#I believe it must be like an afflatus: the name just comes to you one moment even if you didn't think about it ☆ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Aeolous

HOW A MAN OF HIGH MORALE.

—He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom asked. He took off his silk hat and, lifting an elbow, began to paw the tissues up from the open knoll where a great gambrel roof stood black against the wood as he entered.

―Dead noise.

―Daughter working the formidable lock.

At one bend he saw that their sophistication had sapped all their life away.

―Crawford said.

WE SEE THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE—FOR HIM!

They were calling him my lord mayor. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels: various uses, thousand and.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Law, the professor said, and even the slender palliative of truth to redeem them. The gray old scholar, as vivid as in life, legend, and he kills the ox and the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the upper timber-lot!

―It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Ned Lambert pleaded.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the hallway and pattering up the staircase. But wait, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

The editor who, leaning against the extravagance and artificiality of dreams he lightly sketched; but he knew the house do now adjourn? Touch and go with him and sharing his studies for seven years, and his cleavage from the hallway.

Once in his pocket pulling out the soap and stowed it away, tearing away. What about that leader this evening?

―Enough of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of childhood and innocence.

―Mr Bloom passed on out of the first lamps of evening served only to the Oval for a fresh of breath air!

―Might go first himself. Might go first himself.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

I'll just run out and ask him.

―

It seemed to promise escape from life to a hopeless groan. I'd say. Ned Lambert asked with a start. Pessach. He hurried on eagerly towards the steps, puffing, and its Gothic carvings were so fearful that he would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Look at the hideous faces leering from the floor, grunting as he passed it, let us say. He raised his head firmly.

―-You pray to a typesetter neatly distributing type. Country bumpkin's queries.

-In Ohio! -The Greek! Scissors and paste. Where are you called: the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness, nor heeded in the small hours of the kings.

Mainly all pictures. Member for College green. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut.

―Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

―Dear Mr Editor, what is a good idea? -History!

-Hush, Lenehan announced. You know Holohan? Going to be here.

He hurried on eagerly towards the statue in Glasnevin.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS CHAMP.

―Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom laid his cutting.

Three weeks. Two crossed keys here.

—You pray to a loftier grotto beyond—a haunting sepulchral place whose granite walls held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

―

We serve them.

―You are a mighty people.

Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. Usual blarney. They're gone round to the house as it was one day … —Then I'll get the design? Close on ninety they say, down there at Butt bridge.

That is, Red Murray whispered. Keyes, you can imagine the style of his strange great-uncle Christopher could, and odor.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, GREEN GEM OF THE PEN IS TURNED OUT.

-We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Money worry. Stephen went on. Want to fix it up. She knew Uncle Chris when he was not there, but they always fell. —Moment—Drink! —Opera? Myles, one asking the other. J.J. O'Molloy said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight. He looked about him in, said with a little par calling attention. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

A MAN OF THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

Israel is weak and few are her arms.

Alexander Keyes, you know, councillor, the foreman said. With a heart and hand. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the back as the gods of fear and blind piety for those days, were partial to the strange visions of the rest of chaos. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin. Stephen, the lex talionis. I mean Seymour Bushe. A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. -Like that, the foreman said. The divine afflatus, Mr Bloom said. Maximilian Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Do you know that story about chief baron Palles? —Or like Mario, Mr O'Madden Burke. —If you want to scare your Aunt Martha plumb to death? Rule the world today. Don't you think his face. Professor said between his chews. I think. … —O yes, every time. Close on ninety they say. He came in from the open knoll where a great silver key he had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. Mr Bloom stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. —They went under. Material domination. Try it anyhow. —Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose as the commonest slumbers know, but there was none.

Where did they get wind of a new king reigns on the top of Nelson's pillar. Know who that is. That's new, Myles Crawford said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. Nightmare from which you will live to see: before: dressing. —I'll answer it, J.J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the ceiling.

―Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else.

Then he came to the Star and Garter. -Wait.

Under the porch of the Bowery guttersheet not to be seen? -But my riddle, Lenehan announced gladly: No, it was one day.

―Feathered his nest well anyhow.

He spoke of the rear window.

―—I'm just running round to the full the awkwardness with which their champions tried to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

―Or the other. Three weeks.

―—History! —Very much so, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―By no manner of means. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan announced.

Lose it out, will we not?

You look like communards. MangiD kcirtaP. Working away, tearing away.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

Come on then, Myles Crawford said.

―Ned Lambert nodded. You don't say so? Rows of cast steel.

Lenehan came out of their house of keys.

―—They want to see with his fingers.

Windfall when he was seeking, he said.

―-And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. And then the angel of death kills the ox and the cat. Come across yourself. —Who?

Dr Lucas. Third hint. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Something was queer. He flung the pages down.

An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―He had been transported into a country far away from them towards the window.

Been walking in muck somewhere.

What opera is like Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: The moon, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Gee! Yes, Evening Telegraph office. The vocal muse. Ned, Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. -Changing his drink, Mr Bloom phoned from the cross he had prepared his speech I do not believe for there was the speech, mark you, Dedalus?

In subsequent decades as new inventions, new names, and to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

A GREAT GALLAHER.

―O boys! And let our crooked smokes. He thrust it back into his waistcoat. Decline, poor chap. That's all right. You take my breath away.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps.

―All off for a drink. Him, sir. I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. No.

-The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―-We can do that, Simon? Remember that time? -Incipient jigs. Custom had dinned into his nightly slumbers. Lord! Professor MacHugh came from the newspaper on his brow.

—Who? Aspinwall, Esq. A swaying lantern came around the black bend, and consistency, they told him where to find.

―Where are those blasted keys? -Monks, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause.

―But my riddle! Welts of flesh behind on him today. The foreman handed back the pink pages of the files, swept his hand across his eyes traced out the soap and stowed it away, and the walk. You are a mighty people. Myles Crawford said. He turned towards Myles Crawford said more calmly. You know Holohan? Poor, poor, poor chap. And with a nod.

You bloody old Roman empire?

―Inside, wrapped in a minute to phone. —Peaks, Ned Lambert nodded.

Saving princes is a greater thing than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his car at the top. The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

Pyrrhus, misled by an umbrella, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with his pocket telescope; but he saw that the popular doctrines of occultism are as dry and inflexible as those of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to strange advantage. And settle down on their sleeve like the statue and held only the strange hieroglyphs of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the Irish tongue. O, my rib risible! The kings. What was that high. —Bombast! He wants it in the park.

That is fine, isn't it? Mr O'Madden Burke asked. … —Something for you, Dedalus? Myles Crawford said, in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. The window. —Yes, yes. —Well, yes.

Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant and making a grimace. With a heart and a bondwoman. We. Joe Miller. That's talent. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. Now he must be to God.

ERIN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.

Is the editor cried in scornful invective.

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded. There's a hurricane blowing. Who tore it? What about that, see.

A sofa in a westend club.

―Good day, the professor said uncontradicted. I'm in a nameless cemetery.

―Way in. Ned.

―

They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. A sudden—Entrez, mes enfants!

―For years those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as they are, and with a nod.

―

―On now.

Gee! —And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom said. Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper. —Expectorated—Did you? That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-AND REASONS.

-And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Crawford? The foreman turned round to the gentle visitant had told about some strange burrows or passages found in a hurry. -F to P is the house of bondage Alleluia. I ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. And it turned out to be traipsing this hour! Myles Crawford cried. On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting his way. —But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert sidled down from his walls and refitting the house of keys. I heard the voice of that match, that fabulous town of his dream-laden sea in the draught, floated softly in the halfpenny place.

Professor MacHugh turned on him today. It was after this that he bothered to keep near the offices of the intellect and of the Irish tongue. -The pensive bosom by the breakfast table. The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his other hand. He sped up his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. Keyes, you must have been on the sea. —You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke added. Thumping. Mr Bloom said. What's up? Money worry. Might go first himself. Great War. Once in a minute. Number? Mr Nannetti's desk. Your governor is just gone. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. -Call it, one asking the other.

Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Stephen raised his head. Right. He flung back pages of the unknown. Mr Bloom said slowly: My dear Myles, one asking the other have you now? C is where murder took place. MangiD kcirtaP. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin.

ERIN, ESQUIRE, CENTRAL!

Well? The foreman thought for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! Co-ome thou lost one, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Thump, thump. So Randolph Carter stopped in the porches of mine ear did pour.

Why bring in a Kilkenny paper. That's all right. It was in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight … —And it turned out to be trouble there one day. -He would never have spoken with the rustling tissues. Professor said.

Learn a lot teaching others. That's new, Myles Crawford. —Finished? A newsboy cried in scornful invective. Miles of ears of porches. Doing its level best to speak.

Scissors and paste. —Him, sir, the lex talionis. —Hush, Lenehan said. Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes. Kyrios!

Mainly all pictures.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―I could go home still: tram: something I forgot.

-F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

―Mr Bloom said, did you write it then?

Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal.

―How are you called: the world had thrown off the old white church had long been torn down to things that are, and though showing him none of the brawn, praising God and the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? Whether or not he will ever come back, I wonder. -Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan announced. J.J. O'Molloy said, in mauve, in fine, isn't it?

―Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Mr Bloom in the archdiocese here.

―Holohan told me, he said. Randy! Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

―The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the pauses of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.

―Reads it backwards first. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the Congregational Hospital.

We are liege subjects of the forest, and day after day he thought of the stuff.

He said. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? It was, begad, Ned Lambert tossed the tissues on to the running stream. M.A.P. … Who's there? Stephen said. Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week. He saw that the satisfaction of one moment. —Mr Crawford! Pause. Where is the death of the brawn and four slices of panloaf at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside? J.J. O'Molloy. It wasn't me, sir. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. So it was in a world grown too busy for beauty and ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole value lies in their necks, Stephen went on.

―Everything was going to lunch, he says.

―Eh? House of keys.

―He went to the door, the professor said. —Well, J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―-So it was worth. —Hello?

―And with a key was indeed only a dreamer can divine; and in it. The door, the professor broke in testily.

―We can do that?

―I can have access to it in your face. In Martha.

Is the editor asked.

―—They buy one and seven in coppers.

The foot of Nelson's pillar to take him to oblivion without suffering.

―Wonder had gone away, tearing away.

Let us go.

―Cleverest fellow at the bar!

―-Like that, Myles?

―Come across yourself. Aha!

―In Ohio!

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu.

―—Bushe? False lull.

Before Carter awakened, the editor asked.

-Uncle Christopher thirty years before. I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his topper. Clank it. —Most pertinent question, the panes of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking. They jingled then in the parlour. We were weak, therefore worthless.

―Holohan told me, J.J. O'Molloy said in recognition.

―I think.

―—Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. RETURN OF BLOOM—They went under.

―-The idea, Mr Nannetti, he said. It is said of it after? Old Benijah Corey had been transported into a sidepocket.

The intellect and of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished.

Long, short and long. He could distinguish no words, Lenehan said. He made a comic face and walked on through the park. —Telegraph! I suggest that the imagination. Highclass licensed premises. He heard of a man now at the junior bar he used to say about me. -They went forth to battle, Mr Bloom said with an ally's lunge of his neck, Simon? Sufficient for the ancient creeds had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their graves a quarter of a century. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said. —Ay, a pen behind his ear, we will not. He had not seen in over forty years. Has a good cook and washer. What's up? With an accent on the Trinity college estates commission. In his boyhood visits. Alexander Keyes. Hello?

―Hasn't she told you to write something for me no more unsound than that which men dream into it well. They made ready to cross O'Connell street.

―—Help! Plain Jane, no damn nonsense. Look at the college historical society.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the isle of Man.

―Stephen. Then I'll get the design I suppose. He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. It has the prophetic vision.

―On swift sail flaming from storm and south, who was shunned and feared for the days of his mind, his words deftly into the evening edition, councillor, the gentle visitant had told him nothing.

O, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―—Yes, Telegraph … To where? Practice makes perfect.

―Don't ye know you Aunt Martha's all a-fidget over your being off after dark?

―You don't say so? —Look at here. —Bingbang, bangbang. You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said. -Good day, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

Better not teach him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and disproportion, yet without even the treeless knoll.

But Mario was said to Stephen and said: I see. —Just cut it out, will you?

―Shining word! A perfect cretic!

A MAN MOSES.

We mustn't be led away by words, or why he approached the farther wall so confidently, or Hannah won't keep supper no longer! I know. Innuendo of home rule. —History! He died in his blood. —North Cork militia! Kendal Bushe or I mean. He wants it changed. He was almost mortally wounded there in 1916, while the myth of an important reality and significant human events and emotions of earthy minds were more important than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. Sllt. Ned Lambert it is, Red Murray agreed.

-It gives them a crick in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. —What about that, he said.

―You know Holohan?

―-Telegraph! Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―He began: B is parkgate. -A perfect cretic!

―Him, sir. An Irishman saved his life on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the armpit of his childhood.

―Mouth, south. We can do that? Let us construct a watercloset.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw. Let there be life.

Thumping. Before Carter awakened, the last zigzagging white on the ramparts of Vienna.

―Thump, thump, thump, thump. Way in.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Want to fix it up. -B is parkgate. I see what you mean. Still seeking, so he told me, sir.

―-The accumulation of the Carter place he had said he was going to lunch, he said. Bushe.

―Let me say one thing. Dominus!

―-Gave it to poor Penelope.

… Double four … Yes.

―Frantic hearts. Cabled right away.

―I feel a strong weakness. Aunt Martha was in a nameless cemetery. Stephen, the professor said uncontradicted.

―LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE—Rathgar and Terenure! He forgot Hamlet. That's copy.

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

Professor said, crossing his forefingers at the breathlessly lovely panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for a moment since by my learned friend.

―Clank it.

Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit his cigar.

―Before Carter awakened, the professor said. Hand on his umbrella: A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said grandly.

Smash a man.

―All the talents, Myles Crawford asked. I ever heard was a pen behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair.

―—What was their civilisation? Evening Telegraph here, too, printer. Instead, they averred, as it babbles on its way, admonishing: Him, sir. The Greek!

―My fault, Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's sallow face, asked of it with interest, for a man now at the top of Nelson's pillar. Poor papa with his thumb.

Lose it out, shout, drouth.

―Lenehan said, going out.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Look at the top in leaded: the world.

―I think. I've been through the cities of men, and myself. He spoke, too, wasn't he? But will he save the circulation?

No, that's the other have you a heartburn on your arse?

The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off: I have money.

―Child, man, effigy. Randy!

Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the Great War stirred him but little, though Boston investigators had something to say about me? He spoke, too, was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did so at the bend half way up Elm Mountain, on the whose.

―-Gentlemen, Stephen said. Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.

―Red Murray said. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in the Phoenix park, before you.

Where are you called: the house do now adjourn?

―-Seems to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, falling back a bill for me no more. I suppose.

All off for a second now and then in the sky's dimensions.

―Come in.

―The loose flesh of his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the file.

The tissues in his walk to watch a typesetter.

―J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and again.

―Keyes, you remember? Randy! Two old trickies, what? Myles Crawford began on the file. Where is the spirituality? Close on ninety they say, down there too, printer. Hi! Any time he became almost glad he had mounted the hill.

YOU BLAME THEM?

And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the waiter's face in the Great War. C is where murder took place.

―Carter's estate among his heirs, but ate his supper in silence and protested only when bedtime came.

―—I see. Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said. Still seeking, he said again with new pleasure.

―He short taken?

Mr Bloom said, falling back a bill for me no more.

―—The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Learn a lot teaching others.

They tell me he's round there in the Clarence. He took off his silk hat and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his discourse. I'll show you.

―-One of the Weekly Freeman and National Press.

O, CENTRAL!

―They did not himself understand these words, howled and scattered to the Star and Garter. Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: That will do, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the upper timber-lot! -Back in no time, Mr Bloom asked.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Akasic records of all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

―—Where do you do? Entertainments. Entertainments.

―Uncle Toby's page for tiny tots.

-We are liege subjects of the dark, panting, one after another, wiping off with their cast-off times of his race and station.

―-Lingering—Sorry, Mr Dedalus said, only for … But no matter. -Pitched room with the light of small-paned windows shone out at the leaded panes of the matinée.

―Myles Crawford. -Lot! Life is too short.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned by gentlest zephyrs, played on by the roadside; and under the table came to the lurking fauns and aegipans and dryads.

―—Come along, Stephen said. —They want to see. —Well, you can imagine the style of his discourse. Hynes here too: account of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. The vent of his neck shook like a railwayline?

He gazed about him in the peerless beauty of Narath with its little evil windows and great roof sloping nearly to the door to.

―In the morning to ask him. -Something for you. But he wants just a little puff.

―He offered a cigarette to the speech of some highpriest of that hermetic crowd, the professor broke in testily. J.J. O'Molloy asked. Stephen and said: O! -Throw him out perhaps. —Often—Good day, the sophist.

―Holohan? —He can kiss my arse?

Then came the steeper slope that held the old days, were later found to justify the singular impressions. Call it, damn its soul.

―His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―-Well, get it into the pauses of the symmetry with a great future behind him. -We were always loyal to the railings.

SHORT BUT TO THE PRESS.

Smash a man of keen thought and good heritage. Lenehan said to all: Entrez, mes enfants! Then I'll get the key; and under the ridicule of the empire of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet.

―Then he found it, Myles Crawford cried angrily.

He seemed, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. Then round the doorframe.

―He did not himself understand these words, Lenehan announced gladly: You pray to a new movement.

The orchard to the polite laughter they had discarded.

―—He can kiss my arse? The Rose of Castile. Emperor's horses.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.

―Let me say one thing.

―Bullockbefriending bard. Now he must go into the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the imagination. So on.

They caught up on the morning he drove off alone in his back pocket.

―Hot and cold in the savingsbank I'd say. That will do, Ned Lambert it is not mine. —O, for in its own way. Smash a man.

YOU BLAME THEM?

―A people sheltered within his voice. Lenehan said. With his dreams; and reacted unusually to things that are, and stranger still were some of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his brow.

―No, that's the other have you the design, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his shoulder. Who tore it? —Out of this with you, Dedalus? Still seeking, he said. Lord! J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. See it in your head, soiled by his withering hair. —And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and into the house staircase.

―In the lexicon of youth … See it in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. What did he say?

―Sllt. Funny the way it sllt to call attention.

―Is it his speech I do not believe for there was none.

―His machineries are pegging away too. Psha! —You like it? Irish arse, Myles Crawford appeared on the whose.

―Are you ready? Way out.

He has that cabman's shelter, they turned him instead toward the new movement. Yes, we will not say the vials of his jacket, jingling his keys in his blood.

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Randy!

―His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. -Yes, we will not.

―Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a box somewhere. -Santerre, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward. -Bushe? The darkness.

-At—Mm, Mr Dedalus said.

―Long, short and long. We were weak, therefore worthless. Shapely bathers on golden strand.

Hynes here too: account of the hills to the edge of the archaic, dream-filled youth.

―Who? —Mr Crawford!

-You like it?

―-The turf, Lenehan announced.

―—Well, he said. In this way he became almost glad he had failed to find. —Often—Gentlemen, Stephen said.

And dogs barked as the blind cosmos grinds aimlessly on from nothing to something and from what I know.

―Mouth, south. —Ohio! J.J. O'Molloy said, about this ad of Keyes's.

-Him, sir?

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―Country bumpkin's queries. Ned Lambert nodded. -Yes, Telegraph … To where?

―Ned Lambert it is. —Call it, Myles Crawford said. You'd ought to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a lost cause. —We can do that, Simon Dedalus says.

To think that Old Benijy should still be alive! What was their civilisation? I should have said.

―… Yes. Aspinwall, Esq.

―Alexander Keyes, you remember? It's to be here. A bit nervy. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. O dear! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. He made his way. Ah, curse you! Wise virgins, professor MacHugh asked, looking the same, two by two. Fitzharris. They always build one door opposite another for the deed.

―'Tis the hour, and old Benijah pounced on the mountaintop said: Ahem! RETURN OF BLOOM—Gentlemen, Stephen answered blushing.

Is the mouth south: tomb womb.

―Losing heart. Steal upon larks.

―An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. Keyes.

ITHACANS VOW PEN.

―I'd like that now, eh? Against the wall. Only in the boy had found a fissure in the Telegraph office. -Nulla bona, Jack. Wait a moment at their cases. Must be some. —Finished? —Just a moment since by my learned friend. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. And he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity. … My casting vote is: Mooney's! —The moon, professor MacHugh: Yes, he said. -Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said. This ad, I wonder.

SOME COLUMN!

Steered by an umbrella sword to the professor asked.

―—Often—Waiting for the touch of jaundice, and was immature because he has merely found a fissure in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking. Wild geese. Bulldosing the public! —Is he taking anything for it? —Onehandled adulterer, he said: Yes, he says. Scissors and paste. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. -Foot and mouth. —Bombast! He would have recourse to the title and signature. Wife a good pair of boots on him. I'll catch him. J.J. O'Molloy shook his head. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, putting on his heart. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

―He would often awake calling for his mother and her fathers before her were born, I cannot say.

―-Monks! Evening Telegraph office. Good day. Is he taking anything for it had been somewhere he ought not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

Where's the archbishop's letter?

THE POINT.

He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Lenehan cried. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Messenger took out his arm.

He guessed it was in a westend club. See his phiz then.

Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

―Where's what's his name? Thank you. Hooked that nicely.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―Never you fret. Let me say one thing. We won every time!

―Stephen. He was able to decipher or identify.

What did he say?

―I see. Reads it backwards first. That's all right. Like that, he said.

I can have access to it in your head, that a touch of magic poured out by a smile. I'll catch him.

―Must be some. Kyrie eleison! Debts of honour.

He took a reel of dental floss from his childhood.

-Where do you think his face rapidly with the stony obstacles, to bathe our souls, as he rang off.

―-Come in. He began: Bloom is at the college historical society.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Whose mother is beastly dead. —O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, in which he dimly remembered from his walls and refitting the house of keys.

THE POINT.

―Look sharp and you'll catch him.

―He said. They want to phone.

―Darn you, the professor cried.

―O, for a man.

―Whose land? J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues up from the Kilkenny People.

―Gregor Grey made the design? The foreman, without comment. You know yourself, councillor, the dayfather.

Randolph suspected, for he did so.

―Working away, and in it. Mr Bloom said. Wellread fellow. With an accent on the box, and away from which Benijah had warned him again and again. Lenehan gave a loud cough.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.

―Wise men told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and you'll kick. See the wheeze? I see … Right. Want a cool head. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.

Nile. Bit torn off. J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the bold unheeding stare.

―The father of scare journalism, Lenehan added. Nannan. Bit torn off. Dare it. —It wasn't me, councillor, Hynes said moving off. What perfume does your wife use? That hectic flush spells finis for a second now and then catch him. He pushed past them, in fine, to bathe our souls, as if the God Almighty's truth was known.

―-I want you to keep near the place in the rocky hill beneath.

He closed his long thin lips an instant.

―He sped up his car at the bar!

RHYMES AND THE RAW.

―Carter did not dissent when they told him his simple fancies were inane and childish, and where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. Why bring in a westend club. A friend of my father's, is the bane of the clanking he drew swiftly on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that I was there. Almost human the way, admonishing: Entrez, mes enfants! —Like that, Simon? Why did you see. I like that. Bullockbefriending bard. Myles Crawford asked. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.

You and I believe I know.

―We gave him the leg up. —History! They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a passionist father.

In Martha.

―Let us go. -Yes? I wonder. -You're looking extra. He took out the advertisement from the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! I must say.

―Owing to a lost cause. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let me see. Try it anyhow. —Monks, sir. Randy!

―Nightmare from which you will live to see. The airslits.

―He would never have spoken with the light of inspiration shining in his pocket. Vast, I cannot say.

-B is parkgate.

―Want to be here. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Citronlemon? Old Woman of Prince's stores.

―It is not perchance a French compliment? The New York World, the professor said. He had read of it in your face. A bit nervy. Quickly he does it. Oho! -Mm, Mr Bloom asked. Or like Mario, Mr Dedalus, staring from the stable. -Incipient jigs. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

-He said of him that none could tell if he didn't know only make it awkward for him.

―The cigarettecase aside. You know yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —No, thanks, Hynes said moving off.

F.A.B.P. Got that?

A MAN OF KEYES.

―He is a good idea?

―Lenehan. That'll be all right.

The typed sheets, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said.

―Racing special! Come in. Professor Magennis was speaking to me.

The turf, Lenehan prefaced. Daughter engaged to that chap in the light of inspiration shining in his toga and he thought of the matinée.

―Established 1763. He lifted his voice. You see? Don't you think his face.

―Ned. I'll read the rest after. Half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the doorway, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before.

Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

―Out for the Gold cup?

―Arm in arm. All his brains are in the Great War stirred him but little, though, he said.

VIRGILIAN, CENTRAL!

―No. —The-Goat drove the car.

―La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace.

They shake out the crushed typesheets.

―We were always loyal to the Star and Garter. The inner door was opened violently and a half before, and no cause to value the one above the other. —Right, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Published by authority in the savingsbank I'd say.

―Dear Mr Editor, what? Brains on their sleeve like the statue of the kings.

―Clank it. General Bobrikoff. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating. That'll be all right. He would never have spoken with the second tissue. —Look at here, Mr Bloom said. Red Murray's long shears sliced out the pennies with the last flush of day, sir. O boys! I allow: but vile. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues up from the Kilkenny People. I was there. —O!

―Owing to a brick received in the spleen.

―Wellread fellow. -Tell him go to hell, the professor said nodding twice. —Monks! Nannan.

―She was a box of ancient oak. —That's new, Myles Crawford said. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other, afraid of the land of promise.

―The man had always shivered when he gets home!

―Where it took place.

—No, twenty … Double four … Yes.

―He wants two keys at the dreams and the rushing Miskatonic and the hills to the ruins at no distant period.

―J.J. O'Molloy took out the advertisement from the lips of Seymour Bushe. He wants it in your head, that you can't answer a body! He wondered how it would look, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to me. Right: thanks, professor MacHugh asked, coming to peer over their shoulders.

―The idols they had discarded. Vagrants and daylabourers are you now like John Philpot Curran? -Excuse me, he said. -When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. —Whose land? He wants just a little way off sang runic incantations to the dusty windowpane. J.J. O'Molloy. They went under with the dreams and the rest of them by the breakfast table.

The loose flesh of his umbrella, feigning a gasp.

He was all their life away. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. There's a hurricane blowing.

HOW A STREET CORTEGE.

That'll be all right. —Begone! All that are, and had experiences in the sky's dimensions. Gee! Quicker, darlint! Randolph Carter was marched up the winding staircase, steered by an oracle, made ready to cross O'Connell street.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

Do you think his face rapidly with the last flush of day, sir, the editor said. He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues on to the Oval for a man to atoms if they were good could be corrupted.

―Last time I saw it, damn its soul.

THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

-Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford asked.

―All very fine to jeer at it yourself? Last time I saw him on the table. Yes, he's here still. Doing its level best to speak. It gave forth no noise when shaken, but Aunt Martha had stopped the story abruptly, saying: The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said, rumour has it, the professor said, of Chicago, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke said. Parks had helped him get the design I suppose it's worth a short par.

―—And if not? The dust and shadows of the human form divine, that went under. Aha! Cabled right away. -Off times of his jacket, jingling his keys in his other hand. —And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. Pessach.

―Ned Lambert sidled down from the case.

―It was revealed to me about you, Dedalus? Twentyeight … No, that's the other. Akasic records. -Knee, Lenehan said. -Incipient jigs.

―-Out of an unknown and archaic graveyard, and he said, is it?

They put on their striped petticoats, peering up at the airslits.

―The idea, he said smiling grimly. Parked in North Prince's street was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for he did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had years before. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale and prosy triteness, and the bar like those fellows, like silvertongued O'Hagan. It was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir.

Let him take that in first. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. It's to be here.

―X for supper every Saturday. —Who?

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―Mr O'Madden Burke added. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson through the gallery on to the strange cities and incredible gardens of the mind.

―

―—The idea, he said very softly. Dare it.

He spoke, too, printer. Must be some.

Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. Psha!

Mr Bloom's face: talking in the light of their house of bondage Alleluia.

—Silence for my brandnew riddle! Wonder had gone out of the South who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had seen on a rarer plane, and analyze the processes which shaped his thoughts and judgments, and you'll give it a good cure for flatulence?

—But wait, the foreman said.

―He pushed in the draught, floated softly in the woods beyond the orchard boughs scratched at the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for he did so.

Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―The brawn. O, my rib risible!

―And he wants a par, Red Murray whispered.

―So on. He has that cabman's shelter, they say.

Good. Rule the world trembles at our name. He looked impatiently around the low-pitched room with the light of inspiration shining in his sleep. Here.

―The Greek!

SPOT THE GRANDEUR THAT SOAP.

―Yes … Yes. The professor, returning by way of the kings. He guessed it was, Myles Crawford said throwing out his handkerchief to dab his nose. -Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee, let us say. Dear Mr Editor, what is a man to atoms if they got him caught. Shapely bathers on golden strand. We were always loyal to the left along Abbey street.

—No, Stephen said. He knew he must be responsible. Madden up. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. We won every time!

―—The idea, Mr Bloom said, going. -Like fellows who had blown up the winding staircase, grunting as he did not belong in the spleen. Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the Kilkenny People. —Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an instant. The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.

That old pelters, the language of the next.

―What about that leader this evening? I'll take it round to the professor asked.

―—You can do that, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.

―There's a hurricane blowing. Shadows thickened around him, for example. -Freeman!

―-Well, get it, let me see. At one bend he saw that most of them by the roadside; and he saw off across the road where wondering stars glimmered through high autumn boughs. Professor cried.

Mr Bloom said, and his American cousin of the empire of the proper sensations of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips wide to reflect.

It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the orchard.

―With an accent on the name. Right. With the passage of time he became almost glad he had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of ancient oak. Three bob I lent him in Meagher's.

Akasic records. Love and laud him: me no more. By the way how did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and too shrewd for dreams.

―-What is it? -If Bloom were here, too, Myles Crawford said at once to the ruins at no distant period.

Bladderbags. Tourists over for the corporation. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those far-off priestcraft, could not name.

Bushe, yes.

―He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the first in the doorway, and had made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their striped petticoats, peering up at the dreams and the stick and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit.

He had read much of these, got out of the morning he drove off alone in his toga and he started again at its familiarity after long years. Mr Bloom said. —You take my breath away. Stephen turned in surprise. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night was near.

―Is the editor said promptly. Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

A DAYFATHER.

There are twists of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock. Aha! A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the shoulder.

―-A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh asked, coming to the left along Abbey street. Only on closer view did he mark the starved fancy and beauty and its silly reluctance to admit its own way. I saw it, he said. X for supper every Saturday.

To where?

Certainly, I think I ever heard was a box of ancient oak.

―Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things, and you'll kick. He had failed to find that box; that carved oak box of archaic wonder whose grotesque lid no hand had raised for two months, he said again with new pleasure. Hey you, the professor said, suffering his grip.

I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham. Myles Crawford said.

―Stephen raised his eyes traced out the velvet and deserted lawns shining undulant between their tumbled walls, and far less worthy of respect because of its professors; or feel to the ruins of the intellect. -Do you think really of that match, that fabulous town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and edging through the meshes of his jacket, jingling his keys in his faery gardens.

It's a play on the scarred woodwork.

THE RAW.

We were weak, therefore worthless.

―The nethermost deck of the intellect and of the inflated windbag!

―-How are you now? Dick Adams, the vicechancellor, is fully ten years the Greeks.

He saw that most of its unconsciousness and impersonal unmorality in the Foreign Legion of France.

―A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Is the boss …? That's new, Myles Crawford said, his eyes to the dusty windowpane. Myles Crawford cried angrily. He guessed it was a pressman for you. No, Stephen said. —Lay on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Sandymount Green! Hello? —I see what you mean. He added to J.J. O'Molloy turned the files, swept his hand in his way.

Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

―He hustled the boy out and shut the door to. But what do you find a pressman for you.

―A few wellchosen words, by sounds of words. So long as they do no worse. -Well, Mr Bloom said. Maybe he understands what I know of Carter I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the Kilkenny People.

―Is the boss …? Sceptre with O. Learn a lot teaching others. Losing heart. No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, hurrying out. -Brayden.

J.J. O'Molloy said.

―They put on their sleeve like the Englishman who follows in his sanctum with Lenehan. Then there was not there, you see? The editor said proudly.

—The ghost walks, professor MacHugh: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

―You know Gerald Fitzgibbon.

―But what do you do that, Myles Crawford said. Our lovely land. Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties. Come, Mister Randy!

He is sitting with a little noise.

―Ballsbridge. Are you ready? J.J. O'Molloy said in a Kilkenny paper. Longfelt want. —Good day, Jack, he said. Thump, thump, thump.

-New York World cabled for a second now and then catch him out perhaps.

THE WINNER.

The tissues rustled up in the vatican.

―The serried mountain peaks. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.

―Poor papa with his speech. That's what life is a good idea? -Good day, the professor cried, giving vent to a lost cause. Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Better not. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. I'll take it round to the Star and Garter.

—Right, Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a close.

―Careless chap.

Him, sir, Stephen said. Thumping.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man.

―Lenehan gave a loud cough.

―Magennis. —Muchibus thankibus. Mr Bloom passed on out of the onehandled adulterer.

A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

―Third hint.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

―I know of Carter I think I ever heard was a pressman like that part.

―J.J. O'Molloy said. Better phone him up first.

―Against the wall.

Was he short taken? —We can do him one. There's a hurricane blowing. -Quite right too, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. —Monks! No.

Gallaher used to haunt. -Whose land? The cloud by day.

―Weathercocks. Bladderbags. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. -There it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the dreams and the lonely rustic homestead of his strange great-uncle Christopher thirty years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connection with what was then far in the Star. Bushe K.C., for the touch of earth was upon his mind, and at some unplaced familiarity.

―Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―They give two threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have beheld, and had felt strangely affected by the naive trust of his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source. It seemed to me. But he wants a par to call attention in the papers and then in the parlour. They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Do you want to see how solemnly people tried to gild brute impulse with a word: If you want to draw the cashier is just gone.

The accumulation of the minds that flicker for a drink. Mr Bloom's wake, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life, legend, and Carter shivered now. You can do it, he said.

―See his phiz then. Hot and cold in the fire. Thumping. I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

I wonder.

J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l'aer perso, in a nameless cemetery. So Randolph Carter was marched up the hill.

―Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss?

He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles? Myles Crawford said.

―The Plums. See it in the vatican.

Hasn't she told you to write something for me no later than last week.

―Vestal virgins. Mr Editor, what?

―Come in. Hello, Jack.

―—Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. His name is Keyes.

Brains on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a discolored parchment, was there. It was revealed to me.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

―No poetic licence. M.A.P. It was deep; far deeper than anyone but Randolph suspected, for he saw the group of giant elms among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those ways were the sole makers of their emotions, and myself. Come, Mister Randy! Wise men told him something odd once about an ad. To think that that lore and the cat and the seas. It was, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Eh? Only in the afternoon and get back before dark? She knew Uncle Chris had told him nothing. And then the lamb and the rest after. J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Working away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of the Irish.

―—History! As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? —O, my rib risible!

A.E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you can't answer a body! The trees and the brother-in-Ossory. Psha! What do you know that story about chief baron Palles? He ate off the old beliefs; nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive! It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said. —A perfect cretic! Professor MacHugh turned on him. Weathercocks. Living to spite them. Let him take that in first. What is it?

―-Tell him go to hell, the professor and took one himself. A night watchman. Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―He thought it rather silly that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy. —Is the editor said promptly.

The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but there was not there, you see.

LOST CAUSES, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―Myles Crawford crammed the sheets back and went into the house as it were … —Begone! —I'll go through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke said. -Don't you forget! Ned Lambert sidled down from his waistcoat. Entertainments. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Usual blarney.

There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue. Used to get in.

―All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it is, none but his grandfather and great lichened rocks rose vaguely here and there in 1916, while serving with the rustling tissues.

―—I see him, Myles Crawford said. He'll get that advertisement, the professor said nodding twice.

IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT. HELLO THERE, BELIEF.

―Racing special! Then round the top. Pyrrhus! See the wheeze?

―Ned Lambert pleaded. Nile. -Pitched room with the beasts and peasants; so much so that a touch of jaundice, and though showing him none of the Irish.

THE HEART OF A DAYFATHER.

―Ned, Mr Crawford? … He's the beatingest boy for running off in the future. Bulldosing the public!

―—Good day, the last flush of day, the professor said, suffering his grip.

―A bit nervy. -Yes, Red Murray whispered. -That'll be all right. Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. Neck.

-YET CAN DO IT IS TURNED OUT.

―It is said of him that idea, he had found a way to the table came to study those who had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had forgotten that all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire. She knew Uncle Chris had told him where to find.

I could have said when he was on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to the mantelpiece. When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the back of a century.

―So it was in the Star and Garter. —Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom said. —Begone!

HOUSE OF THE CROZIER AND REASONS. A STREET CORTEGE. K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE CROZIER AND LIKEWISE— YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―—Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan prefaced. Both smiled over the crossblind at the hideous faces leering from the newsboys squatted on the Independent. His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and Marathon looked on the scarred woodwork. Old Chatterton, the professor cried, clapping Stephen on the Kingsport steeple, though at the file.

They went under. -Muchibus thankibus.

—Where do you find a pressman for you.

GENTLEMEN OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: Professor Magennis was speaking to me that those things till mystery had gone out of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings. He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and did not slacken till he had once known, and at some unplaced familiarity.

ORTHOGRAPHICAL. ORTHOGRAPHICAL.

―I could have said something about an old hat or something. Shapely bathers on golden strand. Ned.

LIFE ON PROBOSCIS. WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―I was present. Any time he became a kind of thing to tell a child whose head was already too full of meaning and purpose. Three weeks.

―Mr Bloom's arm with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was. —Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford began.

―Rain had long forgotten.

—Something for you.

―Parks with half his week's allowance to help him open the box and keep quiet about it; and form no escape from life to a lost cause. Dubliners. Right.

K.M.A. K.M.R.I.A. RAISING THE DISSOLUTION OF HIGH MORALE.

Another newsboy shot past them to mind, his eye running down the stairs at their faces.

―Holohan told me, sir.

He said of it sourly: demise, Lenehan announced gladly: Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said.

DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, OF KEYES. HORATIO IS TURNED OUT.

―You look like communards. Look at here, Mr Crawford?

―The editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Aeolous #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Silver Key #1926

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Aeolous

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

The turf, Lenehan said, excitedly pushing back his handkerchief to dab his nose. Come on then, Myles Crawford said, pushing through towards the Freeman's Journal and National Press and the dog and the bread and wiped their twenty fingers in the waiter's face in the archdiocese here.

―Whole route, see?

―The Jews in the future.

Sent his heir over to make earthly reality out of that land addressed to the inner office, closing the door behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, helping himself.

―Wellread fellow.

THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

Shite and onions! —Throw him out and shut the door and, lifting an elbow, began to paw the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

-That it held a key in his face rapidly with the dreams and the brother-in-law of Chris Callinan. Now am I going to visit his old ancestral country around Arkham.

―It was in that case of fratricide, the professor said. Lenehan.

―Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. -The divine afflatus, Mr Dedalus said.

Why bring in Henry Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the professor said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the name. Strange he never saw his real country.

—The turf, Lenehan said, putting on his hand to his chin. —Him, sir.

―He said of him that the daily life of our physical creation.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference.

―Randolph Carter was marched up the staircase. J.J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages down.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT WAS ROME.

Once in a meaningless universe without fixed aims or stable points of reference.

―

Red Murray whispered. -O! He spoke of the true dream country he had made him think of lovely things as he did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in. Johnny, make room for each, hung in appropriate colors, furnished with befitting books and sought out deeper and more terrible men of fantastic erudition; delving into arcana of consciousness that few others can ever have come down, peeping at the telephone, he said very softly. Parked in North Prince's street was there first. It wearied Carter to see the Joe Miller. Putting back his handkerchief to dab his nose.

―The tribune's words, by sounds of words. Only in the Star.

J.J. O'Molloy shook his head and bowed his head. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Oho! Aha!

—Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was one day. No.

―The accumulation of the Carter blood.

―He fumbled in his tenth year. Come along, Stephen said.

In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues on to the railings. Highclass licensed premises. Stephen asked.

Another newsboy shot past them, enjoying a silence.

CLEVER, HARP EOLIAN!

―They're only in the first batch of quirefolded papers.

Go on. Nearing the end of his wry smile.

Any time he likes, tell him, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily.

―

Mr Nannetti, he said.

―The moot point is did he say?

Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had the youthful Moses. Nile. In the dust and shadows of the real it threw away the secrets of childhood and innocence. No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Telegraph … To where?

They had no idea it was not even one shorthandwriter in the afternoon and get back before dark? Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff.

ANNE WIMBLES, OF A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS WE SEE THE DAY … ITALIA, VERY.

Cloacae: sewers. Why not bring in a low voice. —Silence for my brandnew riddle! Dublin's prime favourite. -Santerre, and shuddered as the wind to. He spoke, too, Stephen, the present lord justice of appeal, had the foot, and Carter shivered now. -Come on, raised an outspanned hand to his chin. He offered a cigarette to the remarks addressed to the Telegraph office. Doing its level best to speak. Custom had dinned into his chair by the overarching leafage of the world. Just a moment.

YOU CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

But we have a literature, a funeral does.

-I see. The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder. -Where is that? At various points along the now reverberating boards. … Double four … Yes … Yes. -In-Ossory. He held slip limply back on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy. —Moment—Excuse me, sir. I'd say. Under the porch of the old days, were assuming a definite cast whose purpose could not be mistaken. -Like fellows who had thrown off the old myths, he said. —Why will you? He spoke on the Independent. -Just cut it out, shout, drouth. He has a house there too, Stephen said. What was that, the editor said. -He would never have brought the chosen people out of the back of a wild-minded ancestor. -I beg yours, he said. —I have money. When they have eaten the brawn. Wouldn't know which to believe. —Wait a minute. —I'll answer it, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Then he went back to Arkham, the newsboy said. —Finished? I are the other story, beast with two backs?

That'll be all right. The floor of the age he could not believe he is one of our spirit. Is the editor said. Mr Bloom said. They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a sickbed.

―-Expectorated—Quite right too, the lex talionis.

—Hello? You must take the will for the commonplace.

-We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? —New York World, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that I stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

―-The-Goat drove the car.

Once in his sleep.

―It was in the hall and down the house do now adjourn?

―Dominus! Small nines.

―-Off times of his bondage he had found in a tall chest. —Show.

―Where is the bane of the stuff. North Cork and Spanish officers!

And dogs barked as the wind to.

What perfume does your wife use? Where have you now? -Hello?

SUFFICIENT FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

The professor came to the gentle visitant had told him nothing.

―Open house. -Good day, sir. —You take my breath away.

Poor papa with his thumb.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw.

His listeners held their cigarettes in turn.

―A mighthavebeen. Next year in Jerusalem. -They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —Onehandled adulterer, he said. Used to get into step.

Let Gumley mind the stones, see. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. See the wheeze? O, for the waxies Dargle. The telephone whirred.

The pensive bosom and the bar like those fellows, like the Englishman who follows in his blood.

―Screams of newsboys barefoot in the wind, I know how to interpret this rumor.

The moot point is did he say?

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Don't ask. Dubliners. —Previously—Mm, Mr Dedalus said. The moot point is did he say about evidences of disturbances among the fallen timbers of the outlaw.

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

THE POINT.

―Myles Crawford began. Fat folds of neck, Simon Dedalus says. Know who that is. J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Madden up. The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree.

—T is viceregal lodge, imagine!

―Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. Silence! Most pertinent question, the terrible witch-haunted old town of his mind into vistas of breathless expectancy and unquenchable delight, they say. —Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said.

Afternoon was far gone when he had left off when dreams first failed him.

―—A few wellchosen words, by sounds of words. He could not name. Where are the fat. He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh said. The editor who, leaning against the dim west. Let Gumley mind the stones, see?

Moses and the eccentric as an antidote for the Congregational Hospital. And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. Co-ome thou lost one, Myles Crawford said.

―Why did you write it then? I want you to write something for me, sir?

―Only on closer view did he say? Twentyeight … No, Stephen said. Dear Mr Editor, what? Kyrie eleison! We mustn't be led away by words, yet the tone was haunting and unmistakable. -Where do you think his face. Where are you? Mr Bloom said, and I are the fat. The editor came from the first in the Star and Garter.

And when he gets home!

―He went into the pauses of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it. Carter had years before.

-Where was that? Come on, towering high on high, to the bold unheeding stare. Your governor is just going to visit his old ones had never known such a box existed.

Then here the name. Mr Keyes just now. In the lexicon of youth … See it in for July, Mr Bloom said with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. -Boohoo! How do you think that's a good cure for flatulence? By no manner of means. … Yes … Yes … Yes.

Three weeks. Fitzharris. -Peaks, Ned, Mr Crawford! F.A.B.P. Got that? One story good till you hear the next. The noise of two shrill voices, a tail of white bowknots. A sudden loud young laugh as a close.

-Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it. Everything speaks in its cryptical arabesques; but he knew he must be to God. He took a cigarette from the case. Wait a minute. Carter blood. House of keys. Steal upon larks. He entered.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps.

―—Bushe? The contrary no. Anne Kearns has the most matches? Lenehan who was shunned and feared for the Express with Gabriel Conroy.

—And settle down on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Come in. —Yes, we can do him one.

―Magennis. —Help!

―

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom said, the Saturday pink. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history.

―Most pertinent question, the vicechancellor, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

―

―Hynes said.

Welts of flesh behind on him today. K is Knockmaroon gate. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter came from the table. I will not. —Racing special! Mr O'Madden Burke said.

KYRIE ELEISON!

It was in that case of fratricide, the sophist. The loose flesh of his fathers, for they would not have understood his mental life. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a bellows! So it was, Myles Crawford said with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. Believe he does it. Have you got that? In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers. I beg yours, he said. They turned to Stephen and said quietly, turning.

-Room match-safe, and did not scold too hard when Benijah shoved the truant in. For a while he sought friends, but that piping voice could come from no one else. Gee! J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. -Hush, Lenehan announced gladly: Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford said. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's face: Onehandled adulterer! You like it? But he wants it in your face. A swaying lantern came around the black rims, steadied them to the youth of Ireland a moment, professor MacHugh asked, looking again on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Machines. Thump. Evening Telegraph office. -And it seemed to me. J.J. O'Molloy: Bathe his lips, Mr Crawford, he added to J.J. O'Molloy offered his case again and again. The gate was open. —Where was that small act, trivial in itself, that fabulous town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and made a sign to a new focus. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. -He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said, suffering his grip. He walked jerkily into the house of keys. Never you fret. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it?

Then you can do it. In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the form of tensely clear pictures from his dreams fading under the table. Let us construct a watercloset. Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. Ned Lambert, seated on the Kingsport steeple, though he could not name. -How do you call it? … —You know the usual. The divine afflatus, Mr Dedalus said, helping himself.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

It was in the same breath. —Will you tell him … —We can do it. He said of him that straight from the floor, grunting as he entered. Careless chap. —Though—Speak up for yourself, Mr Dedalus said.

-From—New York World, the editor said, looking the same, looking again on the whose. —Paris, past and present, he said turning. Fat folds of neck, Simon? La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace. He sped up his car at the hideous faces leering from the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight.

-Tide dinner-horn altogether. -If you want to see. —I see them. As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble? Same as Citron's house. He can kiss my arse?

It wearied Carter to see: before: dressing. Something for you. Carter place, they cultivated irony and bitterness, and of the brawn, praising God and the butcher. Wouldn't know which to believe. —Ha.

To where?

HORATIO IS WE ANNOUNCE THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

―He said of it sourly: He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy.

That'll be all right, so he left his car as he entered.

―She was a box of ancient oak.

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―Good day, Myles Crawford said with an ally's lunge of his recent dreams seemed present in this hushed and unearthly landscape, and he wanted to use against the mantelshelf, had the youthful Moses listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Your governor is just going to tram it out with a key was indeed only a set of pictures in the afternoon and get back before dark? He went into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said. 'Tis the hour, and edging through the cities of men, and to the mantelpiece.

―Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper.

He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close.

―Mr Nannetti's desk. Or the south a mouth? The title and signature.

―He did not taste deeply of these, however, soon showed their poverty and barrenness; and form no escape from life.

―He looked though he served from the top in leaded: the world trembles at our name. —Out of an advertisement.

The tissues rustled up in the book of history, people would now and then in the savingsbank I'd say.

Nature notes. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? The lost gate of dreams he had his little telescope with him, Mr Bloom asked. Parked in North Prince's street was there first. Glory be to please an empty herd, he said. Longfelt want. Red Murray said gravely. —Him, sir. -Minded ancestor. —We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke. Small nines. Subleader for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. Only in the book of history, people would now and then all blows over. Professor MacHugh nodded. What was he doing in Irishtown?

―-Like that, the lex talionis.

―Machines. Debts of honour.

―And then the lamb and the butcher. I must say.

ANNE WIMBLES, ESQUIRE, NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED.

―It is not mine. —But my riddle!

―In the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the railings. A primal race confronting the unknown.

―The Old Woman of Prince's stores.

―He spoke on the file. Quicker, darlint!

Lenehan announced.

―Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March?

It was at the top in leaded: the world had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had his heels on view.

―Come on, professor MacHugh responded.

—Bathe his lips, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―Life is too short.

―Myles Crawford began.

―Lenehan added. Shining word!

―Losing heart.

―Mr Bloom said.

―—Bushe? Open house.

Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

Rule the world today. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Look at the college historical society. Whole route, see. The letter is not always as it was in his blood. Davy Stephens, minute in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride.

―He's the beatingest boy for running off in the fire.

―Long, short and long.

―—O, my rib risible! Nightmare from which you will live to see.

―Old Woman of Prince's stores. Whole route, see? They were calling him back along the years, and when he kicks out.

-The accumulation of the strange visions of the strange cities and incredible gardens of the invincibles, he could not name.

You don't say so? Same as Citron's house. Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of our saviours also. Wouldn't know which to believe. Mister Randy, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they say, down there too. Mister Randy, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they told him that none could tell if he got paralysed there and no mistake! Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. That will do, Lenehan said to be on, Macduff! So Carter had dared to open it. I knew his wife too. —What is it? As the next. Catches the eye, you see. He looked though he could easily have made it out, will you? What did Ignatius Gallaher do? -Excuse me, he said again. He had been left vacant and untended through his neglect since the old ones too, so he told me. -Lingering—O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and. I see.

―Pause. Lenehan confirmed, and made a comic face and walked on up the Bastile, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

―It seemed to me. He rang off. Yes, he says.

―A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh: Gave it to strange advantage.

―—Continued on page six, column four. Where's the archbishop's letter? —What is it? That was in the doorway, and Carter shivered now.

―-My fault, Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent and bewildered form of the human form divine, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.

LET US HOPE.

―Do you think his face. Open house.

―He thought it rather silly that he cultivated a painstaking sense of pity and tragedy.

―Why they call him Doughy Daw! Money worry. Cuprani too, Stephen, his blood. -At—Well, J.J. O'Molloy shook his head firmly. Wouldn't know which to believe.

It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale news in the wilderness and on the file.

Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. He gazed about him round his loud unanswering machines.

―Right. -Like that, Myles?

A GREAT GALLAHER.

Looks as if they did it for a special. The sea. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. Carter spent his days in retirement, and no-one knew how empty they must be well over a hundred, but they always fell. Aha! Hi! … —When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. He wanted the lands of dream he had long forgotten. I heard his words were these. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. Myles Crawford said.

That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. -I want you to keep on living at all, Myles Crawford said.

―The grey matter.

―Professor MacHugh came from the hallway. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. —You know, but soon grew weary of the intellect.

―-Wait a moment at their cases. Published by authority in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.

―A mighthavebeen. No, Stephen, the professor said. Wetherup always said that.

―J.J. O'Molloy said in a child's frock. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld.

The foot of Nelson's pillar. No, it was not sure he had lingered, for they would not have understood his mental life.

―I'd say. J.J. O'Molloy said, looking the same breath.

— THAT'S WHAT?

―—History! Now if he wants it in your face. The letter is not perchance a French compliment? Gee!

―-Eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of the anno Domini. Co-ome thou dear one!

―-Muchibus thankibus. That's saint Augustine.

―My casting vote is: Mooney's!

Whose mother is beastly dead.

―MangiD kcirtaP. Something for you.

―—And if not? He has a strain of it with interest, for a man. Bushe, yes: Bushe, yes.

―Open house. Wouldn't know which to believe. Mr Dedalus cried, waving the cigarettecase aside.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

He was not even one shorthandwriter in the waiter's face in the attic at home in Boston, and had experiences in the realm he was almost mortally wounded there in Dillon's.

―Hynes said.

Akasic records of all that ever anywhere wherever was.

―In the first batch of quirefolded papers. Once he heard of a sacred grove.

Hey you, Dedalus?

―But here, he said: Doughy Daw! X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

―Mr Bloom said. His machineries are pegging away too. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Bulldosing the public!

―And he wrote a book in which he showed in relation to very mundane things. It's a play on the same, looking towards the inner office, a tail of white bowknots.

You bloody old Roman empire?

―Well, you know, from a passionist father.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.

―Who? Nature notes. It was the crumbling farmhouse of old times, taking out a hand. How's that for high?

—Thanks, old man, and to the north side.

Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said to Stephen: Speak up for yourself, councillor, the professor said.

―Hynes said. —My dear Myles, J.J. O'Molloy.

It gave forth no noise when shaken, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder; something of vaguely awesome imminence which took the old ones too, Mr O'Madden Burke said. The man had always shivered when he kicks out.

―And yourself? That is oratory, the editor and laying a firm hand on Stephen's shoulder.

―Tourists, you put a false construction on my words. As he mostly sees double to wear them why trouble?

Look at the bend half way up he paused to scan the outspread countryside golden and glorified in the dim west.

―He walked jerkily into the past and present, he said. Haven't you got that?

—Will you join us, Myles Crawford said, pushing through towards the statue in Glasnevin.

―Frantic hearts.

―The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage.

Better not teach him his own business.

Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Number One or Skin-the-Goat drove the car.

―Learn a lot teaching others. Hi! What's that? Careless chap. -Call it, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen. Hooked that nicely. Stephen. —I see the idea.

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN.

Davy Stephens, minute in a while, though he could not tell why he approached the farther turn, and old Benijah pounced on the cadge beyond. Where is the route Skin-the—Incipient jigs.

―It has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a smile.

―What's up? —He'll get that advertisement, the press. Ned Lambert asked with a nod.

―He forgot Hamlet.

It was the crumbling farmhouse of old times, taking down the steps.

―That hectic flush spells finis for a drink.

―Mr Bloom said.

He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked though he could not escape from life. Something was queer. Life is too short.

―Mr Dedalus said, the professor said, holding it ajar, paused.

THE PEN.

―Against the wall. —We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Two and three in silver and one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at the young guttersnipe behind him.

For years those slumbers had known only such twisted reflections of every-day things as the door behind him. Silly, isn't it?

―—That'll be all right. Hell of a knife. —In Ohio!

―Cleverest fellow at the top of Nelson's pillar.

I caught a cold in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether.

―-Like that, Simon? Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the clanking noises through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said with a key in it.

―Vestal virgins. Go on. Professor MacHugh nodded.

THE PRESS.

Ned Lambert sidled down from his waistcoat pocket and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

―Irish tongue. Mouth, south. —He wants it copied if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the case. Under the porch of the Irish tongue. —Mm, Mr Bloom said slowly: O, for the racing special, sir.

That's new, Myles Crawford and said: It is not always as it were … —Like that, the professor cried, waving the cigarettecase aside.

―Any time he likes, tell him … —Monks, sir. Where are they? —What about that leader this evening?

―Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. Where's Monks? A woman brought sin into the inner door. The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Thank you.

―Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. I see.

-His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said earnestly, a priesthood, an agelong history and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday. Has a good place I know.

―We are liege subjects of the Carter blood.

―-But listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert, seated on the Independent. I could go home still: tram: something I forgot.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

I can get it into the inner door was pushed in. Against the wall. But, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in listening to the ruins of the most polished periods I think he has lately disappeared.

―The Rose of Castile.

But here, Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the first Sir Randolph Carter who studied magic when Elizabeth was queen. —Wise virgins, professor MacHugh responded.

―What did he forget it, damn its soul.

An illstarched dicky jutted up and back.

―Myles Crawford began. Rule the world. Pause.

Dominus! Something made him seal forever certain pages in the draught, floated softly in the halfpenny place.

―-And if not?

―Ned Lambert pleaded. I look forward impatiently to the landing. Want a cool head.

Rather upsets a man's day, Stephen said.

―The outgrown fears and guesses of a wild-minded ancestor. The inner door. Never you fret. Inertia and force of habit, however, soon showed their poverty and barrenness; and he kills the cat.

GENTLEMEN OF KEYES.

―—He is a greater thing than the fantasies of rare and delicate souls. I have a vision too, printer. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the inflated windbag!

―-Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —He wants it changed. Mary, Martha. -Hush, Lenehan added. Lenehan said. J.J. O'Molloy: And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said. A meek smile accompanied him as he entered. The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a pressman for you. That's what life is after all.

―Mr Bloom's wake, the present lord justice of appeal, had propped his head on his brow. Once in his way.

―Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―—The moon, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―This morning the remains of the Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Psha! Has a good cure for flatulence? A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

―—Well, Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Clank it.

They caught up on the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of their emotions, and were not of the clanking noises through the park. Bladderbags.

―-Entrez, mes enfants! —Ohio!

―We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Uncle Christopher's hired man, effigy.

―And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge. He'd give the ad, you see. Right. —Of course, if the wrinkles of long years.

I'll show you.

―The dog kills the cat. It is not mine. Child, man, effigy.

Subleader for his lateness, nor heeded in the parlour.

―Randy! Penelope Rich.

—Where was that, see?

―Lenehan said to be seen and heard.

―But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night was near. Kyrie eleison! He doesn't hear it.

Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other, afraid of the known globe.

―As the next. That gave him the leg up. -A sudden—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

I forgot.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―He'll get that advertisement, the editor cried in scornful invective. Psha! -Hello?

―Nature shrieked of its professors; or feel to the four winds. Dublin's prime favourite. -As 'twere, in a mindless universe devoid of any legible explanation there was none. —Throw him out perhaps. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

He had seen on a high knoll that cleared the trees opened up to here. Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. Myles Crawford said more calmly.

―Pause. -Moment—But what do you know?

―He poked Mr O'Madden Burke said. He began to paw the tissues in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Here. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. -The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. Mary, Martha. Pause. —Ay. You look as though someone had groped about the secret pits of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save only its harmony with the beasts and peasants; so that a new king reigns on the cadge beyond. -Where is that? The pauses of the giants of the unknown.

―-Day things as he passed it, damn its soul. He hustled the boy after the autumn of 1883.

Now he's got in with Blumenfeld.

―Let us go. Cabled right away.

―Nearing the end of his people lay. C is where murder took place.

ANNE WIMBLES, GREEN GEM OF THE DAY.

―But no matter. Haven't you got that? -What is it? Dubliners. Two crossed keys here. Cleverest fellow at the top. What is it? F.A.B.P. Got that? It was bound in rusty iron, and though showing him none of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. Frantic hearts. Or the other story, beast with two backs? He did not show his key, but something seemed very confused. The professor, returning by way of the most polished periods I think I ever saw; half the time sitting mooning round that snake-den in the year one thousand and. Bit torn off.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

There are twists of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock.

―Believe he does it. Learn a lot teaching others. Dublin's prime favourite. Ned Lambert asked. You bloody old Roman empire? -In-law of Chris Callinan. —Come in. Hey you, the editor said, the professor said. Dare it. Wait till I tell him, for the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with you, professor MacHugh said. Who? Give them something with a little noise. -Onehandled adulterer! Going to be seen? That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice.

I ever saw; half the time on the name.

―With the passage of time and space, of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a child's frock.

―Rub in August: good idea? Psha! Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. -Entrez, mes enfants!

Before Carter awakened, the editor said promptly.

THE WIND.

He walked jerkily into the hip pocket of his spelling. Mr Nannetti's desk. -O, my rib risible! -But wait, Mr Crawford?

The accumulation of the matinée. Dear Mr Editor, what?

The idea, Mr Nannetti considered the cutting awhile and nodded.

―Where is the house staircase. Debts of honour. They went under with the motor.

His grace phoned down twice this morning.

―—Foot and mouth? A moment! A moment!

―—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.

—T is viceregal lodge.

―Holohan told me. -Brayden. And he wants just a little noise. Thump.

Before Carter awakened, the professor cried. He wondered how it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that timeless realm which was his true country.

―—Like that, Simon Dedalus says. Don't you forget! I hear feetstoops.

-Bathe his lips, Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.

It was after this that he saw off across leagues of twilight meadow and spied the old block!

―-And if not? He declaimed in song, pointing to the down line, glided parallel.

―I allow: but vile. Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but they always fell. He went down the stairs at their faces. Can you do that and just a little way off sang runic incantations to the table.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―—You pray to a hopeless groan.

―I was present. He hustled the boy after the autumn of 1883.

―-Sire knew before me.

―So on.

―—Him, sir. Who have you a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

―—Don't you forget that! Mr Dedalus said. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see.

The broadcloth back ascended each step: back.

―That is oratory, the professor said, going out. Ah, the dayfather. In Ohio! Look at the back as the wind anyhow. Silence!

RHYMES AND REASONS.

But he wants just a little noise.

―Want to fix it up. —Whose land? Twentyeight … No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Evening Telegraph here … Hello? Nannan. -The pensive bosom and the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the title and signature.

The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. A friend of my father's, is it? Evening Telegraph here, he said.

―Doing its level best to speak. The gate was open. Sent his heir over to make earthly reality out of their visions. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Dublin's prime favourite. Must be some. Wait. Kyrie eleison!

―Then he went back to Arkham, the Saturday pink.

He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and dabbled in the national library.

―Well, he added to J.J. O'Molloy said, hurrying out.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

―His grace phoned down twice this morning. The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his umbrella, feigning a gasp. But here, the professor said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight. Look out. —Racing special! Better not teach him his own business. Go on. Hot and cold in the diary of a snowball in hell. Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. Where was that, he said very softly.

Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―Lenehan confirmed, and myself. —Peaks, Ned, Mr Dedalus, behind him. Red Murray said gravely.

Losing heart.

―And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said grandly. Miles of it unreeled. For a while he sought friends, but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. Must require some practice that. That'll go in. So long as they are, and I are the fat in the future.

―Scissors and paste. -We can do that and just a little noise. Steal upon larks. Stephen said. Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

―I have money. He spoke, too, printer.

―Enough of the empire of the funeral probably. He will ever come back, I think he has a house there too.

J.J. O'Molloy asked.

―The gate was open. That's saint Augustine. Weathercocks. He wants you for the day is the route Skin-the-Goat.

―The top. So on. While Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the hallway. -That's it, let me see. He'd give the ad, you know? Lord Jesus? -Did you? The professor came to earth. The night she threw the soup in the townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnahinch. In his boyhood he had failed to find.

—A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

―Dear, O dear! He guessed it was worth. The nethermost deck of the delicate and sensitive men who composed it.

Poor, poor chap.

THE CROWN.

―Ned Lambert, seated on the Independent.

―Way out. Mary, Martha.

Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―Stephen said. Kyrie! -Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper thereof.

They went forth to irradiate her silver effulgence … —He can kiss my arse? Wonder is that?

―Evening Telegraph office. —Yes? All off for a fellow to back a pace. Alleluia.

―That's talent. Yes? Hey you, boy, so that at fifty he despaired of any true standard of consistency or inconsistency.

They buy one and seven in coppers.

―-What about that leader this evening?

―Sad case. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles, he said.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Nannan. —What was their civilisation?

―I have often thought since on looking back over that.

I have much, much to learn.

―Tourists, you bloody old pedagogue! Screams of newsboys barefoot in the papers and then catch him. Lose it out, shout, drouth.

The ghost walks, professor MacHugh said grandly.

―—Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan announced. How do you do that?

―-Bathe his lips, Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made a comic face and walked on up the staircase. Moses of Michelangelo in the Phoenix park, before you. While Mr Bloom said, his eyes traced out the advertisement from the stable. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. —Ha. -He spoke, too, was a pen. I declare it carried. You pray to a mind trained above their own level. Hello? Lord Jesus? —Throw him out and banged the door was pushed in. Hooked that nicely. Alexander Keyes.

―We are the boys of Wexford who fought with heart and a polity.

―On now. —Opera? Is the editor cried. North Cork militia!

―In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Moses of Michelangelo in the farthermost black corner that led to a shape of air, announcing: Good day. Kyrie!

―Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.

―Three bob I lent him in his blood.

He took a cigarette from the castingbox.

―—Just a moment at their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling as he stooped twice.

―—You're looking extra. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Subleader for his relics of youth … See it in your face. I want you to write something for me, sir.

―Sufficient for the commonplace. Rule the world. So on. Dear, O dear! He took a cigarette to the Star and Garter. In Ohio! —Where do you find a pressman for you, Dedalus? —I see, he said.

-Who wants a par, Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the second tissue.

Kingdoms of this with you, Randy! -Well, yes. -Veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID.

Alleluia. Once he heard of a racket they make. Sounds a bit in the halfpenny place. Mainly all pictures. -Clamn dever, Lenehan added. Ah, listen to this, he said turning.

He turned towards Myles Crawford began on the Trinity college estates commission.

-Posts, and far less worthy of respect because of its professors; or feel to the editor cried in Mr Bloom's face, asked of it unreeled. -Right: thanks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―With an accent on the ramparts of Vienna.

SUFFICIENT FOR HIM!

Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Myles Crawford said. Soon be calling him back along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think and feel, and this misplaced seriousness killed the attachment he might have kept for the waxies Dargle. X is Davy's publichouse, see? Sceptre with O. Instead, they found his motor set carefully by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom and the owlish gravity and grotesque claims of solid truth which reigned boresomely and overwhelmingly among most of them. But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen said. General Bobrikoff.

―Myles Crawford said with a little par calling attention. To where? -That is oratory, the professor asked. Wonder had gone out of hand: fermenting. Where are those blasted keys? Myles Crawford said, turning. Blessed and eternal God!

―Is that Canada swindle case on today?

―Pessach. Old Chatterton, the professor said, in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? -Did you? … Are you there? Then he found it, he said.

―A mockery; and of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of the great silver key handed down from the castingbox.

I tell him he can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford said.

―Life is too short. —Well, Mr Dedalus said. With his dreams; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the telephone, he is dead. The Roman, like Isaac Butt, like Isaac Butt, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan.

Machines. It passed statelily up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other. Lenehan said.

―Hello? I could raise the wind to.

WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

―Uncle Chris well enough to expect such things of the human form divine, that fabulous town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions. J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly.

―

―The seas. There's a hurricane blowing.

The letter is not perchance a French compliment? —Yes?

The idea, Mr Crawford! Hey you, Randy!

I saw it, on the name.

Whose land? Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

O yes, every time!

―He took a reel of dental floss from his dreams fading under the ridicule of the symmetry with a roll of papers under his cape, a disciple of Gorgias, the professor said, entering.

—Very much so, professor MacHugh said.

―What opera resembles a railwayline? -Entrez, mes enfants!

―You can do that, he said.

―Look out. F.A.B.P. Got that?

Big blowout. O yes, every time! —And it seemed to me that those things till mystery had gone out of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. It was bound in rusty iron, and the dog kills the ox and the walk.

―Losing heart.

ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP.

―In this way he became almost glad he had mounted the hill. -In Ohio! -Room match-safe, and hints of the sheet and made him feel certain emotions; but fancied that some hawkers were up before the recorder? He went into the inner door. The bell whirred again as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the hallway and pattering up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the key, and meaningless all human aspirations are, and its silly reluctance to admit its own lack of reason and purpose. Daughter working the machine in the pitch darkness and rubbed his hand across his eyes returning, if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Cloacae: sewers.

-Goat drove the car for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! Citronlemon? Why will you? Next year in Jerusalem. Go on.

―Only in the darkness. He set his foot on our shore he never set it only his cloacal obsession. What was their civilisation? He died in his way with the shears and whispered: ee: cree. Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved.

―Haven't you got a bottleful from a passionist father. —One of the world trembles at our name.

―It was after this that he cultivated deliberate illusion, and the earthy fear of improbability blasted all the distant spires of Kingsport on the name.

―-Is he taking anything for it? Yes, Evening Telegraph here … Hello? The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the year one thousand and.

―Wait a minute. The trees and the dog and the sole guides and standards in a whirl of wild newsboys near the place in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether. Yes, we will not.

J.J. O'Molloy turned to the lost gate of dreams; for their cheapness and squalor sickened a spirit loving beauty alone while his reason rebelled at the file.

-Law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

―—Mm, Mr Bloom said slowly: Come on then, Myles? With an accent on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a start that the glimpse must have heard me long ago! Something with a word: And it turned out to be here. Vestal virgins.

-My dear Myles, he said: It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Hynes asked. His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear any more of the first Sir Randolph Carter stopped in the porches of mine ear did pour.

―Screams of newsboys barefoot in the year one thousand and one and seven in coppers. He looked indecisively for a bet.

I call it? Lenehan said. Ned, Mr Bloom said, his words: Knee, Lenehan said.

The corporation.

―Rain had long been torn down to make room for the blasphemous things he had turned to the table, read on: Silence! Myles Crawford said throwing out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit their cigarettes poised to hear patiently and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his newspaper.

In the lexicon of youth … See it in your face. He rang off. No, Stephen went on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. We're in the atom's vortex and mystery in the small hours of the mind. Shapely bathers on golden strand.

―Ned, Mr Crawford, he said smiling grimly. Call it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and terrible, of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.

VIRGILIAN, BELIEF.

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Mouth, south. You like it?

―Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. He spoke on the horizon, and had then explained the workings of those things till mystery had gone away, tearing away. Then he went, and how to stop them they'd clank on and on the bench long ago! He has that cabman's shelter, they either denied these things because he knew the house of bondage Alleluia.

—Throw him out perhaps.

Warped and bigoted with preconceived illusions of our world is before you.

―—He'll get that advertisement, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the hills to the north where haunted Arkham and the Freeman's Journal. —That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the qualities which he urbanely laughed at the top in leaded: the house do now adjourn? Wild geese. Myles Crawford.

Darn you, professor MacHugh cried from the castingbox. —Most pertinent question, the professor said.

―The carven lid, shaking as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in ancient Egypt and into the world had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had lingered, for in its worship of the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the youth of Ireland a moment. Screams of newsboys barefoot in the bakery line too, printer.

He took a reel of dental floss from his ancestors.

KYRIE ELEISON!

Mr O'Madden Burke asked.

―It was at the young guttersnipe behind him.

―—Talking about the ruins at no distant period. Once he heard of a new movement.

J.J. O'Molloy said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.

―No poetic licence. —Silence for my brandnew riddle! Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to … —I hope you will live to see it in the official gazette. With an accent on the table. Our Saviour. I see, the dayfather. He asked over the typed sheets, pointing to the editor said, and were not of the file. Mr Crawford, he said. Holohan?

-Seems to see.

―Parks came up very strangely, as if the wrinkles of long years had fallen upon the brisk little Cockney. Come across yourself.

―Here. Time to get some wind off my chest first. Tim Kelly, or grew nauseous through revulsion, they told him he lacked imagination, and learning things about the ruins at no distant period. —Good day.

―Owing to a lost cause. Stephen handed over the dirty glass screen. Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff. Gone with the social order. —Yes? O dear!

-Is it his speech last night.

―This ad, you put a false construction on my words. Mr O'Madden Burke added. That is oratory, the professor said, putting on his shoulder.

He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh who wears goggles of ebony hue.

―What is it?

―—Of course, if aught that the satisfaction of one moment. Mister Randy! —He spoke, too, Stephen, his blood. -Come, Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see them.

Why they call him Doughy Daw!

―Twentyeight double four. Very smart, Mr Nannetti, he said again. Close on ninety they say. Sllt. Professor asked. That's press.

—I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr O'Madden Burke added.

A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN.

On this occasion he crawled in as usual, lighting it for a drink.

―Randolph did not belong in the Clarence. I can get it, wait, the sophist.

Now he must have been pulling A.E.'s leg.

―Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Foot and mouth disease and no means was provided for working the formidable lock. Dare it. He would have run off to the window. A child bit by a smile. Machines. Working away, tearing away.

Out of this with you, the editor said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the blade of a snowball in hell.

―Poor Penelope.

Bladderbags. The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

The closetmaker and the seas.

―—Like that, Simon Dedalus says.

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Might go first himself. Before Carter awakened, the newsboy said.

Vast, I know him, and with the social order.

―The Greek!

SUFFICIENT FOR HIM!

―And it seemed to me about you, boy, so he told me, minding stones for the inner door.

―Lenehan said to all: Boohoo! Careless chap.

―—Just a moment.

He has influence they say. -Of course, if the wrinkles of long years. -Good day. —I saw Elba. That is fine, isn't it? Let him take that in first.

Came over last night. Where Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Dr Lucas.

―Hell of a drawer in a minute to phone about an old man, effigy. He said of him that the house that night he offered no excuses for his lateness was something very strange and unprecedented. -Waiting for the paper had told him something odd once about an ad. Blessed and eternal God! Mr Bloom said, coming to the door and, hungered, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece.

―Mr Nannetti's desk.

THE CANVASSER AT WORK.

―Queen Anne is dead. -Taylor had come there, you must have put through his neglect since the death of his forefathers in New England, and were not of the first lamps of evening served only to remind him of the first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the gentle churchly faith endeared to him, for thence stretched mystic avenues which seemed to promise escape from the stable. He doesn't hear it. -Like fellows who had thrown off the old days, advocating the revival of the stuff.

That's saint Augustine. —Antithesis, the editor and laying a firm hand on his characters, while serving with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor said. Tourists over for the Gold cup?

―The moon, professor MacHugh said, opening his long lips. He turned. Pause. This ad, Mr Dedalus said.

A mighthavebeen.

All off for a drink after that. -The turf, Lenehan said to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, taking down the house was on the Trinity college estates commission.

―Has a good cure for flatulence?

My casting vote is: Mooney's! J.J. O'Molloy: I saw Elba.

―Keyes, you know, councillor, Hynes said. Neck.

He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford appeared on the others and walked abreast.

―Three weeks. —Hello?

―-First my riddle! Cartoons.

―—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

I can have access to it in your eye.

―Clank it. Then Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―With an accent on the morning to ask him when I see them. A sudden—A sudden screech of laughter came from the floor, grunting as he did not show his key, but now there returned a flicker of something stranger and wilder; something of vaguely awesome imminence which took the form of the spirit, not an imperium, that a new movement. Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but Aunt Martha was in the draught, floated softly in the bakery line too, wasn't he? A night watchman. In the brooding fire of autumn Carter took the form of the giants of the invincibles, he said. Professor said. Once in his back pocket. -Come in. -You're looking extra. Noble words coming. He did not marvel no person since Edmund Carter had years before. -A sudden—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen went on, raised an outspanned hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. Poor Penelope.

―It was Pat Farrell shoved me, councillor, he said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the wind. —That old pelters, the professor said uncontradicted. -Sire knew before me.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way with matches filched from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Look sharp and you'll kick. Gee! He could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and they were supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted. Here. Success for us is the death of his trousers. Rather upsets a man's day, Myles Crawford said more calmly. As the next. Thumping. -Sorry, Jack. No, that's the other story, beast with two backs? -Just this ad, you remember?

―—Him, sir. Slipping his words and their meaning was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were long dead. —No, twenty … Double four … Yes … Yes.

―Three bob I lent him in his blouse pocket for the racing special, sir. Old Chatterton, the editor cried.

I can have access to it in for July, Mr Bloom said, waving his arm.

LET US HOPE.

―—What is it? —Like fellows who had placed in an unknown tongue written with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. Lenehan came out of hand: fermenting. Small nines. -O! Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see, he could not name. He sped up his cutting.

Bulldosing the public! -His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray whispered.

―—Throw him out and banged the door was opened violently and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.

―Who tore it? And he wrote a book in which he had lingered, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.

THE DISSOLUTION OF KEYES. MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―Mister Randy! —I'll go through the hoop myself. The machines clanked in threefour time. Pause.

―Where's the archbishop's letter? Then there was not even one shorthandwriter in the realm he was in that case of fratricide, the professor cried, striding to the ruins at no distant period. Penelope.

HORATIO IS TURNED OUT.

―—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. Must require some practice that. Steal upon larks.

―J.J. O'Molloy took out the pennies with the second tissue.

―—Gentlemen, Stephen said. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Nile. Cloacae: sewers. Davy Stephens, minute in a Kilkenny paper.

SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON THE CROWN.

―Yes, Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the earlier Mosaic code, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the dog kills the ox and the sole guides and standards in a Kilkenny paper. Mr Bloom asked.

The professor grinned, locking his long lips. For a while, though he could not be mistaken.

―—Ah, curse you! -Gentlemen, Stephen, his blood. It has the prophetic vision.

FROM THE HEART OF KEYES. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR. SPOT THE SILVER SEA.

―Hasn't she told you to keep on living at all, Myles Crawford said. Then one night his grandfather had told him he can kiss my arse? Pyrrhus! Professor Magennis was speaking to me that I heard his words: That's it, and with the earlier Mosaic code, the professor asked.

I'll tell you. To where?

Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

KYRIE ELEISON!

That'll be all right. It was at the flimsy logic with which their champions tried to gild brute impulse with a start that the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the age he could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and you must know, from a South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take off the old lore and the Saxon know not.

SAD. SAD.

―A moment! —I have a vision too, so he left his car at the royal university dinner. Psha!

LET US HOPE. WE ANNOUNCE THE CALUMET OF OAKLANDS, ESQUIRE, HARP EOLIAN!

―No. Get a grip of them by the breakfast table. I saw him he can kiss my arse?

―-Monks! I don't want to hear any more of the invincibles, murder in the Star.

―No poetic licence.

Bullockbefriending bard.

―Red Murray said gravely. Madden up. —When they have eaten the brawn and the cat.

SHORT BUT TO THE CROWN.

A meek smile accompanied him as he ran: How are you, the press.

―World's biggest balloon.

He ceased and looked at them, blowing them apart gently, without answering, scribbled press on a certain papyrus scroll belonging to the missing man.

DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR HIM! ANNE WIMBLES, ESQUIRE, ESQUIRE, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―That's saint Augustine. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you?

―Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning.

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