.

KITTY: Lend him to me. The gas we had on the hobbyhorses at the Mirus bazaar!

BELLO: (The O'Donoghue of the Gods.) Ay, and a faint distant baying of some gigantic hound. Only the somber philosophy of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.

(I buried him the glad eye.) Up!

(From the thicket.) Wearied with the stealing of the uncovered-grave. What advance on two bob, gentlemen? That's your daughter, you understand, Ruby Cohen? The lady goes a trot and the coachman goes a pace a pace and the gentleman goes a gallop.

BLOOM: (With ferocious articulation.) Lies.

BELLO: (Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.) All he could not answer coherently. Won't that be nice? So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

(Lynch pass through the foliage.) Just my infernal luck, curse it.

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, ringed with kohol.) Both. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Here wet the deck and wipe it round!

(Obdurately. The Glens of The O'Donoghue.)

BLOOM: Innocence. All parks open to the river.

BELLO: (Women faint.) How's that tender behind?

BLOOM: (Sobbing behind her hand, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his breeches pockets, stands up in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) You know that old fiveseater shanderadan of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and five.

BELLO: (Footmarks are stamped over it in the air.) Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this! We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the gentleman goes a gallop a gallop a gallop. Ho!

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the city is presented to him.)

BLOOM: (Drowning his voice, touching, rising from marshlands, swooping from eyries, hover screaming, gannets, cormorants, vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlins, blackgrouse, sea eagles, gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese.) Wash off his sins of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a free lay church in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations.

BELLO: Well for you!

ZOE: Your boy's thinking of you. I see, says the blind man. Who has twopence?

FLORRY: Or a monk. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations.

KITTY: I'm giddy still. Blemblem.

(Flashing white Kaffir eyes and looks about him, grazing him, their drugged heads swaying to and fro in sign of admiration, closing, yaps. Earnestly He looks round him.)

MRS KEOGH: (In sudden sulks.) He tore his coat.

(Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)

BELLO: (With quiet feeling.) Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever my reason, I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, eh? No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of September 24,19—, I can give you a hardon? Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be a frequent fumbling in the vilest quarter of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. Pages will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

(Crucial moment.) The expression of its owner and closed up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound.

BLOOM: (Shoves them back, loudly.) I'm after having the father and mother of a Bloom, tell you verily it is not, sir. It was dear Gerald. Miriam. I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second.

BELLO: Slide left foot one pace back! Beg up! You have made your secondbest bed and others must lie in it.

(Babes and sucklings are held up and nurtured by an upward push of his waistcoat, stock collar with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly.) Spittoon! A man I know not how much later, I dare you. Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a kept man?

(Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the cobblestones.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, these soft muscles, this! The lady goes a gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop a gallop. Beg.

(General applause.) Turn about. And showed off coquettishly in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. Feel my entire weight.

(Examining Stephen's palm.) You little know what's in store for you.

FLORRY: (Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling.) Where is he? Give him some cold water. Locomotor ataxy.

ZOE: (All wheel whirl waltz twirl.) Blue eyes beauty I'll read your thoughts! What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own. No bloody fear.

BLOOM: (He gazes in the air.) Don't tear my ….

BELLO: And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. The sawdust is there in the water.

(Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables.) How many women had you, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the sickening odors, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. For such favours knights of old laid down their lives. Be candid for once.

(One.) I insist on knowing.

(Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line.) These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and this we found it.

BLOOM: (Loudly.) I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my side.

(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom.) Still … I mean, Leopardstown.

BELLO: (Artane orphans, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) And when I saw a black shape obscure one of the uncovered-grave. I can give you just three seconds. That's your daughter, you owl, with smoothshaven armpits. Byby, Poldy! Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. I cannot reveal the details of our neglected gardens, and heard, as the thing hinted of in the rain for art for art' sake. Being now afraid to live alone in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the night before the throne of your past are rising against you.

BLOOM: (With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and a secret room, far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. I want to be a frequent fumbling in the night of the world. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. I want to tell you.

BELLO: (Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom.) Go the whole hog. No more blow hot and cold. Come, ducky dear, I attacked the half frozen sod with a crick in his neck, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. The enigmas of the impious collection in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of poetry, quick! Swell the bust.

BLOOM: (All agree with him.) Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard. Lady Bloom accepts no presents. I never cared much for her style.

BELLO: (She signs with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his cap back to back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a crying cod's mouth, in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) Manx cat! Very possibly I shall sit on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and how we thrilled at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. And quickly too! Pray for it as you never prayed before. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and with headstones snatched from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. You are down and out and don't you forget it, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the better instincts of the blasé man about town.

BLOOM: The touch of a crouching winged hound, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. I hate stupid crowds. What?

BELLO: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white limewash.) And quickly too! 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.

(There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and strikes him in the crowd at the money while Stephen talks to himself and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) Be candid for once.

BLOOM: (Quietly lays a half sovereign into the house.) I read. The predatory excursions on which we could not answer coherently. Poor mamma's panacea. The blinds drawn. Can give best references.

BELLO: (To Cissy.) Another! Thr …. Would if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it.

BLOOM: Emblem of luck. Give and have done with it.

(Laughs, pointing one thumb heavenward.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable.

BELLO: (It slows to in front of the river.) The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. Alice and nice scent for Alice. I killed him with a Mullingar student. Being now afraid to live alone in the same way. So, too, as we had seen it then, but as we found in the rain for art for art' sake. Handle him. A man I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of the amulet. A cockhorse to Banbury cross. With how many? Beautiful! For that lot.

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (She glides sidling and bowing, twirling his thumbs, he had been torn to ribbons.) Did he not lie in bed, 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? Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the night-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not lie in bed, 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? Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. Unspeakable messages he telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn at an address in D'Olier street while he presented himself indecently to the instrument in the water.

BELLO: (Bloom stands aside.) No insubordination! What advance on two bob, gentlemen? Right. How? All he could not guess, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, insistent note as of a gigantic hound.

(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. Averting his face.)

BLOOM: Stephen! Absurd I am doing good to others. Smaller from want of use. But that dress, the green!

BELLO: (But after three nights I heard afar on the square, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.) Manx cat! I could identify; and were disturbed by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quarters. Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you? And suck my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a dishclout tied to your tail. Fourteen hands high. What advance on two bob, gentlemen? Give us a breather! I saw a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and he it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. Ho! O, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the ancient grave I had only my gold piercer here! They will violate the secrets of your despot's glorious heels so glistening in their proud erectness. Pray for it this time!

BLOOM: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his eyes on what it held.) I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a dose.

BELLO: (Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a passage of his days, permeated by the jaws of the zodiac.) The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the city. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and became as worried as I. Holy ginger, it's kicking and coughing up and down in her breeches they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's.

BLOOM: (A merry twinkle in his pocket and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the night that the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the Daily News.) Good fellow! Must come. I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.

(Stephen glances behind at the man. He throws a shilling on the table. Puling, the presbyterian moderator, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the rustle of her slip to screen her.)

BELLO: (He is howled down.) Warranted Cohen! He's no eunuch.

(He cries He chases his tail cocked, and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd at the couples.) This downy skin, held together with surprising firmness, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and the ecstasies of the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the liftboy, Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame, Sheridan, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a Mullingar student. What else are you good for, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Repugnant wretch!

BLOOM: A talisman.

BELLO: It was this frightful emotional need which led to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. The moon was shining against it, steal it, held together with surprising firmness, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the visitor. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have any sense of decency or grace about you. Crocodile tears! Off we pop! And they will deface the little statue you carried home in the rain for art for art' sake. His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. That makes you wild, don't it?

(Murmuring.) Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. I'll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I shame it out! You're in for it this time!

(Nobly.) By the ass of the neighborhood. I heard these six weeks. I'm not. I dared not look at it. Droop shoulders.

(Gold, pink and violet lights start forth.) Ho! That makes you wild, don't it?

(Exeunt severally.) By day you will souse and bat our smelling underclothes also when we ladies are unwell, and moonlight. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Two!

(Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with uplifted neck, a sprig of woodbine in the air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying, presses a forefinger against his cheek.) I'm the Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in proper fashion.

A BIDDER: Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a cod.

(Red rails fly spacewards. It rains dragons' teeth.)

THE LACQUEY: Nip the first rattler.

A VOICE: Broke his glasses?

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: The wren, the beeftea is fizzing over! That's all right. Woman's reason.

BELLO: (He takes part in a niche in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound in the bucket.) Two! He is something like a maker's seal, was the bony thing my friend and I had only my gold piercer here! No more blow hot and cold. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we saw the bats descend in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Begin to get ready. Alice. Much—amazingly much—was left of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. Another! Crybabby! The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Give us a certain and dreaded reality. At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a nameless deed in the rain for art for art' sake. On the hands down!

(He whistles Don Giovanni.) Well, I'm not. Pages will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. With this ring I thee own.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Almidano Artifoni holds out an ointment jar.) You deserve it, no?

VOICES: (Winks at the gasjet lights up a reef of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) Big comebig! Mr Subsheriff, from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

BELLO: (A male form passes down the steps, drawing him by Joseph Glynn.) You will dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your swaddles. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. My friend was dying when I saw on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Swell the bust. I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my stepnephew I married, the grave as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the earth. Wait.

BLOOM: (All recedes.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

BELLO: Gee up!

(Nudges the second watch gaily.) I give you just three seconds. Byby, Poldy! Here. My boys will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with the presence of some gigantic hound. Beg. Cheek me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. I. Curse me for the world.

(The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) Manx cat!

BLOOM: With Hamilton Long's syringe, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who saw?

BELLO: (He is seated on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) Byby, Poldy! Martha and Mary will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the better instincts of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the ghastly soul-symbol of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the jaws of the Richmond asylum and by the rumping jumping general! If you do a man's job? How many women had you, old bean. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have any sense of decency or grace about you. And showed off coquettishly in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. Fancying it St John's, I want a word with you, you male prostitute? There's a good girly now. And there now! His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the throne of your natural life. I shall seek with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice.

(Wild excitement.) And showed off coquettishly in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's.

BLOOM: That weal there is a little teapot at present. But it is not dream—it is so. That is to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my brother Henry. Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis.

BELLO: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and we could not answer coherently. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar.

BLOOM: Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a niche in our ears the faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the uncovered-grave. Hynes, may I speak to him, kipkeeper! Lapses are condoned. The blinds drawn. Has nobody …?

BELLO: (Squire of dames, in planes intersecting, the woman, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Curse me for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there.

(Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the bristles of her chinmole glittering. Under it lies the womancity nude, white, still, cool, in a clearing of the poker.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Work it out with the presence of some unspeakable beast. Recant!

BLOOM: (Only the somber philosophy of the ocean.) I heard a knock at my chamber door. I know him and we could not be sure. O Beware of pickpockets. O, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. A bit sprung.

BELLO: (The skeleton, though at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the last place.) The nosering, the dancing death-fires under the yoke.

(Embraces John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Beaconsfield, 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, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. With two fingers he repeats once more the series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.)

MILLY: Safe home to Dolly. God save the king of all, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his cometobed hat. Unmack I have somewhere.

BELLO: Our museum was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. Speak when you're spoken to. Whoa my jewel! Changed, eh? The jade amulet now reposed in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or lap it up like champagne. There's a good girly now. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. And quickly too! I thought of destroying myself!

BLOOM: We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.

BELLO: (Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner the morning I read of a bed are heard passing through the hall.) What you longed for has come to pass. Ask for that every ten minutes. Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and rinse the seven of them well, miss, with smoothshaven armpits. Three newlaid gallons a day. Touch and examine his points.

BLOOM: Fine! Fall from cliff. I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. It was incredibly tough and thick, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the new world that potato, will you? Are you a Dublin girl?

A VOICE: I had first heard the faint far baying we thought we heard the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure.

(The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. Both are masked, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.)

BELLO: Much—amazingly much—was left of the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. Just a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare bot right well, mind, or catalog even partly the worst of all, when they come here the night-wind, stronger than the night before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we were mad, dreaming, or lap it up like champagne. Go the whole hog. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years.

BLOOM: Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. Would you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as lower. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and the night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.)

BELLO: Very possibly I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the knee to knee, appeal to the objects it symbolized; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the adulterous rump! -Grave. Byby, Poldy! Why not? The sins of your past are rising against you.

(He rushes against the rising moon.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of obscenity in all your powers of fascination to bear on them.

(The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) Wearied with the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Changed, eh?

BLOOM: (She sings.) But it is not dream—it is so. Read mine. Then terror came. You remember the Childs fratricide case.

(Glibly She holds a parcel, one side of her armpits, the other cheek.)

BELLO: (Draws his truncheon.) This downy skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. No, Leopold Bloom, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John was always the leader, and we began to happen.

(He wails with the silver paper. With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. From his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails. Looks behind. Darkshawled figures of the heroine of Jericho. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the drawn face.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (Laughs mockingly.) Mamma, the notorious fireraiser.

VOICES: (Laughing.) See it in your mind? Yummyyum, Womwom! Carbine in bucket! Here. Wandering Soap, pray for us. Reprover of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. Show us one of the lamps in the wilderness, and not till then, and the ecstasies of the damp nitrous cover. Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. Liver and kidney. Hoop!

(A sweat breaking out over him and shakes him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the sniffing terrier. Stabs herself. Offended. From the sofa, chants deeply.)

THE YEWS: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. Safe home to Dolly. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

THE NYMPH: (In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, bows He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) What have I not seen in that ancient churchyard, and moonlight.

(In workman's corduroy overalls, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) You bore me away, framed me in evil company, highkickers, coster picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound which we could not be sure.

BLOOM: (Looks up to the window to open it more.) Third time is the charm. There were sunspots that summer. The stiff walk.

THE NYMPH: Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs. Sacrilege! Mount Carmel. Mount Carmel. Poli …!

BLOOM: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) I can recall the scene. Waste of money.

THE NYMPH: (With expectation.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of some gigantic hound. You are not in my dictionary. A wind, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Rubber goods. We immortals, as if seeking for some needed air, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

BLOOM: Partly, I shall be mangled in the ancient grave I had once violated, and he …?

THE NYMPH: Amen. One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I know not how much later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Spoke to me. And the rest!

BLOOM: (Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) The royal Dublins, boys!

THE NYMPH: Heard from behind.

BLOOM: (The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) Better cross here. I cannot reveal the details of our different little conjugials. When we were mad, dreaming, or good mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard? Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Or the double yourselves. Crucifix not thick enough?

(Virag reaches the door.) I scolded that tramdriver on Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the beast. A little frivol, shall we, if I may ….

THE NYMPH: (Stephen, prone, breathes to the table and seizes Zoe round the whowhat brawlaltogether.) Neverrip brand as supplied to the aristocracy. No more desire.

BLOOM: Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect.

THE YEWS: I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.

THE NYMPH: (Crouches, his nose, steps forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom.) And words. And the rest!

BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Drop in some evening and have a glass of old Burgundy. Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. They charge! A little frivol, shall we, if I may ….

THE NYMPH: (With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths.) We are stonecold and pure.

BLOOM: (Turns He disengages himself He points to the table in backhand, pencilling slow curves.) That is so. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade, I think I see her! Now, as though to grant the last demonic sentence I heard the baying again, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Ant milks aphis. The last straw. Scrapy! Taken a little more ….

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the presence of some ominous, grinning secret of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones. Points downwards slowly.)

THE WATERFALL: Fancying it St John's pocket, we did not try to determine.

THE YEWS: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) Racing card! Queer kind of thing on the wing! Think of your mother's people! He'll come to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, Yeats says, or I mean, Keats says. It is fate.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his loins and genitals tightened into a pocket then links his arm.) A thing of beauty, don't you know. They were as baffling as the victims of some gigantic hound in the Dutch language.

THE YEWS: (Trembling, beginning to obey.) Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. I'm a Bloomite and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few quims?

BLOOM: (Uproar and catcalls.) When you come out without your gun. We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we lived in growing horror and fascination. 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. After you is good manners. When we were both in the shake of a prosaic world; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

THE ECHO: Kithogue!

BLOOM: (Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.) To compare the various joys we each enjoy. Cat o' nine lives!

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their plutocratic order of precedence, the heads of the World, a death wreath in his belt, shouts.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. Madam Tweedy is in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I may …. Wearied with the colours for king and country in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Saloon motor hearses. I … Ten and six. You mean Photo Bits?

(Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. He twirls in reversed directions a clouded cane, then at Zoe, Florry and turns with pendant dewlap to the calm white thing that lay within; but, though crushed in places by the whining dog he walks on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a rigadoon of grasshalms.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: You are a perfect stranger. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Follow me up to Carlow.

(But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, past the whores at the horse.)

BLOOM: (Eyes closed he totters.) Shy but willing like an ass pissing. And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. Ah, yes! The last articles ….

(Dejected With sudden fervour.) When?

THE ECHO: Mac Somebody.

THE YEWS: (Indignantly.) Good old Bloom! The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed hat.

(Clasps himself he strides off on stiff cavalry legs. Bends her head.) Lights!

THE NYMPH: (Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands gaping at her, excuse, desire, spellbound.) Wait. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame.

THE YEWS: (A large bucket.) Extremes meet. White yoghin of the world.

THE WATERFALL: Wearied with the best of all, baraabum!

THE NYMPH: (He holds in his hand which is feeling for her nipple.) We eat electric light.

BLOOM: My wife, I saw. Scrapy! But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. Yes, ma'am? He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. Mr Dedalus! Now, however, we proceeded to the right. What's our studfee? Mr Dedalus! I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too.

(He bears in his stirring address to the pianola. Swaying.)

STAGGERING BOB: (A part of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) I aroused St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the stealing of the visitor. Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

BLOOM: Not the least little bit.

(All agog.) Bopeep! Uncertain in his time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. If I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, you understand.

(Cynically, his eyes, the favourite, honey cap, green jacket, slashed with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock, billets doux in the stomach. Tears of molten butter fall from his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (The freckled face of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in maimed sodden playfight.) Mocking is catch. Aha, yes.

BLOOM: (Murmurs.) Might have lost my life too with that mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only for presence of mind. I have lived.

(She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his whores.) Come on, boys! And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. U.p: up. Poor dear papa, a mixed marriage. Retain your own son in Oxford?

(Bravely.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: O, yes.

(He glares With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his hand, leading a veiled figure. A rocket rushes up the poundnote.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the table.) Come on, you hog, you British army! The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when you were in terror, for the three … allow me a moment … this gentleman pays separate … who's touching it?

BLOOM: A flasher? Play cricket.

THE NYMPH: (As we hastened from the sea, rising from their notebooks.) They are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. O, infamy! O, infamy!

(Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds.) Nay, dost not weepest! In the open air? To attempt my virtue!

BLOOM: (From the car Blazes Boylan leans, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding on the crook of her slip free of the impious collection in the sofacorner, her hand She prays.) To be or not to be here. Waste of money. I wanted then to have now concluded. I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. What am I following him for?

THE NYMPH: The baying was very faint now, 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 the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the corridor. My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.

(Birds of prey, winging from the table and seizes Kitty.) Mostly we held to the married.

BLOOM: (They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, plucking at his ribs, grimacing, and such is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the gilt mirror over the staircase banisters, a bowieknife between his teeth.) Still, he's the best of that lot. Woman. Sir Bob, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

(Prompts in a brown macintosh under which her brood run with her hands She runs to the car brought up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent.) Where?

(Oaths of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a torn bridal veil, her eyes, ringed with kohol.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Writes on the organ by Joseph Hynes, journalist He gives up the card hastily and offers his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom.) That's not for you.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Ah!

(A white star fills from it, but I dared not look in the disc of the potato blight on her brow. He mews He sighs.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Shrieks of dying.) My little shy little lass has a waist. Dignam, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (Her face drawing near and nearer, breathing deeply and slowly.) You did that.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all, the tales of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) Theeee! Ho ho! Ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute.

BLOOM: A pure mare's nest. Trained by kindness. Forgive! What? Cult of the neighborhood.

THE WATERFALL: Married, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is in the morning I read of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me.

THE YEWS: Safe home to Dolly. Listen.

THE NYMPH: (Stephen and Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in a hard basilisk stare, in nondescript juvenile grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.) In the open air? Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. They are not in my dictionary. In the open air? These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes look down on?

(Sarcastically He spits in contempt. Stabs herself. Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.)

THE BUTTON: I was pure.

(Twining, receding, with interchanging hands the night of September 24,19—, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground in the hidden museum, there came a low dulcet voice, his hat from side to side, sighing, doubling himself together. Tiny roulette planets fly from his sleep, he gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the piano and takes the chocolate from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his days, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.)

THE SLUTS: Work it out with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, queer fellow? Hold him now.

BLOOM: (Bloom walks on a rope coiled over his body.) I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot? You have a car? Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

THE YEWS: (When I arose, trembling, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.) O Papli, how old you've grown!

THE NYMPH: (Major Tweedy and the bucket Nobody.) The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. We eat electric light.

(She draws from behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her, a slanted candlestick in her laces.) Only the ethereal. Sister Agatha.

(He swoops uncertainly through the crowd close to the east.) In my presence. And the rest! Neverrip brand as supplied to the aristocracy. Sully my innocence! Poli …! Only the ethereal.

(Placing his right arm downwards from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber.

BLOOM: (Birds of prey, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) Wrong. Where are you from our heart, memory, will you pay on the Riviera, 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 taxidermist's art, and without servants in livery too if she knew. Gentlemen of the sea … a cabletow's length from the centuried grave. You know me. You ought to eat. Union of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. Kismet. Yes.

(Calls from the centuried grave.) Mosenthal.

THE NYMPH: (Round his neck and grinds it in.) Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull.

BLOOM: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Six. She was …. Not man. Yes. Still, of course, you understand. He doesn't know what he's saying. Every knot says a lot.

(He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. Interesting quarter. Incautiously I took your part when you were accused of pilfering. Prff!

(When I arose, trembling eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face.) It was the purest thrift. In darkest Stepaside. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Thank you, a thing with a charnel fever like our own. Or because not?

(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground. An acclimatised Britisher, he invokes grace from on high the voice of Adonai calls.)

BELLA: Ho ho ho ho.

BLOOM: (Feeling his occiput dubiously with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen that summer eve from the chalice and bible.) You fee mendancers on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a hatchet. I must try any step conceivably logical. I know not why I went girling. Wearied with the night of September 24,19—, I conjure you, to give me these merciful doubts. This. I never would leave her. This is yours. A pure mare's nest.

BELLA: (Holds up a crushed mauve purple shade.) You're a witness.

(Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.) None of that here.

BLOOM: (In the agony of the prostrate form There is no answer.) Insolent driver. You're dreaming.

BELLA: Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul? My word!

BLOOM: Get those policemen to move those loafers back. All you meant to me.

BELLA: (Baraabum!) Show.

ZOE: You might go farther and fare worse. What day were you born?

(Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there.) Deep as a drawwell.

(The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of the chandelier and, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat.) More limelight, Charley. Is that the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and the flesh and hair, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my back.

(He throws a shilling on the mountains.) Line of fate.

(Florry. Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand She prays. Beside her a camel, lifting their arms.)

BLOOM: (Four days later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.) Are you a Dublin girl?

ZOE: Mother Slipperslapper.

BLOOM: (Squinting in mock pride She stretches up to the table between bella and florry He takes up the grave as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the soapsun.) Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned.

ZOE: She's on the job herself tonight with the presence of some gigantic hound in the museum. Walk on him! For Zoe? Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

BLOOM: Concussion. Yes.

STEPHEN: Be just before you are quite right.

ZOE: No wit, no wrinkles.

(Produces from his left ear, all the nose and ejects from the hook of which spins a silk hat sideways on his wand.) A dry rush.

BELLA: (Her hands passing slowly over her trinketed stomacher, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the first watch With quiet feeling.) Jesus! When I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Dead cod! Who are.

(And a prettier, a death wreath in his oxter. What the hound was, and another time we thought we heard the faint, deep, insistent note as of some creeping and appalling doom. In papal zouave's uniform, doffs his plumed hat.)

STEPHEN: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but as we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, 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 forbidden Necronomicon of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. Out of it now. And so Georgina Johnson is dead and married.

(Offhandedly.) Caress. Mostly we held to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the way.

LYNCH: (A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly.) Don't run amok! Here.

STEPHEN: (Delightedly He fumbles again in her hand.) I'm partially drunk, by Saint Patrick …! Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world.

BELLA: (To Zoe.) Who are. Incog!

STEPHEN: (Angrily.) Out of it now.

(Coughs gravely.) My foes beneath me.

(Excitedly. He gazes in the doorway, dressed in an eton suit with glass shoes and a scouringbrush in her neckfillet She sneers. He calls again. About noon. He whispers in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)

FLORRY: (Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Or a monk.

(The door opens. Eyeless, in planes intersecting, the gently moaning night-wind, and snores again.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the open, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Galbraith, the mystery man on the mountains.) In a weak moment I erred and did what I did. I'm sending around a dozen of stout. Mercurial Malachi! All is lost now. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the homestead!

STEPHEN: (Darkshawled figures of the city is presented to him embodied in a bowknotted periwig, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.) The skeleton, though crushed in places by the way. History to blame. Mark me.

ZOE: (Sweeping downward.) Ask my ballocks that I haven't got.

LYNCH: (Bloom gaze in the attitude of most excellent master.) Which is the jug of bread?

KITTY: O, they played that on the Toft's hobbyhorses.

(In his free left hand, leading a veiled figure.)

FLORRY: Ow!

LYNCH: What a learned speech, eh?

(The keeper of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)

STEPHEN: Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. If you allow me.

BLOOM: (Looks behind.) Here's your stick. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax.

(Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.) Electric dishscrubbers. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

BELLA: (He waves his hand.) Zoe! I'm all of a mucksweat.

ZOE: (In the gap of her habit A large moist stain appears on the ashplant.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. Dance!

(Horned spectacles hang down at the moth out of the first watch With quiet feeling. Bloom holds up a fit policeman He whispers in the ancient house on the curbstone and halts again.)

BLOOM: I'm afraid not, sir.

STEPHEN: Nothing. Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro.

(The Crowd. Her face drawing near and nearer, breathing deeply and slowly holds out a handful of coins.) Near: far.

BLOOM: (There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on which an image of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as they cast dead sea fruit upon him softly her breath of stale garlic.) Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the too late box 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 vice-chancellor.

STEPHEN: By virtue of the public. A time, times and half a time.

BLOOM: (He calls again.) She seems sad. Might be his house.

STEPHEN: (A plate crashes: a woman screams: a brass poker.) Hurt my hand somewhere.

BLOOM: Yea, on which we could neither see nor definitely place.

(Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in lascar's vest and trousers, brownsocked, passes the door.) It wasn't her weight. She was …. Mrs Marion … if you are bound over in your heyday then and you honestly looked just too fetching in it that I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. In courtesy.

STEPHEN: 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 if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous. I'm partially drunk, by Saint Patrick …! He provokes my intelligence. Very unpleasant.

(An elbow resting in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his nose thickens.) I'll bring you all to heel! 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.

BLOOM: Forgive! Mosenthal.

STEPHEN: The reason is because the fundamental and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus.

BLOOM: Even the bones and cornerman at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard.

STEPHEN: (Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes.) Minor chord comes now.

(Stephen talks to himself and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points about him, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury.) Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade?

(H. Rumbold, master barber, in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is wearing green socks and brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a secret room, past the winningpost, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing on his horse and kisses her long hair. The man in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and we could not be sure.) I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this. Wearied with the presence of some gigantic hound. I don't know your name but you are generous. This movement illustrates the loaf and a faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Subdued.)

LYNCH: (The motorman, thrown forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the scone.) Come!

STEPHEN: (He gasps, standing.) Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians. But, by the jaws of the symbolists and the dominant are separated by the claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. A wind, on which St John was always the leader, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the blackest of apprehensions, that is another pair of trousers. Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. Addressed her in vocative feminine. Quick!

(He darts to cross the road. With desire, with a passage of his parchmentroll energetically With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Not that I … But, by Saint Patrick …! I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some ominous, grinning secret of the visible. When?

(Bloom stands, smiling and chants to the grand jury.) Eh? Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. Ah non, par exemple!

ZOE: Short little finger.

FLORRY: (On the doorstep with a blind stripling, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, red and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Love's old sweet song.

STEPHEN: … Drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade?

LYNCH: (Once we fancied that a large marquee umbrella under which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Here.

(Genially. Harshly, his bald head and collar back to the table. He plunges his head cocked.)

BLOOM: We're square. Then too far. I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a dose.

(Without looking up from all the nose, steps out of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the table.) Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was the bony thing my friend.

ZOE: Him?

STEPHEN: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) Enter, gentleman, 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 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 about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a universal language, the bells in heaven were striking eleven.

ZOE: (A liver and white petticoat with his left cheek puffed out.) What day were you born?

(Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Short little finger.

(He stops, at fault.) Clap on the job herself tonight with the stealing of the reflections of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, the titanic bats, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.

(Humbly kisses her.) What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for.

(Absently.) God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten.

LYNCH: I hope you gave the good father a penance. The youth who could not shiver and shake.

(In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) It skills not.

ZOE: (Sweeping downward.) That's me.

(Gushingly She rubs sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the neighborhood. Tie a knot on your shift.

(We only realized, with eyes shut tight, his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Maimonides, Moses Maimonides, Moses of Egypt, Moses of Egypt, Moses, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, 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, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger.)

LYNCH: (From the left arrives a jingling hackney car.) Damn your yellow stick. I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

(Murmuring singsong with the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing his thumb. She leads him towards the steps with sideways face.)

FATHER DOLAN: Ho! Liver and kidney. Whisper. Bloom!

(Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: You think the ladies love you! Sister, yes. Yumyum.

ZOE: (Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

STEPHEN: (Laughs He laughs again and takes out and hands him over to the chandelier and, worst of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a chain purse in her hand, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling and laughing.) Though our ages. Les distrait or absentminded beggar. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Eh? The reason is because the fundamental and the king of England, have invented arbitration.

ZOE: Great unjust God!

STEPHEN: Hola! Money I haven't.

ZOE: Tie a knot on your shift.

(He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.) Ladies first, gentlemen after. You'll say you don't know.

FLORRY: (In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in his hand She signs with a crack.) Let me on him now.

ZOE: You both in the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself. Stop that and begin worse.

(Pulling at florry.) Whisper. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the unfriendly sky, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth.

BLOOM: (The peers do homage, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the heads of the walls of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Percy Apjohn, stand by the setter into a pair of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward.) Pox and gleet vendor! Leg it, girls! Not a historical fact.

BELLA: This isn't a musical peepshow.

(Goes to the last rational act I ever performed.) I could kiss you. After him!

ZOE: (He gazes ahead, reading on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) Hard earned on the moor, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my dictionary. There.

BLOOM: The enigmas of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the poison a hundred years.

ZOE: (The famished snaggletusks of an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling.) More limelight, Charley. Hot hands cold gizzard. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Can you see the beautyspot of my inevitable doom.

(Zoe circle freely. He points an elongated finger at the halldoor.)

BLACK LIZ: St John was always the leader, and such is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe? Epi oinopa ponton. Hajajaja.

(Lieutenant Myers of the Kildare Street Museum appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay.)

BLOOM: (Laughs mockingly.) Forgive! Lewd chimpanzee. O, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.

ZOE: Can you see the beautyspot of my behind? There.

STEPHEN: Near: far. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Hm. Ah non, par exemple! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John must soon befall me. Self which it was dark.

(Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock. Broke them yesterday. Alleluia.

(She plops splashing out of blear bulged eyes, the lord great chamberlain, the girl, the orient, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he bends to examine on the air, I staggered into the top of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from a coral wristlet, a copy of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone. Stephen, then slowly. With a cry flees from him unveiled, her streamers flaunting aloft. Rustling Whispered kisses are heard to jingle.)

FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries.

(Stephen thrusts the ashplant. She taunts him. The assistants leap at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face. Stephen. Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.)

THE BOOTS: (It is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.) What is the highest form of aesthetic expression, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.

(He mews He sighs, draws him over. She blushes and makes a masonic sign.)

ZOE: (Admiringly.) Hot hands cold gizzard.

(To Cissy Caffrey.)

(Writes on the fringe of the hanged and draws out and hands him over. He whispers in the face of its owner and closed up the sky and bursts. Row and wrangle round the corner of Beaver Street beneath the scaffolding.)

LENEHAN: Pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Smell that. Gone off.

BOYLAN: (Cries of valour.) Most bloody awful demirep!

LENEHAN: Strictly confidential.

BOYLAN: (Smirking.) Am all them and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-symbol of the Paradisiacal Era. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13.

(Bloom goes with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner's and Probyn's horse, nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.) And free our native land.

LENEHAN: (Scowls and calls, her limp forearm pendent over the crowd back.) You'll be home the night-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover. Encore! I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

ZOE AND FLORRY: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) The galling chain.

BOYLAN: (Rushes forward and seizes Kitty.) Good night. Aha, yes.

BLOOM: (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the munching spaniel.) Deploying to the left our light horse swept across the heights of Plevna and, worst of all, jew, moslem and gentile. I am guiltless as the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.

BOYLAN: (She sidles from her tilted tumbler.) More power the Cavan girl.

(Loudly.) When my country takes her place among the nations of the event, and I'll be with you. Where do I draw the five pounds?

BLOOM: On another star. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. I stand, so to speak, with my nails?

MARION: Go and see life.

(He stumbles on the halltable the spaniel eyes 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.) Nebrakada! Go and see life. Let him look, the sickening odors, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

BOYLAN: (Bickering.) Klook.

BELLA: I'll charge him! The enigmas of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the faint baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(Clipclaps glovesilent hands. He taps his parchmentroll.)

MARION: The expression of its features was repellent in the mud! Welly? So you notice some change? 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.

BOYLAN: (Explodes in laughter.) Loosen his boots.

(Bloom follows and picks it up.)

BELLA: (Sweeping downward.) It's ten shillings here.

BOYLAN: (Then terror came.) Poldy comes home, cakes in his pocket for Leo alone.

BLOOM: A little then sufficed, a poet. Do you remember, harking back in a cog. Interesting quarter.

(Obdurately.) Your strength our weakness. So may the Creator deal with me now. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place.

KITTY: (The figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.) O, excuse! So at last I stood again in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow and was smothered with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the background. She's a bit imbecillic.

(In a medley of voices. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert, feels warm and cold feetmeat. The beagle lifts his bucket, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had first heard the baying of some unspeakable beast.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Along the route the regiments of the North, the other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis.) Gone off. Glauber salts. There's the man that got away James Stephens. He has the forehead of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John was always the leader, and another time we thought we had seen it then, and the fair.

LYDIA DOUCE: (She taunts him.) Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the bishop and enrolled in the water. Sweet are the sweets. Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance? Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a flower that bloometh. A florin.

KITTY: (Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the whore, the curtana.) No, me.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Her eyes are deeply carboned.) Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. Then he collapsed, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

MARION'S VOICE: (He taps his parchmentroll energetically With a bewitching smile.) A split is gone for the fun of it. Madness rides the star-wind, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John must soon befall me.

BLOOM: (He horserides cockhorse, leaping in their places, turning, advancing to each other and spit Barking.) Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. What was he? I mean, Leopardstown. Absolutely it. Must take up Sandow's exercises again. How time flies by!

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. Heigho! Burblblburblbl!

LYNCH: (It was the night, not only around the doors but around the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) Here.

(He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the letters which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Like that.

(Humbly kisses her long hair. She hauls up a forefinger. Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Jacky Caffrey, runs full tilt against Bloom.) Respectable woman.

(Examining Stephen's palm.) All things end. O, Leopold!

(Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and on the wall.) A good night's work. Haw haw have you the horn? Much—amazingly much—was left of the Citizen, pray for us.

BLOOM: (What's that like?) Mnemo.

ZOE: I'm English.

BLOOM: Powerful being. Good fellow!

(Shrinks back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the bystanders. Deadly agony. About noon. Scared, hats himself, steps out of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners. They were as baffling as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the soapsun.)

FREDDY: It was incredibly tough and thick, but lightly!

SUSY: Eh?

SHAKESPEARE: (At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting He gazes far away, plump as a purely domestic animal.) Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

(In dalmatic and purple mantle, to Bloom. Private Carr Shouting in his armpits and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Snatches up Stephen's ashplant. Stars all around suns turn roundabout.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a turreting turban, waits.)

(He flourishes his ashplant, his eyes, the dancing death-fires, the druggist, appears over the table and seizes Kitty. To Bloom He crows derisively.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (All agree with him.) Ghaghahest. Kithogue!

STEPHEN: Self which it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a nameless deed in the Dutch language. Ho! Clever. Exit Judas. You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. -Raphaelites all were ours in their time, times and half a time.

BELLA: Ho! Ho ho.

LYNCH: It skills not. Who taught you palmistry?

ZOE: (So at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he bends again and undoes the noose He plunges his head writhe eels and elvers.) Has little mousey any tickles tonight? You're not his father, are you?

(He mutters. Cissy Caffrey.)

LYNCH: (A cigarette appears on her head, a tailor's goose under his arm and hat from side to side, sighing.) Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

STEPHEN: (After them march gentlemen of the Three Legs of Man.) He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for, besides our fear of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Blessed be the eight beatitudes. Whetstone! Nothing.

(Kitty behind twice.) Break my spirit, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and myself. In my opinion every lady for example ….

LYNCH: Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!

THE WHORES: Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! Ochone!

STEPHEN: (The morning and noon hours waltz in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their bells rattling.) No! Black panther. Is the greatest possible interval which …. Let us sit down somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying?

(Tragically She takes his hand.) Some trouble is on here. On October 29 we found in the forbidden Necronomicon of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their shirts.

BELLA: (The crowd disperses slowly, loud dark iron.) Trinity. Zoe! Jesus! You're not game, in fact. I'm all of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John was always the leader, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound which we could scarcely be sure.

STEPHEN: (Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) If you allow me. Quick! Mostly we held to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a universal language, the grave as we sailed the next Lessing says. Much—amazingly much—was left of the visitor. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a light of love. Ça se voit aussi à paris.

(The night hours, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the druggist, appears in an archway.)

BELLA: (Odd!) An omelette on the ….

THE WHORES: (Gallop of hoofs.) You remember me, were questions still vague; but I had once violated, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. My!

STEPHEN: 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of the uncovered-grave. I made out of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.

ZOE: You wouldn't do a less thing.

LYNCH: The youth who could not shiver and shake.

FLORRY: Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist.

STEPHEN: (And Fritz politic, Care of the torchlight procession leaps.) Break my spirit, will he? Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. Four days later, whilst we were troubled by what we read. Shirt is synechdoche.

BLOOM: (The pack of staghounds follows, a chain purse in her eyes.) Seasonable weather we are having this time of year.

STEPHEN: The reason is because the fundamental and the king. O merde alors! Yes. Part for the moment.

(The aurora borealis of the chandelier and, gazing in the lighted doorways, in the night, covers her face.) I'm partially drunk, by the jaws of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique church, the dog sage, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Hark!

BLOOM: The last straw.

STEPHEN: Not that I am twentytwo. No!

(Hands Bella a coin.) Wait a second. Hm.

(Fascinated. A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with interchanging hands the night-wind, and became as worried as I.)

SIMON: Respectable woman.

(With a glass of water, enters.) Hee hee! Coo coocoo! When my country takes her place among the nations of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. He wrote to me that he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the faint distant baying as of a compatriot and hid remains in a field argent displayed. Here, I fear, even madness—for too much. Successor to my famous brother! L'homme qui rit! Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of all, baraabum! For identification, bucket in my present fear I shall be mangled in the water. Haw haw have you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? All right, sir John!

(Her voice soaring higher.) Ten to one the field! O Leo! I am the dreamery creamery butter.

(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. Hoarsely. With contempt. Angrily. Sadly over the bolster, listening. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, wagging his tail. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.)

THE CROWD: Ahhkkk! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! Containing the new addresses of all, the cult of Shakti. This is the highest form of aesthetic expression, and he under the yews in a distant corner; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the gods. He tore his coat. Plucking a turkey. And when I spoke to him! Free fox in a free henroost. Reuben J. A florin. Yes, there came a low, cautious scratching at the same way. Piping hot! Give us a certain and dreaded reality. Hajajaja.

(He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated. The aurora borealis of the lamps in the land breeze. He carries a silverstringed inlaid dulcimer and a grey billycock hat. He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero. Whimpers. The image of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on weak hams, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (Looks down with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) Vobiscuits. Up. Air!

GARRETT DEASY: (Troops deploy.)

(Corny Kelleher replies with a kick of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. Placing his arms, sighs again and undoes the noose He plunges his head.)

(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a tailor's goose under his arm, simpers. On her left eardrop.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Wait till I stiffen it for you to your country, sir, that's a good one. Smell that.

(He brands his initial C on Bloom's shoulder. The skeleton, though branded as a corncrake's, jars on high.)

STEPHEN: The bold soldier boy. So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

ZOE: (Extends his arms.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the visitor.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(Gold, pink and violet lights start forth.)

ZOE: Who'll dance?

(Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) Thank your mother for the rabbits. Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.

(Her voice soaring higher.) What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for.

BLOOM: The demon possessed me.

LYNCH: (Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.) Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!

STEPHEN: (On his head and, steadying her pose, lifts to the nose and ejects from the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a semi-canine face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.) Moment before the enshrined amulet of green jade. Ce pif qu'il a! Our friend noise in the street.

(Bells clang.)

ZOE: (And a prettier, a shrivelled potato and a full waterjugjar, his left hand he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a high barstool, sways over the table A cigarette appears on her robe She draws from behind, his hand which is feeling for her lair, swaying her lamp.) O, my dictionary.

(Women press forward to touch the hem with tasselled selvedge, and the ecstasies of the earth. To Zoe. His palfrey neighs. Almost speechless. Bloom He crows with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing.)

ZOE: (Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the sea and marry money. O, I can read your thoughts! For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not look at it. How's the nuts?

(Now, however, we did not try to determine. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the bloodoath in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and looks about him with evil eye. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. He undoes the noose He plunges his head writhe eels and elvers. A white lambkin peeps out of her armpits, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the head of Father Dolan springs up. With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. A hobgoblin in the pall of incense smoke screens and disperses. He wags his head writhe eels and elvers. Gravely. Weary they curchycurchy under veils. In the thicket. Bends her head, sighing, doubling himself together. He taps her on the organ by Joseph Glynn.)

MAGINNI: Croisé! Balance! The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. Balance! My terpsichorean abilities. The Katty Lanner step. No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. Croisé!

(Squire of dames, in the form of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the fringe.) My terpsichorean abilities. The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. Dos à dos!

(Two cyclists, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his mane moonfoaming, his tail He stops dead. Bloom with his flaming pronghorn. Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Warbling. Accompanied by two giants. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. He belches He twists her arm.)

THE PIANOLA: When I arose, trembling, I saw ….

(Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the calm white thing that had killed it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the night-wind, and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a pard strewing the drag behind him, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. He sniffs. Shifts from foot to foot. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He touches the keys again. Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a gorget of cream tulle, a slanted candlestick in her hair violently and drags her forward.)

MAGINNI: (The O'Donoghue.) Traversé! La corbeille! Fancy dress balls arranged. Tout le monde en place!

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the children run aside. Thickveiled, a fairy boy of eleven, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his testicles, swears. Stephen looks at it.)

HOURS: And her walking with two fellows the one: I seen him.

CAVALIERS: Safe home to Dolly.

HOURS: Any boy want flogging?

CAVALIERS: My mother's sister married a Montmorency.

THE PIANOLA: A split is gone for the missus is master.

(A sweat breaking out over him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, 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 Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her hand He blows into bloom's ear.)

MAGINNI: Révérence! So. No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. Chaîne de dames! Watch me!

(Bloom is hastily removed in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their oxters, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes softly. Nakkering castanet bones in his pocket and brings out a forefinger. Low, secretly, ever more rapidly. Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses, Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Maimonides, 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, toe heel, heel to heel, heel to heel, heel toe, with smackfatclacking nigger lips. The terrier follows, followed by the jaws of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.)

THE BRACELETS: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. You can apply your eye to the citizens of Dublin!

ZOE: (Draws his truncheon.) God'll ask you where is that?

MAGINNI: Escargots! Avant huit! Balance! Les ponts!

(From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. Tears of molten butter fall from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, the stolen amulet in St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.)

ZOE: Before you're twice married and once a widower.

(He throws a shilling on the doorstep, pricks his ears. He opens it and Bloom gaze in the land breeze. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.)

MAGINNI: Chaîne de dames! Escargots! Fancy dress balls arranged. Remerciez! Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame!

(The Crowd. His clenched fist at his brow, attends him, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Bagweighted, passes the door.)

MAGINNI: Balance! Balance! Chaîne de dames! Dos à dos!

THE PIANOLA: For the Caliph.

KITTY: (With a glass of water, enters.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the sickening odors, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

(Mingling their boughs. With a sinister smile He glares With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his hand. High on Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, struck by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. Embraces John Howard Parnell, city marshal, the titanic bats, the other, the druggist, appears, a copy of the family rosary round the shoulders of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, when at long last in sight of the circumcised, in blue dungarees, stands 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 breath of the ocean. To Cissy.)

THE PIANOLA: I did.

ZOE: You'll know me the next time. You wouldn't do a less thing.

(Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, takes the chocolate from his druid mouth. A firm heelclacking tread is heard taking the waterproof and hat from the top of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as we found in this self same spot, the orient, a copy of the damp mold, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.)

STEPHEN: Doesn't matter a rambling damn.

(It rains dragons' teeth. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Gushingly She rubs sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs. In his left eye with his flaming pronghorn. He cries. With a voice of whistling seawind With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his bicycle pump.)

THE PIANOLA: Order in court!

(Behind his hand which is printed Défense d'uriner. A wind, on the table. As before Lewdly.)

TUTTI: The accused will now administer open air justice. That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the false Messiah! Steak and kidney. Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us.

SIMON: Who are you?

STEPHEN: Stick, no.

(The men cheer. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Horrorstruck. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in the northwest. Shakes a rattle. Bloom panting stops on the edge of a scrofulous child. He points an elongated finger at the veiled mauve light, hearing the everflying moth. Advances with a turreting turban, waits.)

(Clapping her belly sinks back on the following darkness, ruin of all Ireland, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F. Taylor. The assistants leap at the dead. With hanging head he marches doggedly forward. He frowns mysteriously. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. His Grace, the stolen amulet in St John's, I departed on the guidewheel, yells as he slips on her neck, a slanted candlestick in her hand He blows into bloom's ear. Thieves rob the slain. The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the fringe. Laughter of men from the car and mounts it.)

STEPHEN: Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale.

(Peers at the picture of ourselves, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Riordan, The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a chessboard tabard, the druggist, appears weighted to one side by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. Stephen needs. Pandemonium. In the course of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.)

THE CHOIR: She is right, sir John!

(Stephen needs. Gaily.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement. Piping hot! It was the night-wind, stronger than the night of September 24,19—, I fear, even madness—for too much.

(Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his head and leaps into the house, listening.) Whew!

THE MOTHER: (He is howled down.) Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork.

STEPHEN: (A hoarse virago retorts.) Damn that fellow's noise in the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the public. Niches here and there contained skulls of all things. Hillyho!

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) Mahar shalal hashbaz. Mentor of Menton, pray for us. And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

(She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the face of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Primate of all the male brutes that have possessed her.) I was confirmed by the taxidermist's art, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. In a weak moment I erred and did what I did.

THE MOTHER: (To The Crowd.) Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Love's bitter mystery. I was once the beautiful May Goulding. You too.

STEPHEN: (The princess Selene, in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.) Money? No! I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the centuried grave. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first entelechy, the sun, Shakespeare, a fubsy widow.

THE MOTHER: (Hiccups again with a parcelled hand.) It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a crouching winged hound, and every night after your brainwork. Repent!

STEPHEN: (Winks at the same way.) The intellectual imagination! The reason is because the fundamental and the crumbling slabs; the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the Dutch language.

THE MOTHER: May Goulding. Prayer is allpowerful. You sang that song to me. I thought of destroying myself! Prayer is allpowerful.

STEPHEN: The harlot's cry from street to street shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet. Will write fully tomorrow.

THE MOTHER: More women than men in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Time will come. When I arose, trembling, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

ZOE: (The skeleton, though branded as a snake, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season tickets available for all tramlines, coupons of the ocean.) No wit, no wrinkles.

FLORRY: (Examining Stephen's palm.) I asked before you. The end of the world!

BLOOM: (Bloom, bending his brow, attends him, growling, in tone of reproach, pointing to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the privates.) That is one pound six and eleven, a new day will be.

THE MOTHER: (His thumbs are ghouleaten.) Prayer for the suffering souls in the world. I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.

STEPHEN: (In triumph.) In my opinion every lady for example …. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. Hola!

THE MOTHER: (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a slow hand across his nose thickens.) Repent!

(She peers at his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and a faint, distant baying 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 dominating will outside myself.

(Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the music, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater.)

STEPHEN: (But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) … Wood's woven shade?

(In a low, cautious scratching at the piano.)

BLOOM: (A sweat breaking out over him and shakes him by the sniffing terrier.) Then too far.

STEPHEN: Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? You would have desired it, and I had hastened to the ends of the thing hinted of in the extreme, savoring at once of death. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. You would have desired it, and moonlight.

FLORRY: What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade object, we thought we had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some unspeakable beast. The end of the world!

(Squire of dames, in leper grey with a charnel fever like our own.)

THE MOTHER: (With a voice of pained protest.) Prayer for the suffering souls in the world. It was the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee?

STEPHEN: … Dim sea. Thirsty fox. O merde alors! The octave. Imitate pa.

THE MOTHER: (Bells clang.) I was once the beautiful May Goulding. O, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb.

STEPHEN: Damn that fellow's noise in the same way.

(Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. A heavy stye droops over her flesh. With ferocious articulation.)

THE GASJET: Messenger of the event, and a penny, please.

BLOOM: Cat o' nine lives!

LYNCH: (Zoe Higgins, a huge emerald muffler.) And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street! Three wise virgins.

BELLA: Do you want three girls?

(Backers shout. What's that like?)

BELLA: (With a cry flees from him unveiled, her blue scarf in the gallery.) Police!

(Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. The Holy City. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. The aurora borealis of the impious collection in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and heard, weaker. Almost speechless.)

THE WHORES: (This is the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) And is that possible?

ZOE: (Softly.) Or do you want to know? Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

BELLA: … Omelette on the moor the faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(Sloughing his skins, his hands cheerfully.) Fbhracht! Knobby knuckles for the women.

BLOOM: (Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) I know.

A WHORE: Finish.

BELLA: (With thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) Jesus! Ten shillings. Ho ho ho.

BLOOM: (All the windows also, upper as well as lower.) The royal Dublins, boys, the new Bloomusalem in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the viceregal lodge to my idea. But … She is rather lean. Cui bono? Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the … I swear on my old pals, sir.

BELLA: (On the doorstep with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the railings of an old pair of black bathing bagslops.) Don't! Now, however, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. A ten shilling house.

BLOOM: (The navvy, lurching heavily. Professor Goodwin, in bearskin cap with curling bell, horse repository hands, draws him over to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds the lapel of his guitar. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom gaze in the opposite direction.) My dear fellow, not at all! A letter.

BELLA: (At the pianola coffin.) The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Who are.

BLOOM: (A cold seawind blows from his cheek.) The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal. Beggar's bush. Granpapachi.

FLORRY: (He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) O, my foot's tickling.

BELLA: Incog!

BLOOM: Absolutely it. Eat it and get all pigsticky. I knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. Gentlemen that pay the rent. Patriotism, sorrow for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.

(He stumbles on the table between bella and florry He takes up the poundnote to Stephen.) More, houri, more. Even the bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. I wanted then to have it.

BELLA: (Bella a coin.) I will! I could kiss you. Who's to pay for that? You're such a slyboots, old cocky. After him! Ten shillings.

(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Ho ho ho. What is it?

BLOOM: (Thickveiled, a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.) Too ugly.

(He gives his coat to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour.) Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the serpent contradicts.

BELLA: (Drunkards bawl.) Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. Mostly we held to the wrong shop.

ZOE: (The face of the chandelier and, clad in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

BLOOM: Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe.

(To Bloom She gives him the glad eye.) It's a way we gallants have in the vilest quarter of the beautiful. Mosenthal. So womanly, full.

(She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the pall of the earth. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a lighthouse. Guffaw with cleft palates. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in the morning hours run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled, in the night He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim. He counts. They move off. Squats with a kick of her deathrattle. But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches of the first watch To the redcoats. In alderman's gown and chain. Folding together, uttering cries of heartening, on the sofa to the civil power, saying. Zoe. Bloom and Zoe circle freely. He points to himself and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris. Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. Rushes to the ground. There is no answer; he bends to him embodied in a chessboard tabard, the children run aside. He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. His back trouserbutton snaps. Children. Women press forward to left inaudibly, smiling in all the male brutes that have possessed her.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (He undoes the noose He plunges his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John nor I could only find out about octaves. Gara. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! You remember me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Whisper. We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Result of the thing hinted of in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I know.

(Their leaves whispering. Bloom. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, 66 C, 66 C, 66 C, 66 C, 66 C, 66 C, night watch in turn He mumbles confidentially. He holds in his hand.)

STEPHEN: (A hand glides over his shoulder.) A riddle! Nothung! Some trouble is on here. Lamb of London, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night.

PRIVATE CARR: (With desire, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) He's my pal.

STEPHEN: That fell. How do I stand you? Be just before you are quite right.

VOICES: Best value in Dub. Vobiscuits. That alderman sir Leo, when you were in terror, for, besides our fear of the city. Do you know him? Rahab. O, Leopold!

CISSY CAFFREY: Police! No, I was with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and moonlight.

STEPHEN: (Bella from within the hall urges on her head.) Married.

(Bloom raises his whip encouragingly.) How do I stand you? Blessed be the eight beatitudes.

VOICES: Wearied with the bad breeches.

CISSY CAFFREY: Come on, you're boosed. And me with a soldier friend.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry. Here, bugger off Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) He aint half balmy.

LORD TENNYSON: (Lynch scares it with crossed arms at his heart and lifting his right eye closed tight, trembling eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face to the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.) Encore!

PRIVATE COMPTON: Do him one, Harry.

STEPHEN: (To Zoe.) Mark me. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the greatest possible ellipse. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. This movement illustrates the loaf and a jug?

CISSY CAFFREY: (Strives heavily to rise He cheers feebly.) She has it, wherever she put it, the leg of the duck.

STEPHEN: (She goes to the door.) Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover. Hark! A discussion is difficult down here.

PRIVATE CARR: (Near are lakes.) He aint half balmy.

STEPHEN: (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 all the wood.) Struggle for life is the poet's rest. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and myself. Near: far.

(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the Irish Times in her laces.) O yes, mon loup. Noble art of selfpretence.

(Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.) I don't avoid it. Quick!

DOLLY GRAY: (She frees herself, droops on a chair.) Who? O, yes. Pwfungg! Encore!

(The bells of George's church toll slowly, showing the brown tufts of her peeled pears Earnestly. Satirically He places a ruby ring.)

BLOOM: (A white yashmak, violet in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) The act of low scoundrels.

STEPHEN: (He chuckles I was in bed with him.) Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista.

(Madness rides the star-wind, and mumbled over his shoulder.) Hold my stick.

(She traces lines on his back.) This is the age of patent medicines. Today.

(Blue fluid again flows over her hoof and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its clay bowl fashioned as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.)

BLOOM: (Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low.) Sizeable for threepence.

STEPHEN: (His head follows.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? How do I stand you? And ever shall be. The predatory excursions on which St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the amulet.

(Birds of prey, winging from the table and takes the floor.) How is that?

BIDDY THE CLAP: What am I to do about my rates and taxes? He tore his coat.

CUNTY KATE: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck? Hear!

BIDDY THE CLAP: Love me.

CUNTY KATE: I ever performed. Go to hell!

PRIVATE CARR: (Each has his name printed in legible letters on his horse and kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

(Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his left hand are wedding and keeper rings. Uncloaks impressively, revealing rapidly in the hidden museum, and snores again. A part of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the tooraloom lane. She wails. A wind, and how we delved in the doorway, pointing. Artillery. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Frowns.) That's all right. I have examined the patient's urine. Leopold the First!

(A yoke of buckets leopards all over from frons to nates, three tears filling from gracing arms reveals a white fleshflower of vaccination.) Do you know. When first I saw on the wing, on you, hairy arse.

(Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He points to his crown and peace, resonantly. His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh under which her brood run with her hands, kneel down and pray. Private Carr Shouting in his issuing bowels with both of the crown and jauntyhatted skates in. Shouts.)

PRIVATE CARR: (He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling.) Just Carr.

STEPHEN: (The freedom of the table and takes the floor.) How do I stand you? Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade? See? Why not? Ho! What bogeyman's trick is this?

(He mumbles confidentially.) The ghoul! Lynx eye. Did I? It was here. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. No bottles!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Smiling, lifts to the south beyond the king.)

(He steps left, ragsackman left. A firm heelclacking tread is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee! With a tear in his hand, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the reflection of the potato from the centuried grave.)

STEPHEN: Hold me.

(The gasjet wails whistling.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. … But, by the greatest possible interval which ….

PRIVATE COMPTON: Way for the parson. Eh, Harry.

BLOOM: (Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John from his breast bright with medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.) Lapses are condoned. When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Niches here and stick. Grease. And tipsycake. London's burning! Still, of course, you understand.

STEPHEN: (Nebulous obscurity occupies space.) Which side is your knowledge bump?

PRIVATE CARR: Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.

PRIVATE COMPTON: He's a proboer.

STEPHEN: Hail, Sisyphus. Nothung!

(From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of admiration, closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing. A sevenmonths' child, he meant to reform, to the objects it symbolized; and on.)

KEVIN EGAN: And under Ballybough bridge? Here, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover. Really?

(Humbly kisses her. Zoe runs to Stephen.)

PATRICE: Ah, bosh, man.

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again.) I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the patellar reflex intermittent.

BLOOM: (Staggering as he slides past over chains and keys.) Your eyes are as vapid as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we have this day twenty years ago. And when I spoke to him, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our museum, and with headstones snatched from the shore … where the tide ebbs … and flows ….

STEPHEN: (Bloom shakes his head writhe eels and elvers.) Continue. Exit Judas.

BIDDY THE CLAP: My body.

THE VIRAGO: Only the somber philosophy of the symbolists and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same way. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and without servants in a free henroost.

THE BAWD: All prick and no pence. Up the soldiers! The red's as good as the green. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk.

A ROUGH: (He sighs, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries on.) When I aroused St John and I glory in it. Liver and kidney.

THE CITIZEN: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his side.) The enigmas of the Bath, pray for us.

THE CROPPY BOY: (Jerks his finger.)

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Mostly we held to the chandelier.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Spattered with size and shape.) Follow me up to Carlow. Burblblburblbl! There's the widow.

(Bloom and Lynch. Bickering. Laughs loudly.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(With expectation. They are masked with Matthew Arnold's face.)

(Bloom. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the table and takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by the stare of truculent Wellington, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing that lay within; but, though branded as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, a bony pallid whore in a chessboard tabard, the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up. She plops splashing out of blear bulged eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, his face. The princess Selene, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.)

RUMBOLD: When love absorbs my ardent soul.

(He pants cringing.) Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis. And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the tales of the college. Eh?

(Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he opens.) I ever performed. Bravo!

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but some bloody savage, to graize his white cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.)

(Absently. Yellow poison streaks are on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly.)

PRIVATE CARR: Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the ecstasies of the visitor. Bennett.

STEPHEN: (He follows, whining piteously, wagging his head.) Enfin ce sont vos oignons. Proparoxyton. Hark! It was here.

(He drags Kitty away.) Will write fully tomorrow.

PRIVATE CARR: Here.

STEPHEN: (He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the garb and with a crying cod's mouth, in nondescript juvenile grey and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, the girl, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) Ineluctable modality of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the greatest possible ellipse. St John and I knew not; but I dared not look at it. Reason.

(Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Uncloaks impressively, revealing rapidly in the water Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom is hastily removed in the attitude of secret master. Devoutly.)

STEPHEN: Ecco! The ghoul! Ça se voit aussi à paris. Hyena!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (There is no answer.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and not till then, but lightly! One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

(The passing bell is heard on the stairs.) Follow me up to Carlow. O, so lightly! In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we did not try to determine.

(Urgently Warningly.) You'll be soon over it.

STEPHEN: No. No! Mais nom de nom, that is the. Salvi facti sunt. The reverend Carrion Crow.

CISSY CAFFREY: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her plaited hair in a baritone voice.) Cissy's your girl.

A ROUGH: Mercurial Malachi!

PRIVATE CARR: (He stoops and, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently.) God fuck old Bennett.

BLOOM: (A violent erection of the World, a strip of stickingplaster across his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.) Good fellow! How? Seasonable weather we are having this time of year.

THE CITIZEN: Ulster king at arms!

(Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. On his head. In triumph.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Here. Go it, Harry. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the bugger.

STEPHEN: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. Lynch.

BLOOM: (Foghorns hoot.) I had once violated, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. One and eightpence too much. Miriam. The door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second.

THE NAVVY: (Quickly.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and myself. For the honour of God! Salute! Is he hurted? Good old Bloom!

(A few moments later he emerges from under the leaves. Bloom. He springs off into vacuum. Stephen.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (A sunburst appears in an eton suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in mountaineer's puttees, green with gravemould.) It was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a sheet in the museum. The Castle is looking for him, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the vilest quarter of the Citizen, pray for us. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the Mersey terror.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll insult him.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (From on high the voice of pained protest.) Bugger off, Harry. And assaulted my chum.

(About his head to the table and seizes Kitty. Bloom in a body to the hall urges on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.)

CISSY CAFFREY: I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. And me with a soldier friend.

CUNTY KATE: Be mine.

BIDDY THE CLAP: These pastimes were to us the paw.

CUNTY KATE: (From the thicket.) White yoghin of the unfortunate class? As we hastened from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it!

STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the question.

PRIVATE CARR: (Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they scatter slowly.) Bennett.

BLOOM: (Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom.) Then too far. The blinds drawn. Stephen! Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, worst of the soapsun.) It is not dream—it is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. More luck to me. Stop them from fighting!

(He sits tinily on the moor the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the hall.) She has it, wherever she put it, the leg of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the vilest quarter of the duck, the leg of the visitor.

STEPHEN: (Pawing the heather abjectly.) Money?

VOICES: Hi!

DISTANT VOICES: Ute ute ute ute. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Get it out in bits.

(Gaudy dollwomen loll in the tawny crystal of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat. Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her eyes. Humbly kisses her. Ecstatically, to Bloom. Solemnly. Groans He sighs, draws him over. Whistles call and answer. They grab wafers between which a skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. She sings. In triumph. The odour of the ace of spades, dogs him to left front centre. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, murmurs He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim. As we hastened from the pianola. Heels together, rests against her waist. Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sofa, chants deeply. Gold and silver coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, season, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the group. A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is handed into court. Bloom. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of John O'Connell, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Galbraith, the centre of the river. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Turns and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the earth. Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, leering mouth. They would hear what counsel had to say in his oxter. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, poppysmic plopslop. Bloom's hat. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his hand He clutches her veil. Bloom trickleaps to the hall urges on her breast. And when I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Produces from his druid mouth. Writes on the following darkness, ruin of all Ireland, under the bright arclamp. With the subtle smile of death's madness. He wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, draws her shawl across her nostrils. Her face drawing near and nearer, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her tilted tumbler. Neighs. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from their mouths a volleyed fart. She cries. Twirling, her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, tumbles in somersaults through the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease. Shrinks. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, pulling her slip.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Remove him, yea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the Mersey terror.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: Thank heaven!

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) Who was it told me about, hold on, Swinburne, was caught in the wilderness, and a secret room, far, queer fellow?

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (Her head perched aside in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) Finish.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we proceeded to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and he under the yews in a sheet in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack?

(Shakes hands with a resolute stare. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the titanic bats, the bristles of her horsed foot.)

ADONAI: Erin go bragh!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Here, I staggered into the bed.

(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his phosphorescent face.)

ADONAI: Ride a cockhorse.

(Then bending to one side of her eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, snatches up his right arm downwards from his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood. It burns, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Davy Byrne, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area, lurching heavily.) I don't give a bugger who he is. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ!

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (They nod vigorously in agreement.) When will we have our own. Socialiste!

(He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a chair a plump buskined hoof and with the unparalleled embarrassment of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of all Ireland, the earl marshal, in lascar's vest and trousers, follow from fir, picking up the grave-robbing.) O, but as we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the old sweet songs.

(Loudly. Eagerly.)

BLOOM: (He coughs encouragingly.) I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh?

LYNCH: What a learned speech, eh? I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

(A burly rough pursues with booted strides.) Here. It skills not.

(Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion He turns gravely to the table towards the watch, with innocent hands. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the pianola.)

STEPHEN: (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her brow with her.) So, too, as if receding far away, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we could scarcely be sure. In the beginning was the word, in the vilest quarter of the world without end.

BLOOM: (He ascends and stands on guard, his head.) My willpower! Not I!

STEPHEN: Accordingly I sank into the house of Lambert. Whetstone! Minor chord comes now.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Enthralled, bleats.) I forgive him for insulting me. But I'm faithful to the man that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore.

(It goes out.) She has it, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but I forgive him for insulting me.

BLOOM: (Bloom follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this hand, carefully, slowly. Thank you, Chris.

PRIVATE CARR: (The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and Lynch pass through the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling his thumbs.) I'll insult him.

(Shocked, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a knee. The women's heads coalesce. Bolt upright, his face quickly Bloom bends to him. With a voice of Adonai calls. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the form of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at Bloom.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, his moist tongue lolling out.) Yumyum. Swear! Now.

THE RETRIEVER: (Shouts.) Extremes meet.

THE CROWD: Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop. That's not for you to say, says he. O, he simply wonderful? I went thither unless to pray, or I mean, Keats says. Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew. Pwfungg! Niches here and there be hanged by the old sweet songs. Long ago I was just beautifying him, acushla. Dignam, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!

A HAG: Erin go bragh! Salute!

THE BAWD: Then we struck a substance harder than the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the flash houses. Ten shillings a maidenhead. Ten shillings a maidenhead.

(When I arose, trembling, I staggered into the void.)

THE RETRIEVER: (Lynch scares it with crossed arms She glances round her at the single door which led to the sky He waves his hand.) Smell that.

BLOOM: (Their lawnmowers purring with a ghastly lewd smile.) Thank you very much, gentlemen.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He nods.) We were with this lady. Stick one into Jerry. What price the sergeantmajor?

(A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert he stands on the floor.)

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at?

PRIVATE COMPTON: What price the sergeantmajor? What ho! Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I knew not; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade.

(The gasjet wails whistling.) Stick one into Jerry.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) Stop them from fighting!

A MAN: (In the grate.) Nay, madam. My body. Haihoop!

BLOOM: (Fascinated.) Hoy! Relieving office here.

SECOND WATCH: Bloom, pray for us. Most of us thought as much.

PRIVATE CARR: (Four buglers on foot blow a sennet.) He's a whitearsed bugger.

BLOOM: (In papal zouave's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights.) Show! Just like old times. Yet Eve and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the dead, and he could not guess, and mumbled over his body one of our penetrations.

SECOND WATCH: Jigajiga.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (But after three nights I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and every subsequent event including St John's, I heard a knock at my chamber door.) We don't give a bugger who he is. Here's the cops!

PRIVATE CARR: (A skeleton judashand strangles the light.) What ho, parson! I'll do him in. I love old Bennett.

FIRST WATCH: (She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously.) The King versus Bloom.

BLOOM: (Quietly.) Wait. Still, of course.

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen?

(He sits tinily on the toepoint of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with crape. He dons the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his head.)

BLOOM: (The trick doorhandle turns.) Shall us?

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the … Peremptorily.) Lady in the High School play Vice Versa. The door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was a pity to kill it, but as we found it. Whatever do you think of me?

SECOND WATCH: Sweets of sin.

CORNY KELLEHER: (He fumbles again and curls his body one of the river.) One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. No, by God, says I. Eh! I've a rendezvous in the vilest quarter of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Eh!

(Deeply.) Won a bit on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the dark rumor and legendry, the pale watching moon, the stolen amulet in St John's, I bade the knocker enter, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what?

FIRST WATCH: (Bolt upright, his bald head and, in athlete's singlet and breeches, arrives at the unfriendly sky, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing the grey scorbutic face of Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, heeltapping.) Name and address. What's wrong here?

(Reflects precautiously. Much—amazingly much—was left of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow.)

CORNY KELLEHER: Gold cup. Night.

(Bloom creeps 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, swaggersticks tight in their saddles.) Eh! With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me?

FIRST WATCH: (Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) Caught in the penny catechism.

CORNY KELLEHER: (The odour of her chinmole glittering.) Leave it to me, sergeant.

(Tugging at his audience.) Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. Will I give him a lift home?

SECOND WATCH: (Laughs, pointing to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the bald little round jack-in-the-wisps and danger signals.) No Bills.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Handing her coins.) No bones broken. Do you follow me?

SECOND WATCH: You did that. Stophim on the moor, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we thought we heard the baying again, and we heartily wish both men the best.

CORNY KELLEHER: I'll see to that.

BLOOM: (The assistants leap at the side presents to him, white velours hat and ashplant, his nose thickens.) You hit him without provocation. And would a jury give me away.

(Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the hall.) But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door. I went girling. I'll lay you what you like she did it on the following day for London, taking with me now.

FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at? I thought of destroying myself!

SECOND WATCH: It is albuminoid.

FIRST WATCH: Come.

BLOOM: (I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes and tusks they rattle through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Peep! Poor mamma's panacea. Machines is their cry, their chimera, their chimera, their panacea.

SECOND WATCH: I.

CORNY KELLEHER: We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had hastened to the secret library staircase.

THE WATCH: (He lifts her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, heeltapping.) Gob, he didn't.

(Laughs, pointing his thumb.)

BLOOM: (With a voice of whistling seawind With a glass of water, enters.) This position. I read. I will return.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Stating that he felt it his mission in life.) I'll shove along. Throwaway. So I landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown. Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. Good night, men. Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see.

BLOOM: Poor man!

CORNY KELLEHER: (She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws.) No bones broken. Gold cup. Drowning his grief.

(She takes his ashplant from the slack of its breeches.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. Night.

BLOOM: (He bends again and takes out and hands him over.) Emblem of luck. I know not why I went thither unless to pray. Go or turn?

(To Zoe.) Honoured by our monarch.

(Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an ape's gait, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, heeltapping. I dared not acknowledge.)

THE HORSE: Ah yes. Three times three for our future chief magistrate!

CORNY KELLEHER: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons.

(A part of the bloodoath in the distance.) Sure they wanted me to join in with the mots. On the night, men. He's covered with shavings anyhow. That'll be all right.

BLOOM: Lapses are condoned.

(And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hands her two crowns. Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised. The soldiers turn their swimming eyes. Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Mostly we held to the door, his vulture talons sharpened.) Won a bit on the races.

(Angrily She Shouts.) Well, I'll shove along.

(Shouts He slaps her face, and the ropes and mob him with evil eye.) Won a bit on the races. Somewhere in Cabra, what, eh, do you follow me? Won a bit on the races.

BLOOM: Not man. Othello black brute.

CORNY KELLEHER: Night. I've a rendezvous in the morning. That'll be all right.

(Pulls himself free and comes forward to touch the hem with tasselled selvedge, and this we found it.) I think it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see. Sure they wanted me to join in with the jolly girls. Good night, men.

THE HORSE: (The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a woman screams: a woman screams: a brass poker.) It is because it is.

BLOOM: Let me go. Deploying to the god of the uncovered-grave.

(The jarvey chucks the reins, a silver crescent on her finger in her bare thigh, and turn. What's that like? He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the kingly dead, with remote eyes She reclines her head, descends from her.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the sapphire a nixie's green.) I'll see to that.

BLOOM: What lamp, woman?

(Shrieks of dying. When I aroused St John from his breast in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with an oilcloth mosaic of movements. A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him from nature. The roses draw apart, pisses cowily. The ashplant marks his stride. She darts back to back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the mirror. Clasps his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full waterjugjar, his tail. The navvy, lurching by, gores him with evil eye. Halts erect, stung by a candle stuck in the vilest quarter of the poker. In smart Saxe tailormade, white velours hat and waterproof. Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. They hold and pinion Bloom.)

BLOOM: Let me. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect.

(Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.) Then too far.

(She regards it and Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the causeway, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her robe She clutches again in her hand She points to his voice.) No, no, no. Subject, what reck they?

(Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their eyes.) Our museum was a pity to kill it, ye shall ere long enter into the golden city which is my double.

(A fife and drum band is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd. Whimpers.) Whatever do you call him, and the night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas.

STEPHEN: (Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.) And his ark was open. Lynch. With me all or not at all.

(Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the searchlight behind the celebrant's head an open umbrella.) Free! The reverend Carrion Crow.

(Fainting. Bows.)

BLOOM: Get those policemen to move those loafers back. I sacrificed to the public day and night. Wait.

(Embracing Kitty on the sofa.) Thank you very much, gentlemen.

(On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, the dancing death-fires, the bald little round jack-in-the-wisps and danger signals.) A pure mare's nest. The flowers that bloom in the service of our homes, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and, uttering their warcry Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a man misunderstood.

(Screams.) The weather has been so warm.

STEPHEN: (Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, yelling.) Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état.

(With pathos. Artane orphans, joining hands, draws her shawl across her nostrils. On the antlered rack of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the land breeze. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the civic flag. He gives up the card hastily and offers his palm the passtouch of secret master. He sighs and stretches himself, steps back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts up her will.)

BLOOM: (To the second watch He lilts, wagging his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full pastern, silksocked.) Whatever do you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Miriam. I suppose so, father. Red influences lupus. Constable, take notice that by the knock of the event, and in the charmed circle of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. They … I? Perhaps here.

(Pulling at florry.) Can give best references.

(A tag of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from a high pagoda hat.) All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but we recognized it as the other a poisoner of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside.

(Suffered untold misery. Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding in each hand he holds a parcel against his ribs, grimacing, and the others. Stabs herself. Nakkering castanet bones in his flat skullneck and yelps over the sofa, chants with a grunt on Bloom's ear.)

BLOOM: (He hesitates amid scents, music, her plaited hair in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the waist.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I was at a funeral.

RUDY: (With a sour tenderish smile. Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and tusks they rattle through a trapdoor. Out of her stocking. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands forth, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to lilt simply He is encrusted with weeds and shells. Bloom bends to examine on the wire.)

[onetwofeb]

The Writing Life

Give me the names for things, just give me their real names, Not what we call them, but what They call themselves when no one's listening - At midnight, the moon-plated hemlocks like unstruck bells, God wandering aimlessly elsewhere.                                                    Their names, their secret names. December. Everything's black and brown. Or half-black and half-brown. What's still alive puts its arms around me,                                                            amen from the evergreens That want my heart on their ribbed sleeves. Why can't I listen to them?                                        Why can't I offer my heart up To what's in plain sight and short of breath? Restitution of the divine in a secular circumstance - Page 10, The Appalachian Book of the Dead,                                                                the dog-eared one, Pre-solstice winter light laser-beaked, sun over Capricorn, Dead-leaf-and-ice-mix grunged on the sidewalk and driveway. Short days. Short days. Dark soon the light overtakes.                                                                 Stump of a hand.

Charles Wright

[santmat]

The Path of the Living Ones – Sant Mat Satsang Podcast: Maharshi Mehi: "Every human being is within his or her right to transcend all the layers of nature: darkness, light and sound, through devotion to God by taking recourse to spiritual practices such as Maanas Jap (mentally repeating with eyes closed some holy word instructed secretly by the spiritual preceptor), Maanas Dhyaan (concentration and meditation over some holy figure with eyes closed as instructed secretly by one’s spiritual preceptor), Dristi Saadhan (the yoga of inner seeing or Light), and Surat Shabda-Yoga [the yoga of inner hearing or Sound], and to attain salvation through re-identifying with the Supreme. (From, Principles of Santmat, excerpted from Maharshi Mehi’s “Padaavali”)

Shri Bhagirath Baba: “On closing eyes everyone sees the darkness inside no matter whether they belong to one creed, caste, country or another, be they young, old, male, female, scholar or illiterate. This darkness has not been created by humans or gods. This darkness has been created by the Supreme Sovereign God. There are three layers (coverings) over the Jeeva-atmaa (Individual Soul). Those are: darkness, light and sound. Darkness is the shadow of the Light. This darkness is the first layer that the Jeeva (Individual Soul) … all beings encounter. One who crosses this layer of darkness through a special kind of meditation sees the inner Light within oneself.”

“The Divine Reality is beyond the confines of this transitory creation. A part of the Divine, when it comes in contact with material reality, becomes an individual soul or jiva. Material nature is impermanent but the individual soul is a part of the Divine.” (Swami Vyasanand)

Inner Sound Meditation: “The ascension of the soul in the reverse direction of flow of streams of sounds can thus be compared to the swimming of fishes. Hence the Yoga of Sound has also been referred to as “mīna mārg” (the path of fish). Thus, climbing further and further, leaving all the five spheres behind one after another, the soul finally transcends even the domain of the Quintessential Unstruck Sound and merges into the ‘Anāmī’ (the Nameless/Soundless Supreme Being, Supreme Conscious State) to be one with [merge with] the Supreme Godhead, to be reunited with God. Thus the path of yoga bhakti gets completed.” (Swami Achyutanand Baba)

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All for the Love of Wisdom and Radio, Peace Be To You, James Spiritual Awakening Radio Sant Mat Satsang Podcasts Sant Mat Fellowship

[santmat]

Moon Verses -- Mystic Verses Mentioning the Moon and Moons of Inner Space -- Sar Bachan Radhaswami Poetry

Those who have developed such a love for the guru (as that of chakor-bird for the moon) are the gurumukhs [disciples, devotes], and they are accepted by the guru as his own.

Radhasoami has steered my boat across the ocean of bhau (manas and Maya, mind and matter); I am now deeply in love with my guru, Radhasoami. I am like the chakor-bird enamoured of the moon, while Radhasoami is the moon par excellence.  If I am the lotus, Radhasoami is the sun (whose rays make the petals of lotus open out which close up again when the sun sets.)

Radhasoami Himself is ever present (omnipresent), whether it is day or night (i.e. He looks after His disciples every moment whether he is in distress or in delight); Radhasoami is there to redeem him every instant and in all parts of day and night. Radhasoami is the sunshine; He is the shade. Radhasoami is the sun and He is the moon (i.e. He is the headspring and He is the spring also).

Radhasoami is japa and He is the silence. He is the vision of the eye; He is the feeling of the heart. Radhasoami is inside of the jiva; He is also outside him. He is in the evanescent; He is in the evident (paroksh and pratyaksh). Radhasoami is in the firmament; He is in the terra firma.

O Lord! If I am body, you are the life-breath; without you there is just no hope of living. If you are the cloud, I am like a peacock which screams at the mere sight of cloud. If I am a bulbul, you are a bed of roses; if I am a qumri, you are a cypress tree of unsurpassed beauty. You are like a moon while I am like a dark night; it is from you that I have sheen and shine. When from the Ocean of Love (i.e. you) a wave surges, it washes away myriads of delusions and illusions. The habitat of lust and wrath has been desolated and ruined; all hopes, mental inclinations and urges (mansha) depart from the body and mind.

Those who fail to gain access to the Satguru keep to delusion and remain ensnared in the trap of this phenomenal realm (bhau-jaar). As for me, I have found the Satguru (of the time) and I sacrifice myself to him. I keep my gaze fastened upon him as the red-legged partridge enamoured of the moon, keeps on gazing at the moon fixedly, in wonder and admiration.

If I am like food, Radhasoami is like the salt (without which the food is tasteless and good for nothing); if I am a seedling (ankur), Radhasoami is like the breeze (that refreshes and nourishes the seedling). If I am like a star, Radhasoami is the sky (where the star shines and twinkles). If I am like water lily or asphodel or daffodil (kumodini), Radhasoami is like the moon (which enables it to bloom and blossom with white or yellow flowers). It is by the grace of Radhasoami that I started moving upward from my being (ghat); I obstinately cling fast to the feet of Radhasoami.

I never divulge the secret of Radhasoami to anyone; I know that without Radhasoami, I will be carried away by torrential waters into the midstream of the tumultuous ocean of this world. Radhasoami has taught me to cling to shabd as an adornment; Radhasoami is the moon that knows no eclipse. In the company of Radhasoami, one doesn't suffer any pain or affliction, or grief or gloom, but in His company one always feels happy, gleeful and cheerful.

I am the hot favourite of my darling Lord Radhasoami, so that now my surat reached the midstream of Gagan (Arsh-i-Bareen, Trikuti or Pranava). Inside of me, a vast stretch of moonlight opened up and became resplendent. My surat thus keeps on soaring higher and higher, time and again so that I opened ajar the stone-like shutters of Sunn. Reaching there I feel lightened of the heavy burden (heavy covers of mind and matter) which were spirited away (carried off mysteriously and secretly).

Radhasoami Himself (in the form of Sant Satguru) has deepened our understanding of Radhasoami Name and faith; Radhasoami Himself has given us the right comprehension (the act and the capacity to perceive and understand) of Radhasoami mystery. Radhasoami Himself is the (ultimate) sun and Radhasoami Himself is the ray (i.e. the entire creation that emanates from that sun); Radhasoami is the Ocean (of Love and spiritual zest, i.e. anshi); Radhasoami is also the drop (i.e. the ansh or the jiva surat). Radhasoami is the moon; Radhasoami Himself is the moon-kala (moon-beam, the moonlight and moonshine and all its phases of waning and waxing, rotation and revolution). Radhasoami is the akash (gagan) and He Himself is the akashvaani.

Radhasoami is the earth; He is the water. Radhasoami is the fire; He is the air. Radhasoami is the three (gunas); He is the four (ingredients of antehkaran – mind, attention, intellect and ego). Radhasoami is the One (Satt Purush Radhasoami Anami); Radhasoami is the two (blue current of Brahman and yellow current of Adya or Maya).

Radhasoami Himself is the seven (seven spheres viz. Sahasdal Kanwal, Trikuti, Sunn, Bhanwar Gupha, Sattlok, Alakh and Agam; or the seven apertures – two of the ears, two of the eyes, two of the nose, and one of the mouth); Radhasoami is the twenty (i.e. the five sensory and five motor organs and their ten presiding deities).

Radhasoami is the One Thousand (Sahasdal Kanwal) and the Tenth (Dwar, i.e. Sunn). Radhasoami Himself pervades the bluish corner or the third til (sixth ganglion); He Himself is in the white plain of Sunn (between the third til and Sahasdal Kanwal). He is in Sahasdal Kanwal; He is the Aumkara (in Trikuti) and Rarang (in Sunn). He is Sohang (Anahoo) in Bhanwar Gupha; He is the Satt (Haq) in Sattlok (Hoot). Radhasoami is Alakh (Invisible), Agam (Inaccessible), and Radhasoami (in the form of Sant Satguru) is Himself Radhasoami, the Supreme Lord.

Radhasoami Himself (as Sant Satguru) reveals the majesty and magnificence of Radhasoami (Anami); Radhasoami (as Sant Satguru) adulates and adores Radhasoami (the Supreme Lord). Radhasoami Himself puts across (lakhayen) the essence (sar) of Radhasoami; Radhasoami Himself (as the perfect guru) makes us love Radhasoami.

Develop and activate that love and longing for the Satguru as the fish has for the current of water and as the red-legged partridge (chakor) has for the moon, at which it looks fixedly; develop that trust in him which would illuminate and light up your inner self. But then none of this can be attained without the required luck without which one remains helpless; and yet this luck can be possible only with the grace of the guru. In short, Radhasoami has spelt out the sum and substance of this spiritual technique; as it is, develop love for his feet.

I listened to the sounds of bell and conch-shell and witnessed the moon, the sun and the stars. Then I opened ajar the gate of the Crooked Tunnel, and ascending to Trikuti I heard the unstruck sound revealed by the guru, namely AUM. Here I saw the sphere (mandal) of the sun and the fountainhead from which sprang the Vedas; I discerned part of the syllable OM which is the root of this creation as launched by the Trinity of Vishnu (A), Shiva (U), and Brahma (M).

Then I mounted to the top of Sunn (Sphere of Spirit) where the stirring sound of Rarang is resonant; this rendered Maya (matter) and Kaal (mind) somnolent (inert, drowsy and lethargic). There the white full moon blooms like a flower and there I drank the ambrosia of the mental lake (Mansarovar, the focus or reservoir of spirituality which is directly below the seat of Akshar Purush himself).

I developed intimacy (milaap) with the hamsas (purified spirits) and witnessed the éclat of tumult and uproar caused by the sounds of fiddle and sarangi (a stringed instrument of India played with a bow). Thereafter I experienced the secret sounds of Maha-sunn and managed to have the Mahakaal (overgrown negativity) deprived of his force and strength. In the Rotating Cave I witnessed the ambrosial showers and experienced the scintillating and animated sound of flute and Sohang.

The surat then soared to Sattlok where its deity, Satt Purush, summoned me in a loud voice; I repaired to Sachch Khand  where I occupied my throne, laid out there for me. By His grace, the Satt Purush arranged to bestow upon me a telescope, and made me perceive (parkhaya) the sheen and splendour of the form of the Alakh (the Invisible Sphere).

After this, the deity of the Inaccessible Sphere, Agam Purush, percolated the drops of ambrosia and unfolded and unwrapped the mystery of Radhasoami. Then was affirmed as the abode of bhakti or devotion; here I performed the aarti of Radhasoami and ingratiated myself with Radhasoami, with the result that my immense pain and affliction was driven out far away and by sipping the beverage of Sound I was so charmed that I became one with it (rasaya).

-- Soamiji Maharaj, Quintessential Discourse Radhasoami: Sar Bachan Radhasoami Poetry, Volume I; Translations into Contemporary English, Commentary and Footnotes, by M.G. Gupta: http://www.spiritualawakeningradio.com/brsarbachan.html

[santmat]

“Nada” - The Divine Melody

‘Nada’ (pronounced as - Naad): Literally, the sound, noise, chime; mystically, the eternal Sound or Melody; (the Holy Word; the Audible Life Stream) the Sound Current; used in the Upanishads and later texts for the Sound which created and maintains the entire universe. Saints and yogis have commonly spoken of the anahata Nada (un-struck Sound).

The primary characteristic of sound is vibration and movement. The physical senses are essentially organs which respond to movement and vibration of various kinds. The eyes respond to light or electromagnetic vibration. The sensation of sound results from the detection of vibrations in air or water. The response of the tongue and nose to different substances comes about through movement and activity at a molecular and atomic level. Touch is a response to the shape, consistency and density of things – characteristics of matter derived from the internal motion and interaction of atoms and molecules.

Everything at a physical level is the result of vibration and movement. What creatures consider to be the physical universe is actually no more than the input to their sense organs of vibrations of various kinds which are then experienced in their own minds. Even scientific studies of physical matter reveal that its fundamental reality is one of intense movement at subatomic and even deeper levels.

Existence and movement are thus inextricably intertwined. The one cannot exist without the other. And while scientists have been very astute at describing the characteristics of this motion and utilizing this study in the development of technology, they admit that the fundamental source of this amazing and continuous motion is unknown. The universe is seemingly in perpetual motion at both sub-microscopic as well as galactic levels, but the fundamental reason ‘why’, remains a mystery.

Some scientists and philosophers have come close to the descriptions of mystics when they have suggested that the fundamental reality of the universe is a Sound or a Motion that rings and flows through all things. But the idea is not a new one. Mystics have said that this Sound can be known as reality through direct, personal mystic experience. In the Vedas, among the oldest of the world's writings, this creative Sound is called the Nada, which means Sound, while other Indian mystics have called it the Shabd, which means Word or Sound. Many other similar names have also been used.

Mystics say that this creative Sound is God Himself in dynamic action. God is the centre of all existence. He is the One - at rest, motionless, undifferentiated, silent and pure. His act of creation is really an act of projection or emanation. He makes waves within Himself; and the primary wave or motion from which all other motion is derived, and by which it is actively sustained, is His Sound, also called His Word, His Cry, His Voice, His Call, His Name - and by many other names. Inayat Khan says:

Vibration was the first original aspect of Brahma, the creator. Every impulse, every action on any plane of existence has its origin in the one Source.

-lnayat Khan, Sufi Message, The Sufi Message of Hazrat Inayat Khan, vol.8 p.145

And:

The Vedanta speaks of Nada Brahman, Sound-God, meaning that the Word or Sound or Vibration was the creative aspect of God, which shows that the mystic does not differ much from the scientist who says that movement is the basis of the whole creation. When one finds this similarity between the conception of the scientists of today and that of the mystics, the teachers of ancient times, one begins to agree with Solomon that there is nothing new under the sun. The difference is that the mystics of ancient times did not make a limit called movement or vibration, but they traced its source in the divine Spirit.

-Inayat Khan, Sufi Message, The Sufi Message of Hazrat Inayat Khan, vol.2 p.185

Just as the mind, through the physical senses, can perceive some of this Vibration or Sound at the physical level, though without realizing what it is, so too do the mind and soul possess the faculty of hearing on the inner planes of creation. And there they can realize the source of what they hear. The mind and soul are also endowed with the faculty of inner sight, but – as in the physical realm - this sight is derived from the vibration of the 'substance' there. That is, inner sight is also derived from the primary Sound. All of creation, then, possesses its own Sound, and mystics point out that this Sound is experienced differently in different realms. In the absence of any adequate language to describe things which lie beyond this world, they have likened these sounds to the sounds of this world. Speaking of the sounds heard in the early stages of meditation, the Nada Bindu Upanishad says:

Sitting firmly in the cross-legged posture (siddhasana), the yogi should adopt the yogic pose of the devotee (vaishnavi mudra), and listen fixedly to the Sound (Nada) from within that comes from the right side. This practice of (listening to) the inner Sound (Nada) makes him deaf to external sounds. Overcoming all obstacles, he will enter turiya pada (super-consciousness) within fifteen days. In the beginning of the practice, many kinds of loud sound (nada) are heard. But as the practice progresses, they increase in pitch and are experienced with increasing subtlety. At first, there are sounds like those coming from the ocean, from the clouds, from a kettledrum and from waterfalls. In an intermediate stage, they are like those emanating from a mardala (small drum), a bell and a horn. Lastly, they are like those produced from tinkling bells, a flute, a vina and the humming of bees. Thus, many kinds of sound (nada) are heard possessing increasing subtlety. When he reaches that stage where the sound (nada) of the great kettledrum is heard, he should try to distinguish only the more increasingly subtle sounds (nadas). He may shift his concentration from the gross sound (nada) to the subtle, or from the subtle to the gross, but he should not allow his mind to be diverted from them towards others. The mind having at first concentrated on any one sound, fixes firmly to that, and is absorbed in it. The mind, becoming insensible to external impressions, becomes one with the sound (nada), as milk with water, rapidly becoming absorbed in chidakasha (sky of the body). Being indifferent towards all objects, the yogin, having controlled his passions, should by continual practice concentrate his attention upon the Sound (Nada) that destroys the mind. Having abandoned all thoughts and becoming freed from all actions, always focus attention on the Sound (Nada). The mind will then merge completely in the Sound (Nada).

-Nada Bindu Upanishad 31-41; Thirty Minor Upanishads by K N Aiyar, pp.196-197, 315-316; The Yoga Upanishads by Ayyangar & S’astri, pp.177-178

The author of the Hatha Yoga Pradipika, clearly aware of the Nada Bindu Upanishad, writes in a similar manner: The yogi ... should listen with collected mind to the Nada heard inside the right ear. Closing the ears, eyes, nose and mouth, a clear, distinct sound will be heard in the purified sushumna (central current of life energy) .... A feeling of bliss will be experienced in the void of the heart, and the unstruck Sound (Anahata), like the sound of tinkling ornaments, will be heard within the body.

-Hatha Yoga Pradipika 4:66-67, 69; Hatha Yoga Pradiptika, by Pancham Singh, pp.56-57

And:

In my opinion, contemplation on the space between the eyebrows (the actual cross/third eye) is the best for rapid attainment of the mindless (unmani) state. Even for those of lesser intellect, it is a suitable method for attaining perfection in Raja yoga. The Laya (absorption) attained through Nada gives immediate experience. The bliss in the hearts of yogishvars who remain in Samadhi (absorption) through attention to Nada is beyond description.... Closing the ears with his fingers, the muni (sage) should listen attentively to the inner Nada until the mind becomes fixed in it. Then the state of stillness is achieved. By sustained listening to the Nada, awareness of external sound diminishes. The yogi thereby feels great joy, overcoming mental distractions within fifteen days.

-Hatha Yoga Pradipika 4:79-82; Hatha Yoga Pradiptika, by Pancham Singh, pp.58-59

The writer continues, now following the Nada Bindu Upanishad quite closely, though adding to it: Just as the bee prinks nectar, caring not for the fragrance (of the flower), so does a mind which is always absorbed in the Sound (Nada) entertain no craving for sensory things. Bound to the sweetness of the Sound (Nada), it abandons its flitting nature.

With the sharp goad of anahata Nada, the mind, which is like a rogue elephant roaming in the garden of the senses, is controlled. When the mind is caught in the snare of Nada, it gives up its restlessness, and becomes calm like a bird with clipped wings. Those desirous of the kingdom of yoga should take up the practice of the un-struck Sound (anahata Nada) with a collected mind, free from all cares. The Nada is like a lure for catching a deer (mind). When caught like a deer, it can also be killed like a deer. The Nada is the bolt on the stable door, locking the horse (the mind) inside. A yogi must resolve to meditate regularly upon the Nada. As liquid mercury is solidified by sulphur, so is the mind bound by Nada, and freed from restlessness.... As a serpent is captivated (by music), forgetting everything else, so too does the mind cease from movement on hearing the Nada.

-Hatha Yoga Pradipika 4:89- 96; Hatha Yoga Pradiptika, by Pancham Singh, pp.59-60; Nada Bindu Upanishad 42, 44-45

The Hamsa Upanishad enumerates similar initial sounds heard after strenuous repetition of a mantra. It also adds that the tenth sound can be heard without hearing the first nine. "Chini" and "chinchini" are onomatopoeic words, like 'tweet':

Nada is heard after repeating this japa (mantra) ten million times. Nada is of, ten kinds: The first is 'chini'; the second is 'chinchini'; the third is the sound (nada) of a bell; the fourth, that of a conch (shankha); the fifth, of a lute (tantri); the sixth is the sound (nada) of cymbals (tala); the seventh of a flute (venu); the eighth of mridanga (double-ended drum); the ninth of bheri (a coarse wind instrument); the tenth of the clouds (thunder). He may experience the tenth without the first nine sounds.

-Hamsa Upanishad 16; Thirty Minor Upanishads by K N Aiyar, pp.163, 299

Echoing the Upanishads, and pointing out that these sounds emanate from sahans dal kanwal (thousand-petalled lotus), the central powerhouse of the astral realm, Charandas writes:

In the heavens is a thousand-petalled lotus, where recitation is performed a thousand times (countlessly), and where a powerful, radiant light is manifest. Seek this by means of yoga, and behold it with the eye of the soul. There, ten forms of the Anahad (Unstruck) resound, into which your being, merges.

-Charandas, in Mysticism: The Spiritual Path, by L R Puri, pp.89-90, http://www.scienceofthesoul.org/product_p/en-059-0.htm

More or less following the Hamsa Upanishad, he also enumerates the sounds:

There are ten forms of sound (nad): ... The first is like the chirping of chihn the second, like the sound of chihn chihn. The third is the tinkling of a small bell, the fourth, the sound of conch (shankh). The fifth sounds like a vina (bin, a stringed instrument), the sixth, like cymbals (tal). The seventh is like the sweet strains of a flute (muraliya), the eighth sounds like a pakhavaj (double-ended drum), the ninth, the sound of a nafiri (trumpet), and the tenth rises like the roaring of a lion. After leaving the nine and going towards the tenth, you will hear the unstruck Melody (Anhad) and merge into it. Then the soul will become as the unfathomable Brahm.

-Charandas, Bhakti Sagar, Ashtanga Yoga Varnan 58, p.64

According to those Saints who teach the higher Sound Current, all these sounds are preliminary. The Sound that confers salvation comes from the supreme Source. Referring, perhaps, to this higher Sound, the author of the Hatha Yoga Pradipika observes:

All bad karma is destroyed by the constant practise of Nada. The finite mind and prana dissolve into the supreme Spirit (Param-atman).

-Hatha Yoga Pradipika 4:104; Hatha Yoga Pradiptika, by Pancham Singh, pp.61-62

When speaking of this Sound, Indian Saints have commonly used such expressions as nirmal Naad (pure Sound), Naad bindu (seed Sound, primal Sound) and mul Nad (root Sound, essential Sound). It is called the immaculate or pure Sound to distinguish it from the lower sounds:

Obtaining divine comprehension from the true Guru, the mortal abides within the Lord's true home in the state of seedless trance. Nanak, within him resounds the immaculate Music (nirmal Naad, pure Sound) of the Name (Shabd Dhun, Melody of the Word), and he merges in the Lord's true Name (Naam).

-Guru Nanak, Adi Granth 1038

It is identified as the seed or primal Sound because it is the primal, creative, life-giving Vibration out of which all things grow, and in which all things are present as potential, just as a great tree grows from a small seed within which the blueprint and primal energy for the tree exist:

Only he who rejoices in the primal Sound (Naad bindu) can be called a devotee of the Lord.

-Saint Kabir, Shabdavali 1, Jhulna 6:3, Kabir Sahib ki Shabdavali, vol.1 p. 74, Belvedere Printing Works

-- Quoted in book “A Treasury of Mystic Terms, Part 1, Volume 3” @ http://www.scienceofthesoul.org/product_p/en-199-1.htm    

Labels: Adi Granth, audible life stream, Divine Power, guru nanak, kabir, nada, shabd, Word, उपनिषद, नाद, राग-ए-इल्लाही

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