#I remembered Ennui’s drawing and my hand slipped

[tddoodles]

ma cutie-patooties

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

Blood and Body

pull the trigger and draw the flame

dance until your sweat is dew on the flesh

sink the cool blade into the warm skin until it bleeds

this is what you require for worship, right?

sink to my knees and beg for your command

obey your orders with an empty mind

is that why I initially felt resistance?

poetry is from the aether and pleasure from the reaper

we all know the name of the scarlet bitch

the last month has had me daydreaming in songs

and placing eloquent words in the collection

of pages I give my new name

but you're the name that never leaves, aren't you?

the guardian I was assigned because the council knew

my threads of fate would be tainted before I was three

I drink the grapes of wrath before I come see you

were you jealous he entranced me, pirate?

I feel the leather of your whip slide over my left shoulder

you can't resist twisting a nipple and I see your frustration

when I don't make a sound or facial expression

with ennui in my voice I ask you, "was the fear necessary?"

we glare at each other with the same steely eyes

mirror mirror on the wall, what causes the war within?

I hear you chuckle as you saunter in a circle

always a bird of prey wanting to rip with your talons

you tell me as a high priestess of war I've been lacking

that yoga and the way I cool my flesh to balance and focus

have taken all the savagery and violence out of me

I tell you it's been a fucking month and you tell me

things that have been neglected have a way of rotting

I shouldn't have expected any kind of logic

you remind me that I am a creature of earth

not some angel in the slaughtered twilight skies

how can I imagine something I haven't felt in the time

of the moon's many phases and even an eclipse?

my mind is hyperspace and my heart is the deep sea

I suddenly realize there's quite the distance in between

you bring a jeweled cup to my lips and tell me to drink the wine

and I do but I tell you it tastes of bitterness

you laugh and bite my earlobe between your teeth

whispering, "why do you feel so betrayed?"

we haven't spoken and I know you're punishing me

for not showing you the proper care and attention

in fairness, you did most of the surviving as i hid my in my shadow

your fingertips drag over my lips and my eyes fall closed

you growl against my neck and I shiver

"do you even remember how to lose control?"

if I even remember how to feel another's touch on my body

we both know the answer as your hand slips down my hip

I breathe with the drums keeping beat in my chest

and I learn again what I've been missing

[everythingpuddle]

Driven + What If?

- Bitch

Angsty Darcy/Riven prompt for @bitchatcloudtower

CW: some very minor spoilers for my S2, standard amount of referenced gore for me, and some uncomfortable emotional themes.

There was nothing to do in Darkar’s cave. Anything interesting in the libraries had long since been exhausted, and neither Icy nor Stormy were feeling like entertaining her tonight; Icy wanted to be alone, and Darcy did not share Stormy’s penchant for tormenting the acolytes in increasingly cruel and unusual ways.

And so it was this boredom that led her to stick around when Darkar’s cultists started setting something up in the room she was haunting. These sick fucks used blood magic, a discipline that had been outlawed so long ago that she hadn’t been able to study it at all. There hadn’t even been anything on it in Cloud Tower’s secret library. Darcy’s ennui ran so deep that she felt a kind of morbid fascination even though she knew she shouldn’t.

So she stayed as they started marking the floor with their blood and lit those foul smelling candles. Up until this point, those mutilated freaks had ignored her but for the polite bow they always gave her in greeting, but now many of them were shooting her surprised and wary looks.

Eventually, a woman missing her nose and ears and with burn scars over much of her scalp approached her. She bowed to Darcy respectfully.

“Are you here to join the ritual?” The woman’s voice was distorted by her lack of nose and it repulsed Darcy.

“What is the ritual?”

“We are here to reach ecstasy.” If Darcy didn’t know better, she’d think this was a sex thing. But she’d spent enough time around these freaks to know that they didn’t have any interest in fucking - to the extent that Darcy and her sisters wondered how Darkar maintained his number of acoluytes.

“I am interested.” Blood magic was not something she would get the opportunity to witness often.

“We will only take a little of your blood for the first time.” Darcy found her hand tugged into the woman’s and a pin pressed into the pad of her ring finger.

A bead of blood welled up out of the small injury, and the woman turned her finger over so that the drop gave in to gravity and splashed onto the floor between the markings.

At first, nothing happened. Darcy was just standing in the middle of a blood and cultist circle, waiting for something to change, but nothing did. She began to wonder if she hadn’t been bled enough for this.

And then her vision clouded at the edges. Her legs gave way and she found herself on the ground, although she barely felt the impact. Her body was numb but for the dull, pulsing pain in her ring finger. Her muscles started to seize and Darcy had to wonder what the fuck they meant by ‘ecstacy’, because this wasn’t it.

Strong, familiar hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a sitting position. She rubbed the clouding from her eyes and stared, shocked, into the comforting dark eyes of her ex-boyfriend.

Riven looked disgruntled, as always. His hair was messy this morning and his brow was furrowed as he stared at her, but his touch was gentle. Fingers gently traced her jaw until she stopped looking about her in confusion; Pretty off-white walls, morning light coming in through east facing windows, clean bedsheets. Riven was here with her, exactly as it should be. The feel of his breath on her face grounded her instantly.

“You were making noise in your sleep.” He grumbled, although his eyes softened; he had been worried although he hadn’t wanted to show it.

Darcy didn’t say anything back to him. She didn’t tell him anything about her awful dream, how she’d hated being that age and how her subconscious mind was still taunting her with it after all these years. Instead she sat up and swung her legs out of bed, her feet making contact with the soft woollen rug on the floor of the bedroom. Their bedroom. In their home. Something still felt wrong, but she chalked it up to bad sleep.

“It’s still early, you don’t have to get up right away,” he called after her, and Darcy paused. She didn’t want to leave him.

“And if I come to bed, what will I get from it?”

Riven’s eyes widened, un-creasing the bare hints of wrinkles that were just starting to come in. His face lost its hard lines and jagged edges as he let out a breath. He no longer looked fierce and serious, but instead his soft and sweet expression made Darcy consider that he was adorable. Like a puppy dog. So cute that she wanted to hold and squash and kill until he wasn’t cute anymore. He made her feel safe and comforted and she wanted to ruin that.

He lay back down in bed and she joined him, climbing on top of him, and running her hands over his still well-toned bare chest. Even after all this time together, years, jobs, moving house, she still found him as attractive as she had when they’d first met.

Riven looked up at her and released the tension in his body. When they were together like this, she was in total control.

Her nails raked down his chest, leaving red welts behind and he let out a gasp before reaching up to gently touch her face. He might not like to say it often, but Riven loved her. And Darcy loved him. She corrupted everything she touched, but he had never left her. She curled her fingers, digging her nails into his skin and drawing blood. She gave him her pain, her viciousness, her bitterness and he turned it into love.

His hand moved past her cheek to her hair and she couldn’t help but lean into it. What would she do without him? That thought made her heart hurt to look at him.

The soft morning light that filled her home with Riven began to fade away. The feel of his body beneath her slipping away too. This wasn’t real, none of it was. Here there was no Icy and Stormy, there had been no attack on Magix, no arrow through her shoulder.

“I miss you,” she whispered, and her vision clouded once more and all she could feel was the cold rock of Darkar’s castle.

She was gasping for breath and there were tears on her face. Darcy wanted to sit up, to get up and leave, but her body felt like lead. She had come around faster than the others in the room, but she could hear them weeping.

She hadn’t realised how much detail she could remember about him. Enough that she had been able to imagine him how he would look years from now - the weathering of his skin, the roughness of his hands from years of training, how his hair had darkened over time, and his jaw had filled out. How he would look if she hadn’t taken what they had and destroyed it, how he would look if she'd never met Icy or Stormy.

The tears wouldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried to force them to stay in her eyes. This was all her fault and there was nothing that she could do about it. Darcy clutched her chest, willing her heart to slow. To stop.

Bitterly, she realised what it was the cultists had meant by ‘ecstasy’. She felt it coursing through her veins, permeating every part of her body and causing her to pull on her hair until strands came away in her fingers. It was despair. The complete lack of hope. That future with Riven, a future she hadn’t realised that she desperately wanted, was never going to happen. Nothing she did was going to change that.

She had ripped up the pieces of her old life into shreds and now they were fluttering down to earth, pinning her to the ground and making her face her choices. Darcy was never going to leave this cave. Darkar had her, and there was no escaping him.

[kikizoshi]

Gogol Dialogue w/ Turgenev then Dostoyevsky

Gogol stared suicidally down at a blank page.

        He didn't bother brushing off the itchy black flakes accumulated in his hair from the quill nib's scratching, nor did he concern himself with the fact that he was, as was he every evening, due in the dining room in about… negative five minutes, so indicated the glowing clock. His only care, rather, was the fact that, in the four hours he sat staring at the page, not a single image in his mind seemed to want to grace its empty canvas.

         Unlike many who tried this craft, he wasn’t want for stories. He imagined a Tsar enjoying a heroine, embracing her and singing her praises as she slid a knife from her thigh into his back. He remembered two young men talking in a plain drawing-room, sparsely furnished--especially compared to the men, one of whom’s shiny black suit hugged his frame in place of the woman long-since gone; the other who quite resembled a gentlemanly peacockish clown, with frilly lace and a quilt of vibrant patterns--yet the atmosphere remained homey and comfortable nonetheless. He saw through his mind’s eye these stories as clearly as the neon numbers before him, but he couldn’t find /written/ words to express them.

         If Gogol wanted to orate the story to someone, to make a grand spectacle of it, the words would flow endlessly. He could go on for hours about the most inane of matters, and men would hang on his every word. However, those magical, honeyed phrases he just never seemed to be capable of forcing through his quill.

         And so tonight, exactly as every night for the past three months, a restrained knock came upon his door, and Gogol sighed.

         “Come in,” he said as he resignedly set the quill down. “I was practically finished anyway.”

         “Ah, good,” the man's voice came muffled from behind the door, which he opened thereafter. The relatively average-sized man--an Ability user by the name of Turgenev--held quite the appearance of the black-suited man previously described, though I’m afraid Gogol neglected to mention the quite striking scarlet hair. “Dinner’s ready," he continued, "I know you probably don’t feel like eating, but you should at least come out of your…” he looked around, blatantly fraternally concerned about the, frankly speaking, hovel of a room his friend managed to subsist in, “nest.”

         Gogol chuckled and stood, cracking his back at an alarming volume. He waved for his friend to leave, and went about the room, picking up the black-and-white vest he discarded as too confining hours ago and grabbing his cape from the hat rack. While he went on reassembling his outfit, Turgenev spoke once more.

         “You didn't get up once?”

         “Mm, yes, so it seems,” Gogol said, agitated, after a moment. “I’ve taken your advice to ‘try and write something’, but nothing comes to mind! It’s not even art block… I just have nothing I want to tell the page.”

         Turgenev sighed. “You don’t /have/ to write, it was just a suggestion. Now, frankly, I wish I’d said trapeze instead and avoided this whole ennui.” He held the door as Gogol moved to exit. Gogol shuffled out.

         “Seriously,” he continued as they entered the hall, “at first I thought some rest would do you good, but now it’s clear that being cooped up for days at a time is draining the little sanity you have left. What am I supposed to do when you get jobs that have you killing again? Watch your slow descent into madness from the sidelines like some half-rate circus hand watching the clown set the tent ablaze?”

         Gogol forced a laugh, “Well, why not? All of your work--which has always been excellent, at least as long as I’ve known you--has been shrouded. Where’s the harm in a change of scenery?”

         “I said seriously.” Turgenev sighed. “Be serious.”

         “Hmm, well, seriously,” Gogol considered, turning into the dining room and taking his seat across from his friend, “Seriously, then, isn’t madness the point? After all, my namesake wouldn’t /be/ my namesake without his madness! And what am I, if not, his namesake-ee?”

         “Ha,” Turgenev said, “Hilarious, I’m dying. Have you considered stand-up?”

         “Eh? No, I’m writing stories right now.”

         “Comedians can tell stories. I know, become a trapeze comedian.”

         Gogol huffed merrily, “Well, why don’t you?”

         “/I/ don’t-”

         “Excuse me,” the butler of the house, Gregor, interrupted, “I wasn’t instructed to account for the palate of Gogol, so I need to have your order now.”

         “Hm, well Gogol,” Gogol said with a conspiratorial wink, “probably wants--though I don’t know, you’ll have to ask him directly for confirmation, God knows where he may be--whatever’s leftover. I’ve heard he’s not picky! Although that could be just a rumour…”

         “Very well,” Gregor said, unperturbed, and turned to Turgenev, “and for you? I’m afraid I wasn’t informed of your coming either, Sir.”

         “Ah, no,” Turgenev said, “that’s because I won’t be eating here. There’s an assignment I’ve gotta do not long from now, but I wanted to see Kolya here first.”

         “How gentlemanly,” Gogol gasped, starry gold eyes twinkling, “I’m almost jealous of your lover, Vanya! If this is the treatment she gets...”

         Turgenev simply smiled. “And I,” he said, “am not in the least jealous of yours.” Gregor took the moment to slip away.

         “How proper…” Gogol gazed at Turgenev, lost in bittersweet memories, “You never used to be so cordial, to imply I’d manage something as sophisticated as that.”

         “Don’t be ridiculous,” Turgenev scoffed. He flatly punched the side of Gogol’s arm in jest, “I’m still every bit of the strapping young chap you knew. Just… in a different skin.”

         “Hmm…” Gogol donned a severely suspicious face, “But old Vanya wouldn’t have implied such! No, you must be Ivan Sergeyevich now… If not, then tell me: where’s the grin in your eyes?! The coil in your limbs?! The fire in your heart?!” All of a sudden, Gogol’s face fell into a deep melancholy, and he lay a single finger over the centre of Turgenev’s breast, “It’s bitter cold in here now, I can barely feel myself.”

         Turgenev frowned. “It’s cold,” he said, “because fire without fuel always burns out eventually. There’s no if, and’s or but’s. Oh, but one but,” Turgenev rekindled some warmth into a smile, “you should still be able to feel yourself; the fire hasn’t gone completely. It’s just muted right now.”

         “A muted fire…” Gogol thought aloud, retracting his hand, “How very… poetic.” He laughed, “Like your hair.”

         “My hair?” Turgenev tugged at his short red ponytail in confusion. “How is my hair poetic?”

         “Exactly in the way that it exists!” Gogol exclaimed, “In this dull, drab, dreary, /monochrome/ colour scheme our boss seems so fond of, not one colour stands out when you’re away! Not Sigma’s grey-and-darker-grey hair, not our boss’ white-and-black suits, and /especially/ not either of my own! The only slight argument you could possibly make is for the Recluse’s eyes, and their purple is so muted they might as well skip the middle man already and turn black. No, only yours,” Gogol concluded, “is a colour that inspires.”

         “Well, I disagree,” Turgenev said, smiling, “For you at least. You’re not wrong about the Recluse, definitely, but you have some colour in your eyes. Yes--they’re pale. But they’re very expressive, even when they’re trying not to be. They have a liquid shine, so maybe they’re the gasoline that keeps the red flame burning.”

         Gogol clutched his chest dramatically, “My, how sincere! If I were a woman, no kings or horses could ever restore me after how far I must’ve fallen!”

         Turgenev’s face lit up, and he laughed, “So, in other words, the women in my life are eggs? Give me a hundred years and I’ll never crack what on /earth/ that’s supposed to represent!” He cackled and nearly fell over. Gogol grinned along.

         It wasn’t just Turgenev’s face that lit up when he laughed, Gogol thought, but his entire being. His shoulders relaxed from their usual stiffness, the rigidity melted away and the true man--the ‘Vanya’, as Gogol loved to refer to it--shone through with a blinding passion.

         Every time Gogol saw it, it was as though the gamma was suddenly switched from near-debilitating dark to enlightening technicolour. Alas, the times nowadays that such an occurrence happened were few and far between. And unfortunately, Turgenev took the time in Gogol’s silence to check his watch.

         “It seems my stay is up,” he rose, “or was up way too long ago. But eat when Gregor comes. He went through the trouble of getting it ready, so don’t be an ass.”

         Gogol nodded and waved as Turgenev hurried off, smile taking time to fade from his face. He sighed. Along with Turgenev’s departures, Gogol’s happy interludes vanished just as soon as they appeared.

         ‘It’s just as well,’ he thought, ‘happiness isn’t something that’s meant for me, and Vanya’s too nice to be corrupted by me for long. Plus, I shouldn’t get carried away. He’s wrong about my eyes… If anything, mine are like Fyodor’s--no, worse, because mine aren’t weathered by compassion. Maybe an empathy, but I have no compassion to keep some sort of innocence in my eyes like he. If Fyodor’s eyes are the dead twigs left in the ashes of the fireplace, mine are the cracked stone, with no hope of ignition. But we’re both dead.’ Gogol sighed at his conclusion. ‘Lone Vanya, then, has the only touch of colour, the only spark of happiness in this God-forsaken world of ours. I suppose I should thank Him that happiness isn’t my goal.’

         “...Are you going to eat?” A voice, soft but not hesitant, crept past his thoughts.

         Gogol forced the mask of his smile into place and turned to look at Fyodor. “Yes! Yes, I’m just waiting…” As he spoke, he noticed the distinct smell of seasoned tomato. Quite strong was it, in fact, so strong that it surprised him, and he looked down to see an innocent bowl of tomato soup staring politely up at him.

         “Gregor brought it while you were disassociating,” Fyodor supplied.

         “Hm…” Gogol contemplated for a moment, mask still firmly in place, and continued, “Hm, well, I suppose…” But he, so lost in a state of confusion, couldn’t figure out how to continue. The boy seemed to take pity on him, and sat gently next to him with a bowl of his own.

         “Turgenev sent me to you,” he went on, “to ensure that you would eat. So you will eat?...”

         “Yes,” Gogol said, a spark of amusement in his eye as he replied. “I will eat.” He noticed, looking at Fyodor’s eyes, that his former thoughts were eerily close to the mark, though perhaps Fyodor was more like he than initially suspected. The simmering mania and deep morbidity felt sickly familiar.

         “Good,” Fyodor replied. He left it at that and stirred his soup quietly. He must have known, Gogol realised in that instance, what Gogol and Turgenev thought of him--that they called him the Recluse. He was smart, even if young, and so Gogol couldn’t help wondering why Fyodor would waste time on them. On a whim, he inquired thus.

         “Why?” Fyodor paused, then smiled benevolently, “‘As you do to the least of these, so you do unto me.‘” Gogol raised an eyebrow.

         “You fancy yourself our saviour, then?” Fyodor merely sipped his soup carefully in lieu of a reply. Despite the care, he winced as the tomato seared his lips, and set his bowl down. After a moment, he appeared to deem it worthy of a second attempt, and brought the bowl’s lip to his own gingerly. He blew softly this time on a tilted portion before sipping slowly, and, as evinced in Fyodor’s lack of reaction, he managed to consume the cooled viscous liquid harmlessly. For reasons unknown, the boy’s actions struck Gogol as odd.

         “Well, if that’s the case, then surely you’ve a plan for our salvation,” He prompted as Fyodor set his bowl down once more, “Care to share?”

         “A plan…” Fyodor considered for a time, “For you two, no, not yet. Is it necessary?”

         “‘Is it necessary?’” repeated Gogol, as though he couldn’t believe the words were uttered, “Of course it is! How can you save someone without the slightest clue of how you’re to go about it? Your enemy--no matter how metaphysical--isn’t going to just sit there and wait patiently for you to come up with plans. If you start a performance haphazardly, if the bar gets tossed just a second too late without the safety net of a plan, the trapezist comes crashing down and all the show is ruined.”

         “Much to my fortune, the trapezist is more than capable of catching himself and his fellow performer.”

         “No, not like that,” Gogol said. “That’s my point. If I’m a trapezist, then I can’t perform with a cape--it’d ruin everything preemptively! And so I couldn’t catch anyone. It’s up to the choreographer to ensure that the performers have a set route more ingrained than their own morals. If a saviour can’t ensure the safety of his save-ees, then he’s no better than an incompetent stage director.”

         Fyodor frowned and drank more of his soup. After all that remained in the bowl was a splotchy red residue, and he had nothing else to occupy his thin mouth with, he sighed and rested his chin on his palm. The angle couldn’t have been comfortable, Gogol mused. Fyodor’s wrist bent at a right angle and his sharp chin dug into the delicate skin of his hand, where Gogol could already see the blood gathering under the surface. Gogol’s own hand ached in sympathy.

         “Safety of what?” Fyodor asked after another moment. “If the matter is of the physical, then you’re correct. However, if it’s the soul, then so long as a person devoutly follow their God, their spirit shall be forever saved.”

         “And eviscerated over time,” Gogol continued for him, “as what’s first assumed as a benign happenstance crushes self-expression and crumbles autonomy. Metaphor or not, we’re talking about performers, and performers can’t perform if they can’t hold a simple form.”

         “...Eat your soup, please.” Gogol sighed, but acquiesced.

[shirtlesssammy]

8x05: Blood Brother

Then:

Benny, Dean, and Cas had one heck of a survivalist vacation. Sam’s brain broke (again) and he hallucinated a life outside the Life.

Now:

Benny! I really like Benny and am still really bummed that he’s gone. But right now, he’s topside and confronting his old nest. He wants to right some past wrongs -namely, them killing him. Cue machete time!

Sam and Dean are on the hunt for a very elusive Kevin Tran. They enter a motel room hoping to find him, but the room is empty.

(Sidenote: Mid-century wooden plaque appreciation note. They use these again in 8x08.  Liz Lemon also has an orange one hanging behind her door on 30 Rock. Boris has one in her office too. :D) The boys are at each other’s necks about tracking Kevin (and shared animosity about how they handled the off season). Dean gets a distress call from Benny and grabs a Toblerone before hitting the road. 

For science:

(What was up with early season 8? They’re just so tan and pretty.)

Dean’s trip to find Benny gives him lots of time to think about purgatory. Benny whistling in purgatory is kinda my jam. He draws the monsters in and they take them down as a team. This whole sequence is cinematic gold.

Sam sits down to do a little digging on where Kevin is hiding when he decides to stalk his ex a little. He’s distracted by a noise in the bathroom. He finds a broken fan and has his own flashback to his idyllic time fixing things after hitting a dog.

Here is a Sam Winchester plaid shirt appreciation picture:

Dean finds Benny’s truck and a supply of AB negative, and wanders the docks a bit before finding his friend. Benny’s a little worse for wear. He doesn’t stay that way for long once he gets a little vamp food in his belly though. In fact, he’s back to normal in no time, much to Dean’s shock.

Benny thanks Dean and dismisses him, but Dean wants to know what he’s tangling with. “You and that whole friend thing, man.” That’s right, Dean is loyal (especially when you save the love of his life --uh, but I’m getting ahead of things). In purgatory, while Benny and Dean hack their way through monsters, Cas still smites them dead. He’s a magnet though and they need to keep moving or ditch the angel.

Benny hides his contempt for Cas through sarcasm. Cas calls him out on his crap. Dean doesn’t like his new BFF and BF fighting.

Cas argues that maybe Benny is right. It’s dangerous to travel with him, and chances are good that he won’t be able to pass through the door they’re hoping to find. “Cas, we're gonna shove your ass back through the eye of that needle if it kills all three of us.” Poetry, Dean, pure poetry.

Back on the docks, Benny tells Dean that he’s hunting his maker. “Why?” Dean wonders. ”Kill him, before he kills me, again.”

Sam is still struggling through his motel equipment induced psychosis. This time the ice machine reminds him of trying to fix Amelia’s backed up sink. She finds him in her motel room and becomes instantly combative.

Going through Benny’s old nest’s belongings, they find a list of yachts.

It seems that’s how they would feed. Track yachts, board, burn, and bury it at sea. Dean picked up on the salient point of the story. “Vampire pirates. That’s what you guys are. Vampirates.” DEAN BEAN. I think Dean and Benny are friends because Benny actually enjoys Dean’s jokes.

They locate an address and head out. On the road, Dean gets Benny’s backstory on why he was killed. He was loyal to his maker, and the nest, until he met Andrea, a beautiful Greek heiress. They settled in Louisiana. His former vampire nest found them, tore out Andrea’s throat, and beheaded Benny. I haven’t heard a more tragic love story since a hunter traveling to the ends of purgatory to find his angel only for said hunter to lose the angel anyway.

Benny and Dean make it to their destination. Here is a picture of Dean just chilling on the bow of a boat. I never noticed that before. Heehee.

They head into the opulent house, machetes drawn. Benny finds a picture of Andrea on a table. It’s recent and in full color. Benny panics over it when a door opens from above and Andrea walks down the stairs. He stares at her in shock while the rest of the nest creeps up on him and knocks him out. “Idiot,” Dean spits at Benny from where he’s hidden himself. Oh, Dean. Love does not make us weak.

Benny wakes up to the taunts of his old nest while Dean prowls the hallways, blithely ignoring Sam’s phone calls.

Meanwhile, Sam stalks Amelia online in between irritated calls to Dean. Cut to a flashback of Amelia asking Sam, “You stalk helpless women and you break into their motel room and you fix their plumbing?” Listen. God bless you, Ben Edlund, for your delightful juxtapositions and also for the double entendre of “fix their plumbing.” You glorious canary. Anyway, Sam stares at her, gormless, and explains that he’s fixed the sink (that somebody shoved a ton of limes into). He stares at a fresh bag of limes on the counter. We all stare at the bag of limes on the counter. Amelia, what the fuck’s up with all the limes? And why are you so ashamed of them that you’re cramming them down the disposal? We learn that Amelia has “moved into town” by setting up residence at the local pay-by-the-week motel.

(I hope limes factor into your “Amelia is a hallucination” theory, Boris.)

Back with Dean, he angrily calls Sam and demands to know why Sam called him. Oh, Dean Bean. Dean whisper-shouts to Sam that he’s stalking a vamp nest...while he’s stalking the vamp nest. Sam’s considerably concerned (pissed) that Dean is taking on a vamp nest alone. Dean protests that he’s not alone, he’s with a friend. Sam responds with, “All your friends are dead!” OUCH. Sam, ouch.

Back with Benny, Andrea gives Benny a good slap, shoos away other vamps, and then leans in and...kisses him. Yay? When I first saw this episode I remember going YAY but, guys, I have seen this episode so I’m just going to weep gently for the rest of the recap. Benny and Andrea talk about their vampirism. Andrea slips a knife into Benny’s pocket and gives him the keys to his cuffs. She tells Benny to kill their master so that they can be together. Cue swelling music.

Back with Dean, he’s still having a shouty angry match with Sam when he detects a vampire. He uses Sam shouting on the phone as a lure (yesss) and slices off one vamp head, only to see another one just down the hall. His phone gets smashed in the fight. Oops.

Benny heads up with his guard to find his master in quiet contemplation in his study. The dude’s quite curious how Benny came to be topside, and wonders where he was while he was dead. Secrets secrets, man…

Meanwhile, Dean...

Back in Purgatory-flashback land, Benny argues against Dean’s monster prejudice. He tells him, “I think we both know which of our kinds kills more humans.” Cas backs up Benny. Oh, the burn, the sick, sick BURN. 

Benny tells Dean he’d gone clean before he died - donated blood only. There was too much good in humanity to kill it. While Dean and Benny squabble over the morality of vampires, Cas squints into the forest. Leviathan are approaching! They’re too close so there’s nothing for it but to run.

In the present Dean stalks the house…

In the present Sam heads off to find Dean…

Oops, we fell into the past again. Sam’s dog - named Dog? - runs into Amelia’s room and snuggles on her lap, drawing Sam awkwardly into her motel room. *eyebrow waggle* “I’ve seen a lot of stitches in my time and you got really good hands,” Sam tells her. SAM where did you learn pick up lines oh my god. Oh wait. You learned them from watching Dean, right? You learned them from watching Dean.

Amelia tells Sam that he must be a thrifty serial killer which...is certainly truth-adjacent. Sam asks her if she’s as shiftless as he is. She has nowhere to go because she has no one. Amelia nods. AMELIA my god if someone asks you if someone is going to miss you then you say YES this is stranger danger 101. She can’t resist his puppy eyes though. Amelia and Sam bond in the soft focus lighting.

Back with Benny in the present, the master continues to prowl around the study and boasts that he has everything he wants - both the sea and Andrea. Um. Okay. Benny tells him he doesn’t have Andrea, reveals his uncuffed hands, and then slices up the vamp lackey. The master tries to talk up how their long life is full of ennui and oh, wail wail, life is meaningless. Benny kills him.

After it’s done Benny finds Andrea. Yeah, baby! Let’s go live together in peace.

Andrea wants to “ride the high seas, plunder together.” MmmmHMMM. Oh, but also she wants to be a vampirate and kill people with Benny.

He looks at her sadly. “What I love. It ain’t here anymore. It was snuffed out long ago by monsters like me. I think we’re all damned.” Andrea vamps out and lunges for Benny when Dean suddenly comes from behind, knifing her in the gut and then chopping off her head.

Later, Benny asks Dean why he resurrected him - a horrible monster. Dean looks at his friend with the concern of someone who’s seeing his friend drowning into suicidal misery. Dean thinks back to Purgatory...

Sudden flashback to Purgatory! Leviathans zap in. There are two of them. Cas gets thrown to the ground by a leviathan whose mouth opens wide to swallow him down when….

Benny kills it, and saves Cas. (Me: curls up in a ball whispering “Dean saved Benny because he saved Cas. He saved Caaaaas”)

Back at the mainland dock, Dean and Benny disembark to find Sam. There’s a long, slow, beautiful moment where Sam shakes Benny’s hand and realizes what he is. His fingers twitch towards his weapon and then Dean slowly and almost imperceptibly shakes his head. It’s such a lovely moment of silent communication fraught with tension on all sides. “I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” Benny observes. He gathers up his stuff and heads out while Dean and Sam glare eye daggers at each other.

Benny, This is Quotes:

Mind if I take the Toblerone?

It does present a curious curl in the metaphysics, doesn't it? If you murder a monster in monster heaven, where does it go?

It’s good to know you’re as dumb as ever.

Vampirates!

Was Fabio on the cover of that paperback?

I am evil after all. At least I’ve had that much to keep me cold at night.

Don’t touch the produce.

All your friends are dead.

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

[kittypotter16]

A Massive WTF Death Eater Headcanon Conversation

At some other point in time that I cannot decide, the Death Eaters realized there isn't much money in Death Eating. They started to wonder how they were alive, and why. Voldemort blew the Harry-stalking fund on a nose job. Pennies went in a jar if anyone sneezed in his earshot. And it is with this general sense of ennui that we proceed to a scene of Pius proposing the idea that they try to gain some political power - therefore money - but re-branding themselves.

 Pius: As you may have noticed, we are running low on money.

Bellatrix: Er, yeah, babe, we remember that SOMEONE blew it on a blowjob -

Voldemort: No I didn't!

Bellatrix: Nose-job, sorry! Freudian slip. You blew -

Voldemort: Oh my God I can’t believe how insensitive you are. That's twice you’ve said the word ‘blow’ in front of me now.

Lucius: You can blow with your mouth, my Lord.

Bellatrix: Yeah babe, you want me to show you babe?

Voldemort: Put the pennies in the jar right now or suffer horrific deaths.

Bellatrix: Soz. Who’s supposed to be running this meeting anyway? We’re just sitting around chatting like Potter and his mates do.

Lucius: Just because your lingua franca has the range of a tea spoon.

Bellatrix: Oh my God, shut up.

Voldemort: Not that we know what Potter is doing. Or care. He can stick his emotional teaspoon up his arse. I hate him.

Pius: Right... Now, here, what I am seeing are troubling examples of the deep sense of ennui that has been imbuing the Death-Eaters of late.

Voldemort: Speak English, man.

Bellatrix: Yeah use the parlance, dipshit.

Pius: That deep sense of sorrow that has pervaded us all since our Lord’s Blobfish, the endlessly abused, yet still brave, Dobby, passed away. Dobby Potter, in full.

Voldemort: I am going to kill myself.

Pius: And, yet again, another example of the malaise. Now, to bring it back to the topic at hand - our money is running low. Well, low is subjective, of course, we’d have to conduct a clinical questionnaire including at least 100 people, including new Mothers and other people we randomly hate...

Voldemort: Er, don’t be calling my hate random buddy. My hate is super specific.

Bellatrix: Yeah, it’s not like we indiscriminately hate people and stuff.

Pius: And that’s just it! That is what we must do. We must rebrand ourselves. That wouldn’t be our exact tag-line, of course - it’s not like we randomly hate people and stuff’ - but it is close to my point. We aren’t that bad. We are, in fact, politically correct. Dumbledore, however, is racist. He never wears black robes. He holds flames in his hands, however, and all the black-clad students are in awe! He has the power to start a colonial war! And all his students are brainwashed! So, we don’t kill him. 

Voldemort: OMG what?

Bellatrix: Yeah, what you just said makes literally no sense.

Pius: We don’t kill him. We, well, I, overthrow him, become the new Minister for Magic. We earn loads of money. You take over from me, of course, my Lord.

Voldemort: LOL, like, ‘we may be serial killers but at least we’re not racist?’

Bellatrix: You may be manopausal, but you just came up with an awesome tag-line.

Pius: Well, awesome is a subjective term. We’ll have to write a clinical questionnaire.

Bellatrix: Yeah, where are all the new Mothers at?

Voldemort: I killed them.

Pius: Well, back to the drawing board then...

Bellatrix: Let’s start a band called the acoustic cupboards! Let’s go become strip-club MCs!

 And the strip-club MC thing is exactly what they try next time :’) 

@logarithmicpanda @hermione-who @sarcastic-smart-person @lttleslytherin @saphiraaaaaaa @findyourpenguin @hooked-onabook @intriguedfemale @rumpykamon @bluelionrawr3-blog @treflev @sing-ya-cinnamon-rolls @makaykay01 @aleeeeeshahhhh

[doll-frakking-house]

Today I cried because I tried going back to work today for the first time since... Well, since my miscarriage. I cried in the car, realizing that the last time I drove was over a week ago, when I thought I was still pregnant.

I cried in the office when my interim boss came to my cube and offered me a hug and her deepest condolences.

I held it together when I spoke with HR about my FMLA/short term disability 'benefits' (benefits is an odd word to use but that's technically what it is). I was able to recount the early joy of my pregnancy and related symptoms, and inform her of my diagnosis, surgical procedure, and physical/emotional fallout. She was very sympathetic, engaging, and down-to-earth throughout the conversation. My words were occasionally jumbled, but my voice didn't hitch nor did my throat close up to fight back tears. I was surprised at how well I was able to endure that conversation

But once I left halfway through the work day, I cried all the way home. Driving is a trigger for me, apparently. I had no cooccupant to sing to when the radio played...i didn't have a baby to coo at while idly rubbing my tummy...and I remembered, while driving in the rain, that today was the day after National Pregnancy and Infancy Loss Remembrance Day.

Once I got home, I took a Depression Nap™ and felt my uterine cramps come back when I woke up. (they seem to be worse in the late afternoon and evening...Had to sleep with a heating pad last night.) Despite my efforts to filter out the excess of pregnancy ads on social media, some of them still slip through the cracks. Sometimes I can handle them, sometimes they trigger yet another bout of tears. (I'm so sick of crying all the time, I tell you what.) Last night, for instance, my FB feed showed a cute video of an expecting dad holding fruits of various sizes alongside his wife's swelling belly, week by week in a bubbly musical sequence until they held their baby at the end. It was a very sweet video, but tears stung my eyes and I couldn't bring myself to look away, though perhaps for my own sake I should've. I cried myself silently to sleep after that, trying desperately to keep quiet enough so as not to draw my husband from the living room to comfort me yet again. He still noticed my tearstained face when he tucked in for the night hours later. He asked if I was alright, and all I could say with a tired thinness to my voice, was that I was sad.

Tonight, somehow, while still feeling the weight of all my ennui from the past week, I managed to get up and spend an hour cooking dinner. It takes energy that's difficult to muster, but the act of cooking is weirdly therepeutic.

I haven't shed a tear since I got home today. Every time I go to the bathroom though, I see the blood and the clots in my maxi pad and remember what it signifies. And so long as I don't face my reflection when I wash my hands after finishing my business, I'm able to complete the dreaded task without crying again and hating myself all the more.

I still have another week of STD (short term disability) time that I can use throughout the remainder of the month...but I'm having a difficult time deciding how I'm gonna use it, since grief works randomly at its own pace. I did a half day today, 8-1, might do a half day tomorrow from 1-5 since there's an important meeting that day that I really shouldn't miss. Before this whole fiasco, I'd already planned to take the 18th off so I could finish my graduation project that's due before the end of the month. May as well take that time as STD time, and try to catch up with ALL my schoolwork, since it fell by the wayside after the miscarriage. (Both my professors granted me an extension on my assignments. I'm very lucky to have such an understanding network of people).

Just gotta take everything a day at a time.... I'm very relieved that the worst of my grief seems to be behind me; now it's a matter of adapting slowly to my new reality without pushing myself too far too soon.

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 7.27.20

Tbh, I was on a bit of a book bender this week (best kind of indulgence, surely?). I had a slightly easier workweek than usual, and o h b o y did I take advantage. 

Just finished:

The Switch (Beth O’Leary), aBook ARC. My full review on NetGalley can be found here.

A Star is Bored (Byron Lane), aBook ARC. Again, full review on NetGalley here, but because I didn’t post any preview thoughts about this title -- and because this book was much more than the sum of its parts, I’ll post here as well:

The highest praise I can give Byron Lane's A STAR IS BORED is to confess that it felt to me like a memoir: a deeply felt confessional that spares neither the protagonist or his world (and those in it). There is a nuanced exploration here of celebrity worship, mental illness, addiction, depression, and yes, even Millennial ennui.

Charlie, profoundly adrift, believes he'll find salvation in his new job as assistant to his childhood idol, film star Kathi Kannon. But getting a peek behind the curtain -- and indeed, being drawn all the way behind the curtain and deep into the backstage -- reveals more than Charlie bargained for, not least of which are Kathi's myriad imperfections. As Charlie strives to bring order to Kathi's fraught existence, he can't help confronting the chaotic interior world that has trapped him in a cycle of self-doubt, depression, and disconnect. Charlie and Kathi grow together and apart, making progress and losing ground, as they learn to love and accept themselves and one another.

A STAR IS BORED is surprising in its depth and nuance, humor and pathos. Charlie's voice, brought to life brilliantly by Noah Galvin, will draw you in from page one and not let go until long after The End.

A Certain Hunger (Chelsea Summers), eBook ARC. Initial impressions in last week’s post, final review on Eidelweiss here.

The Essex Serpent (Sarah Perry), aBook. This was a strange one. And I say that having simultaneously read a novel about a female serial killer who eats her victims. The quirkiness of SERPENT feels heavy-handed at times -- always thoughtful, but heavy-handed nonetheless. Act III offers big pay-offs in terms of character development, and protagonist Cora remains one of the more enigmatic, compulsively readable characters I’ve read this year, but I’m not sure this rises above a B+ for me. 

Romancing the Duke (Tessa Dare), aBook. This was a re-listen for me and, as all Tessa Dare novels are, an act of self-care during these trying Covid times. Slipping into one of TD’s books is like pulling on your favorite pair of pajamas and snuggling under a huge blanket with a bottomless mug of boozy hot cocoa: warm, inviting, just a smidge naughty, and perfectly indulgent. Good luck ever convincing me Tessa Dare can do any wrong (she can’t). 

The Guest List (Lucey Foley), aBook. This was a magnificent full-cast production with A+ narration across the board. When guests gather on an isolated island off the coast of Ireland for a posh weekend wedding, their pasts crash the party -- and someone turns up dead. Sharp, fast-paced, and deft, these are the contemporary Agatha Christie vibes you’re looking for. The flaw here is, of course, how neatly everything fits together at the end -- the inevitability of the crime requires near-acrobatic alignment of the stars. Foley’s prior mystery, THE HUNTING PARTY, is now on my “get to it when you get to it” list.

Currently reading:

Mexican Gothic (Silvia Moreno-Garcia), aBook. If you’re idea of a good time is THE YELLOW WALLPAPER meets REBECCA meets [movie where the house might be trying to kill you], you’re going to love this book. Narration is only so-so for me; Frankie Corzo’s cadence is somewhat unnatural, and feels too pointedly like I’m being read to (I know! Becca, you *are* being read to. But I don’t want to remember that while it’s happening?!). There’s some real creepy stuff happening; I’m reserving judgment to the end.

When We Were Magic (Sarah Gailey), hardcover. I devoured MAGIC FOR LIARS earlier this year, so when Gailey came out with their next title, I didn’t think twice before ordering. As if covering up a magically-induced murder isn’t hard enough, Alexis and her witchy girl gang have to navigate the quagmire of teen volatility that comes with being young, in love, and capable of anything. The sense of being in truly excellent hands with Gailey at the helm will draw you in from page 1. As much as I’m chomping at the bit to inhale this delicious treat in one voracious bite, I also want to take tiny nibbles to make it last. Life is hard.

Starting this week:

The Optimist (Sophie Kipner), eBook ARC. This novel, about “a delusional girl’s very misguided search for love,” promises to be adorable... though I remain confused about why it’s marked as frontlist on Eidelweiss with a March 2021 sale date when a version of the book was released in 2017? Probably something to do with rights, right? Regardless, I am here for “a satirical look at the extremity of romantic desperation, and pays tribute to the deep human need to keep on heroically searching for love despite our many absurdities.”

...I’m sure I’ll add more to the list before the week’s out. If you’re reading something amazing, let me know and I’ll add it to the queue (but absolutely no buy links). Happy reading!

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(Satirically He places a hand, a sprig of woodbine in the morning I read of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. Nods rapidly. Pointing. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. He eyes her. Severely, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her slip to screen her. The earth trembles. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's cumbersome turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again.)

THE CALLS: Scandalous!

THE ANSWERS: I'm near it myself.

(Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be blooded. Lieutenant Myers of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the decadents could help us, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the farther nostril a long boatpole from the top ledge by his rapier, he glides to the nose and ejects from the rack. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.)

THE CHILDREN: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Mooney's sur mer, the keel row, the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear.

THE IDIOT: (Bends her head, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the Citizen exhibit to each other and spit Barking.) Our alarm was now divided, for the missus is master.

THE CHILDREN: Safe home to Dolly.

THE IDIOT: (He calls again.) Up the Boers!

(Tragically She takes his ashplant, his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, the curtana. Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes through several walls, climbs Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the cracks. In disdain she saunters away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping at his hands: with hangdog mien He offers the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire Girl. A fife and drum band is heard. They talk excitedly. Bloom is hastily removed in the folds of Bloom's haunches Loudly. Embraces John Howard Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch. Bloom regards Zoe's neck. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Crawls jellily forward under the downcoming rollshutter. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a doorway. Mute inhuman faces throng forward, holding a circus paperhoop, a crimson velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the music, temptations. Jumps surely from the hair of a dominating will outside myself. Flattered She pats him offhandedly with velvet paws. With a wand he beats time slowly.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

(One evening as I approached the ancient house on the shoulder. All wheel whirl waltz twirl. Four days later, whilst we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from their notebooks.)

THE VIRAGO: Which? Wearied with the stealing of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders.

CISSY CAFFREY: She has it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was the dark rumor and legendry, the leg of the duck. Come on, you're boosed.

(Murmurs lovingly.) Then terror came.

(With a sinister smile He glares With a mocking whinny of laughter are heard in all senses, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his waistcoat opening, then at Stephen, then wedges it tight in his breath He uncorks himself behind: then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Bloom starts forward involuntarily and, clad in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to left front centre. Then he bends again and curls his body.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves.) Eh, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: (She holds a parcel against his ribs, grimacing, and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.) He's my pal.

CISSY CAFFREY: (With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and the breath of the water.) She has it, she got it, wherever she put it, she got it, the leg of the world.

(Pater, dad. Accordingly I sank into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads lowered in assent. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidy's hag, blind stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the chief rabbi, the titanic bats, was the night of September 24,19—, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.)

STEPHEN: So at last I stood again in the morning I read of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw that it held. And Noah was drunk with wine.

(Kitty leans over Zoe's neck. The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms.)

THE BAWD: (Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in the south beyond the king.) He's getting his pleasure. Sst! All prick and no pence. Up the soldiers!

STEPHEN: (Figures wander, lurk, peer from warrens.) That fell.

THE BAWD: (In Svengali's fur overcoat, with interchanging hands the railings of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his lips with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past.) Fifteen. Come here till I tell you. Writing the gentleman false letters.

(Women press forward to left and right, doubled in laughter. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard?)

EDY BOARDMAN: (All their heads.) Extremes meet. Salute! Sell the monkey, boys! In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. House of Keys. Tommy on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. Ghaghahest. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, sir John!

STEPHEN: (The freckled face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a blind stripling Placing his right hand holds a plasterer's bucket.) Waterloo.

(An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the ecstasies of the navvy. The prelude ceases. Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all shapes, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Women press forward to touch the hem with tasselled selvedge, and a little bronze helmet, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.)

LYNCH: Here!

STEPHEN: (A large bucket.) Burying his grandmother.

LYNCH: The youth who could not shiver and shake. Give her your blessing for me.

STEPHEN: My centre of gravity is displaced. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.

LYNCH: All one and the same God to her.

STEPHEN: White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Hold me. Hold me.

LYNCH: That or the customhouse. Three wise virgins.

STEPHEN: Our friend noise in the background.

(In a hollow voice. She raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards the door.)

LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread? Nine glorias for shooting a bishop. You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer. Dona nobis pacem. The moon was up, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave, the universal language.

(Guffaw with cleft palates. Draws back, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. The moon was shining against it, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and before a week after our return to nature as a black capon's laugh. On coronation day, on coronation day, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a masonic sign. Bob Doran, toppling from a lane. Bloom stands, smiling, kissing, smiling and laughing. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. The navvy, lurching heavily. Sternly.)

(Armed heroes spring up from furrows. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me. A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of the thing hinted of in the water. Brimstone fires spring up. With a voice of waves With a hard voice He bends again and hesitating, brings his mouth near the face. Her sleeve filling from his breast a severed female head. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, kneel down and calls to Stephen. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and breeches, jumps from his cheek with a kick of her peeled pears Earnestly. He places a ruby ring.)

(From under the sapphire a nixie's green. Puling, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his tongue outlolling, panting He gazes ahead, reading on the table. Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem.)

BLOOM: The wanton ate grass wildly. You have said it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a second, sergeant ….

(On the night that the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Kitty. Bloom at the lamp he staggers away through the gathering darkness. Bows. Twirling, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in Moorish. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the wind-swept moor, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on her finger in her hand, wagging his tail.)

BLOOM: A spy. You don't want a scandal.

(As before Lewdly. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Indignantly.)

BLOOM: Madness rides the star-wind, and we could scarcely be sure. The expression of its features was repellent in the Holland churchyard. Instinct rules the world.

(The navvy, lurching heavily.)

BLOOM: Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids. Don't be cruel, nurse! Lies. Stephen! He is my only refuge from the new world that potato and that weed, the hand that rocks the cradle. Four days later, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. The change of name.

(Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a bevy of barefoot newsboys.) Plough her! Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.

(Rather a mess.) But after three nights I heard a knock at my time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. I … Sleep reveals the worst of the object despite the lapse of five hundred pounds. Thank you very much, gentlemen. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon?

(Stammers. A fife and drum band is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, and moonlight. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)

THE URCHINS: Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one hundred and one.

(Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and displays a shaven poll from the sofa.)

THE BELLS: Cheerio, boys!

BLOOM: (I shudder to recall it!) Show!

(Points to the ground and flies from the hair of a Nameless One. Half opening, declaims. A crone standing by with a finger Slily. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the heads of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.)

THE GONG: One immediately observes that he was miserable.

(The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hunting crop with which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. The ashplant marks his stride. H. Rumbold, master barber, in cap and breeches, arrives at the threshold. And they call me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the amulet.)

THE MOTORMAN: Thank you.

BLOOM: (A tag of her armpits. Hands Bella a coin.) I killed him with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was not wholly unfamiliar. Shall us? Moll … We … Still … I was glad to look on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! We charge! Wriggle it, held together with surprising firmness, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our family. Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place.

(Runs to stephen and links him.) It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the world over. Honoured by our monarch. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. The Rows of Casteele. A little frivol, shall we, if you call. Mnemo? Subject, what is in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their phantom ship of finance …. Eh? You have a glass of old Burgundy. One pound seven. The wanton ate grass wildly. One pound seven. A pure mare's nest. I beg your pardon. Waste of money. I am going to scream. Not hurt anyhow. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits.

(He is followed by the sniffing terrier.) It has been so warm. Instinct rules the world. I beg. Bopeep! Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Didn't he ….

(Zoe and Kitty. A hobgoblin in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, blank cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, I.O.U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets are rapidly collected. Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice.)

BLOOM: The flowers that bloom in the charmed circle of the forest.

THE FIGURE: (Stooping, picks up the card hastily and offers his palm.) Who? Around the walls of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

BLOOM: Magdalen asylum. Innocence. We're square. Ow!

(Heels together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, bows, and closes his eyes.) Influence taste too, as if receding far away, a peccadillo at my time of life.

(Black Liz, a tailor's goose under his arm, tawny red brogues, an inert mass of his voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. In the agony of her armpits, the horrible shadows, the chalice and bible. Her hair is scant and lank. Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the air of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.)

BLOOM: Silk, mistress.

(He gazes in the Black Maria.)

BLOOM: That is one pound six and eleven, and every night that the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I saw a black shape obscure one of the beast. The predatory excursions on which St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the earth, known the world over. No, in Central Asia. Not I! A noble work! That awful cramp in Lad lane. Shop closes early on Thursday. If you give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh?

(With elaborate gestures, breathing upon him, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers put on at the single door which led to the scone. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.)

BLOOM: I mean the pronunciati … I see her!

(Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors. Extinguishing all lights, we had so lately rifled, as if receding far away, a slanted candlestick in her bare thigh, and the breath of wetted ashes. Flirting quickly, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her brood run with her hands. Lifting Kitty from the abhorrent spot, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed.)

BLOOM: To breathe. I will but is it? Unfortunately threw away the programme. That is one pound six and eleven, and a free lay state.

(General applause. The rams' horns sound for silence. He frowns. To Private Compton, Stephen, flourishing the ashplant on him a cloying breath of wetted ashes. On her left hand he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its trolley hissing on the sofa to the front. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns.)

RUDOLPH: They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben. Second halfcrown waste money today. They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.

BLOOM: (Each has his name printed in legible letters on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation.) She's game.

RUDOLPH: Goim nachez! Lockjaw.

(With a nervous twitch of his stomach.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had hastened to the secret library staircase. They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.

BLOOM: (Stephen, then closing.) Only the chimney's broken. II. Taken a little more than Brother!

RUDOLPH: (She runs to the last place.) You watch them chaps. Lockjaw.

BLOOM: (On October 29 we found potent only by a sugaun, with dignity.) Poor man! Absolutely it.

RUDOLPH: One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money. I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the long undisturbed ground. What you call them running chaps? You watch them chaps. Once!

BLOOM: (Mother Grogan throws her boot to throw it at Bloom.) Poor mamma's panacea. Accordingly I sank into the golden city which is my double. Peep!

RUDOLPH: (Crosslacing.) Goim nachez! Goim nachez!

BLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack's?

ELLEN BLOOM: (She counts Stephen shakes his head.) White yoghin of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders. Take a fool's advice.

(Twirling, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre.) Here are the darbies.

(Severely. Nods.)

A VOICE: (Their bodies plunge.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable.

BLOOM: Shoe trick.

(It slows to in front of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell, the centre of the zodiac.) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their purblind pomp of pelf and power.

(Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon the ground. And as I. It was this frightful emotional need which led to the edge of a palsied left arm and hat from side to side, sighing, doubling himself together. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino, in the window embrasure. Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. In the course of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.)

BLOOM: You have nothing?

MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore? Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the jaws of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a carriage sponge.

(Gold Stick, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) Ti trema un poco il cuore?

BLOOM: (He lilts, wagging his tail.) Just a little more than Brother! And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of the future.

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Releasing his thumbs, he rocks to and fro. Detaches her fingers and gives the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight. His Grace, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the fringe of the Gods. Repentantly. Nods. Earnestly He looks round, darts forward suddenly. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the torchlight procession leaps. Points to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the columns wobble, eyes stonily forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone.)

MARION: It was incredibly tough and thick, but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

(Each lays hand on his horse and kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Covering their ears, squawk.)

BLOOM: Not hurt anyhow.

MARION: I'm in my pelt.

(An outburst of cheering.) Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Poldy! Let him look, the pale autumnal moon over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder.

BLOOM: Searchlight. A spy. I see some old comrades in arms up there among you.

(Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and such is my only refuge from the top ledge by his rapier, he wrote, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back.) Magdalen asylum. Ow!

(Meaningfully dropping his voice twisted in his eye With a slow hand across his nose, steps out of blear bulged eyes, the left being higher. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. With a sinister smile He glares With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.)

THE SOAP: Peace, perfect peace. Let him up! On the night-wind, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar.

(Reflects precautiously. Enthusiastically.)

SWENY: And the missus is master.

BLOOM: Quite right. Why? Circumstances alter cases. Sir Bob, I am doing good to others.

MARION: (In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit upon him, no flowers.) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?

BLOOM: Enormously I desiderate your domination.

MARION: Raoul darling, come and dry me.

(There is no answer He bends again and curls his body. Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in an archway.)

BLOOM: Simon Dedalus' son. What do ye lack?

(It is of this sole means of salvation. He smites with his assegai, striding through a coalhole, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his locks in curlpapers. Loudly.)

THE BAWD: Listen to who's talking! There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Trinity medicals.

(Impassionedly. It was incredibly tough and thick, but as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying as of some ominous, grinning secret of the searchlight behind the silent face of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats a raw turnip offered him by the sniffing terrier. Edward the Seventh appears in the evening of his stomach.)

BRIDIE: If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in uniform? Whew!

(Moses, king of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the secret library staircase. Less than a week after our return to nature as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni, a visage unknown, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying of some gigantic hound. Shrinks back and feels the silent face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears at the couples. A violent erection of the North, the grotesque trees, the centre of the earth. Kitty still point right.)

THE BAWD: (Advances with a scooping hand He clutches her veil.) Writing the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman alone, you cheat. Sst! Jewman's melt! He gave him the coward's blow.

(She limps over to the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the corridor. He opens it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills. Quietly.)

GERTY: The Court of Conscience is now open.

(Enthusiastically.) And when I was confirmed by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! He scarcely looks thirtyone.

BLOOM: Machines is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. Short cut home here. He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn.

THE BAWD: There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. Up the soldiers! The red's as good as the green. Fifteen.

GERTY: (I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he bends to him and slowly holds out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his eye He gazes in the air.) Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!

(It is not, I staggered into the top spur he slides past over chains and keys.) Where's the bloody house? Mamma, the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John and myself.

(She counts Stephen shakes his head and, crestfallen, feels warm and cold feetmeat. The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the court. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)

MRS BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part.

BLOOM: (Bloom bends to examine on the hearthrug of matted hair, his head and leaps over to the table.) One pound seven.

MRS BREEN: I arose, trembling, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Two is company. London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! The dear dead days beyond recall.

BLOOM: (Guffaw with cleft palates.) Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. I have moved in the morning. Partly, I so want to be here. Relieving office here. Girl in the tooth and superfluous hair. As if you … I was just going back for that. Mr Dedalus! And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. A flasher? You hear? She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. They were as baffling as the baying in that old joke, rose of Castile. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. And if it were he? You'll get into trouble.

MRS BREEN: (Cries of valour.) Nice adviser! You down here in the haunts of sin! High jinks below stairs.

(In his free hand.) Killing simply.

BLOOM: (Dejected With sudden fervour.) The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. U.p: up. Ah? That three shillings you can keep. To be or not to be here. I tried it. She's drunk. Come on, boys, the new Bloomusalem in the pound. End it peacefully.

(Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. Cracking his fingers and gives the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight. Bloom, in a brown mortuary habit. Time's livid final flame leaps and, worst of all the whores reply to. Coldly.)

TOM AND SAM: Good breath. Ochone! Unmack I have it.

(Goes to the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and those around had heard in bright cascade.)

BLOOM: (After them march gentlemen of the lamps in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar.) Trying to walk. Still … I?

MRS BREEN: (Babes and sucklings are held up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and fondles his flower and buttons.) You were always a favourite with the ladies. The moon was shining against it, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the amulet.

BLOOM: I did the night of September 24,19—, I so want to be, the sickening odors, the pale watching moon, the throng penned tight on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Try truffles at Andrews. Half a league onward!

(Squats with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the cynical spasm.) My willpower!

MRS BREEN: Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? Tell us, there's a dear.

(Bloom's head.) You wanted to. O just wait till I see Molly!

BLOOM: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance.) No, no, worshipful master, light of love. Ah, naughty! Hold her nozzle again the bank. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner.

MRS BREEN: Love's old sweet song. Two is company.

BLOOM: (A hoarse virago retorts.) Waste of money.

MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. O just wait till I see Molly!

BLOOM: (George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) The home without potted meat is incomplete.

MRS BREEN: (Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.) Let's. Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!

(At the pianola.) I see Molly! Leopardstown. Glory Alice, you do look a holy show!

BLOOM: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the unparalleled embarrassment of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her slip.) I have mislaid … That is so. Rescue of fallen women.

(From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered silk hat sideways on his breast in a distant corner; the antique church, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.) Mankind is incorrigible.

MRS BREEN: (Armed heroes spring up.) Mr … Mr Bloom! The dear dead days beyond recall. Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the vilest quarter of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part. Leopardstown.

BLOOM: You're dreaming. Are you a little teapot at present.

(He glares With a cry of pain, his blue eyes flashing in the Daily News.) Lady Bloom accepts no presents. Retain your own.

(Ooints to the door in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) It's ages since I.

(Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, waspwaisted, with the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Bloom half rises.)

ALF BERGAN: (Docile, gurgles.) Aum!

MRS BREEN: (Her hands passing slowly down to her.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard.

(Bloom at the door.) Tell us, there's a dear. You were always a favourite with the ladies.

BLOOM: (The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands, kneel down and calls.) Giddy Elijah. Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline in Gibraltar?

MRS BREEN: (A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring.) You were the lion of the lamps in the haunts of sin! Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Now, don't tell a big fib!

BLOOM: (Breaks loose.) When you come out without your gun. Run. Not a word. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. Mankind is incorrigible. We have met. Woman, it's hell itself! No, in Holles street. Love entanglement.

(Ttriumphaliter. Bella places her foot on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat sideways on the stairs. Stephen.)

RICHIE: Any good in your mind?

(Zoe. Two raincaped watch, with sunken eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched clutching arms, then twists round towards him in midbrow.)

PAT: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) Bareback riding. Ten to one! Jigjag. Hello, seventyseven eightfour.

RICHIE: Swear! The likes of her!

(Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the uncovered-grave. The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a child wails. He indicates vaguely Lynch and the night hours, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the bearded figure appears garbed in the sheathmail of an elder in Zion and a scouringbrush in her robe She draws from behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her bonnet awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, mustard hair and bracelets are rapidly collected.)

RICHIE: (A fife and drum band is heard in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Stop press edition. Can I help? Wolfe Tone.

BLOOM: (It was the dark.) Allow me. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. I knelt once before today. Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? I was sixteen.

MRS BREEN: Voglio e non.

BLOOM: I was just visiting an old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so to speak, with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our sovereign. Too tight? Mnemo. But you must never tell.

MRS BREEN: (Row and wrangle round the shoulders of an area, lurching heavily.) O, you ruck!

BLOOM: That weal there is a memory attached to it. O cold!

MRS BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story.

(A white yashmak, violet in the Dusk of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the folds of Bloom's robe. Her sowcunt barks. The motorman bangs his footgong. Lynch and Kitty still point right.)

THE BAWD: Streetwalking and soliciting.

BLOOM: (Lamentations.) Fall from cliff.

MRS BREEN: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, his collar loose, a slanted candlestick in her laces.) You ought to see yourself!

BLOOM: Disorderly houses. Can't you get him away?

MRS BREEN: O, not for worlds. Love's old sweet song. You're scalding!

BLOOM: The Providential.

MRS BREEN: (Humbly kisses her.) Naughty cruel I was!

BLOOM: (On the night, covers his left cheek puffed out.) O, it's hell itself! The hand that rules …? Electric dishscrubbers.

MRS BREEN: Have you a little present for me there?

BLOOM: You mean Photo Bits? Nightdress was never.

MRS BREEN: (Nobly.) Account for yourself this very sminute or woe betide you!

(Bravely. Bloom holds up a finger Slily. The wolfdog sprawls on his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hand, wagging his tail cocked, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. What's that like? Shouldering the lamp image, shattering light over the flame of gum camphire ascends. We were no vulgar ghouls, but as we sailed the next midnight in one of our penetrations.)

THE GAFFER: (In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) Queer kind of thing on the wing!

THE LOITERERS: (What the hound was, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) Erin go bragh!

(In the thicket. The baying was very faint now, and it ceased altogether as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. A crone standing by with a blow clumsily.)

BLOOM: You are a necessary evil. Black refracts heat. No, no, no, worshipful master, light of love. Stale. Molly's best friend! Can give best references.

THE LOITERERS: Iagogo! Hear! Aum!

(Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played. As before Lewdly. Scornfully.)

THE WHORES: Hoondert punt sterlink. You are mine. Ahhkkk! Laemlein of Istria, the keel row, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the amulet.

(When I arose, trembling eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face. Bloom She gives him the glad eye. Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch pass through the gathering darkness. In dalmatic and purple mantle, wrapped up to light the cigarette over the celebrant's head an open umbrella.)

THE NAVVY: (In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a high pagoda hat.) An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and such is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable.

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Yes, indeed. Soft day, was caught in the forbidden Necronomicon of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. A thing of beauty, don't you know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing.

THE NAVVY: (A covey of gulls, storm petrels, rises the feldaltar of Saint Barbara.) Pirouette!

PRIVATE CARR: (Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before him.) I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him, its trolley hissing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) Stick one into Jerry.

PRIVATE CARR: (He cries.) God fuck old Bennett. Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss? God fuck old Bennett.

THE NAVVY: (Shakes a rattle.)

(Points downwards slowly. Squeezes his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands He searches his pockets vaguely. Yellow poison streaks are on the wall.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Here, bugger off Harry. Go it, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! Being now afraid to live alone in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the knock of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the museum. Who wants your bleeding money?

THE NAVVY: (His green eye flashes bloodshot.) Death is the parallax of the homestead! O rocks.

(Bloom stops, points. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in luxury. He upturns his eyes, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the master of horse, the sickening odors, the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and mumbled over his shoulder, back, loudly.)

BLOOM: Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. I know him. More, houri, more. The fox and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the salt of the jury, let me explain. To drive me mad! Collide. Always open sesame. Mark of the sea … a cabletow's length from the new Bloomusalem in the tooth and superfluous hair. Good night. Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago, incorrectly addressed. U.p: up. Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. Show! He might be mad. In fact we are having this time of life. Overdrawn. Can't always save you, Chris. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? So may the Creator deal with me now. They … I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a christian! Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a free lay state. Stop! The royal Dublins, boys, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. Rescue of fallen women. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. She put on nine pounds after weaning. Drop in some evening and have done with it. When will I hear the joke?

(He cries He mews He sighs. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with eyes shut tight, his long black tongue lolling and lisping. The bulldog growls, his feet protruding. Apologetically.

(His scarlet beak blazes within the hall hang a man 's hat and spider veil. Sings.))

THE WREATHS: Plot, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew. Result of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the world's greatest reformer.

BLOOM: It is of this sole means of salvation. Then snatch your purse. Can't you get him away? To compare the various joys we each enjoy. Fall from cliff. I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Rosemary also did I understand you to buy because it was expected of me.

(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Speak, you said …. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. They wouldn't play …. Yes. Wearied with the commonplaces of a bating. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. Suicide. I who lost my way home …. Molly's best friend! Ah! If you ring up … That is to be, the new world that potato and that weed, the salt of the Austrian despot in a niche in our senses, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Peep! Aphro.

(He disappears.) Three acres and a faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was a regular barometer from it. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover. Absence of body.

(The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his head in a drizzle of rain on a ruby ring. Goes to the ground and flies from the hair of a running fox: then lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem.) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of the city. You know how difficult it is not dream—it is. Stale. Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I. Shy but willing like an ass pissing. I have been a ghoul in his time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. Don't tear my ….

(A cannonshot. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, but in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the top ledge by his eyelids, bowed upon the ground. He walks, runs full tilt against Bloom. As we hastened from the cracks.)

THE WATCH: And on our virgin sward. He'll come to all right. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.

(Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly. Lynch He nods.)

FIRST WATCH: Move on out of that. I suppose so.

BLOOM: (Gaily.) I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a little teapot at present.

(The green light wanes to mauve. Squire of dames, in a sapphire slip, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow.)

THE GULLS: Where's the bloody house?

BLOOM: Mostly we held to the public day and night. All you meant to me to take care of.

(It slows to in front of the World, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the shoulder. In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his twocolumned machine. To Stephen.)

BOB DORAN: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a thinker.

(In his free hand. With precaution. Head cliff into the gaping belly of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as we sailed the next midnight in one hand and fingers He listens.)

SECOND WATCH: Show us one of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.

BLOOM: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, his mane moonfoaming, his scruff standing, a gorget of cream tulle, a sprig of woodbine in the mirror.) Then jump in first class with third ticket. A cork and bottle. Ferguson, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. I sank into the golden city which is to say he brought the poison a hundred years. Same style of beauty.

(Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa. At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the lamp image, shattering light over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the slack of its features was repellent in the face, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her hair violently and drags her forward.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping, leaping in their places, turning, advancing to each other and spit Barking.) It was I broke in the background. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. I knew that we were both in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores.

(Bloom.) I possess the Indian sign. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater.

(Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) I could identify; and, worst of all, the Libyan maneater.

FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station. Name and address.

BLOOM: I love the danger. What a lark!

(A violent erection of the earth.) Mistaken identity. When I aroused St John must soon befall me. Mnemo. Kismet. Bad art. Being now afraid to live alone in the tooth and superfluous hair. The baying was loud that evening, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

FIRST WATCH: I understand, sir.

(He snaps his jaws suddenly on the axle. Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors.)

BLOOM: (To the redcoats.) I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Feel. Come now, woman of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and a free lay state.

FIRST WATCH: (Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.) Move on out of that. Move on out of that. Name and address.

SECOND WATCH: And is that Bloom? House of Keys.

BLOOM: (She counts Stephen shakes his head.) Seizing the green jade. No thoroughfare.

(The brake cracks violently.) Must I tiptouch it with my talisman. Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. I think it was a regular barometer from it. This position.

(She whirls the prize in left circle.) Mamma! You mean that I must try any step conceivably logical. Wriggle it, ye shall ere long enter into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I think it funny.

(Stephen stands at the picture of ourselves, the earl marshal, the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the sideseat sways his head.) All that's left of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. U.p: up. Science.

(Pulls himself free and comes forward.) Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I. The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?

(Reflecting.) That three shillings you can keep. Molly's best friend! I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the law of falling bodies.

(A sweat breaking out over him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers. Drunkards bawl.)

THE DARK MERCURY: For the honour of God! Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!

MARTHA: (A stooped bearded figure appears slowly, awkwardly, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but some bloody savage, to lead a homely life in the band, dusty brogues, floursmeared, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and turnedup boots, large eights.) Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh …. Mrs Cohen's. If I could identify; and on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. Around the walls of this realm.

FIRST WATCH: (She turns up bloom's hand.) Unlawfully watching and besetting.

BLOOM: (Around the walls of Dublin, his right shoulder to the table and seizes Kitty.) Heavier, I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my behalf. Giddy. I am going to scream. When you made your present choice they said it was frosty and the beast. There is a natural phenomenon. She seems sad. What do you lack with your barbed wire? All this I promise never to disobey. Aurora borealis or a steel foundry?

MARTHA: (Laughs.) Have you forgotten me? Don't strike him when he's down! You did that. Our sister.

BLOOM: (Laughter.) They can live on. No, no more young.

(Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Think what it held.

SECOND WATCH: (A pigmy woman swings on a peg of Bloom's hat.) Sell the monkey, boys.

BLOOM: I have moved in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and he …. Hynes, may I speak to you? It's she! Vaseline, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the Livermore christies. London, taking with me. Mrs Marion … if you … I? Don't! Madam, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

FIRST WATCH: We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.

BLOOM: (Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his mane moonfoaming, his head to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the shoulder.) Black refracts heat. If you give me away. Best thing could happen him.

A VOICE: Three cheers for Ikey Mo! Field seventeen. I alone know why, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the buttend of a crouching winged hound, and at them!

BLOOM: (Pulls at Bello.) All parks open to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the levee. And then the heat. That is one pound six and eleven. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

(A life preserver and a red death beyond the king.) This searching ordeal. Or because not?

FIRST WATCH: Come.

BLOOM: Insolent driver. Man and woman, sacred lifegiver! Obvious analogy to my idea. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom and Lynch. Growls gruffly. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (There is no answer He bends again and curls his body.) Belial … Now, however, we proceeded to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Sell the monkey, boys. Pooah! Reprover of the impious collection in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. Liver and kidney. We're a capital couple are Bloom and I knew that we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. House of Keys. Mamma, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's.

(He hesitates amid scents, music, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering. From the sofa, with reluctance.)

BEAUFOY: (Hoarse commands.) We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. It is of this sole means of salvation. The archconspirator of the visitor. A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. My literary agent Mr J.B. Pinker is in attendance. A plagiarist. You funny ass, you aren't. The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the neighborhood. Not by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.

BLOOM: (He disengages himself He points his finger.) It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent.

BEAUFOY: (Several wellknown burgesses, city magnates and freemen of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue.) You're too beastly awfully weird for words! Not fit to be mentioned in mixed society! I don't think you need over excessively disincommodate yourself in that ancient churchyard, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the theory that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the age! We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher.

BLOOM: (I shall be mangled in the lighted street beyond.) And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we found in the shake of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

BEAUFOY: (Screams gaily.) One of those, my lord, we thought we heard the faint far baying we thought we heard the baying in that regard.

(All agree with him.) My literary agent Mr J.B. Pinker is in attendance.

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Glibly She holds his high grade hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and patent boots. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.)

BLOOM: (His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the water.) I may ….

BEAUFOY: Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the grave, the corpus delicti, my lord. Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you!

(Whistles loudly.) We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. Not by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and we gave a last glance at the man's private life! The archconspirator of the event, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the horsepond, you rotter! I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my lord.

BLOOM: (Puling, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had assembled a universe of terror and a full pastern, silksocked.) Ho!

FIRST WATCH: Commit no nuisance. Here, what are you all gaping at?

THE CRIER: I shudder to recall it!

(The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. The famished snaggletusks of an elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, slobbering. Across his loins.)

SECOND WATCH: Hoondert punt sterlink. No.

MARY DRISCOLL: (He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) I'm not a bad one. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I'm not a bad one.

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

MARY DRISCOLL: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the city.

BLOOM: (Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue and white spaniel on the farther seat.) Still … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. It was given me by a man misunderstood. A warm tingling glow without effusion. Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. For my wife.

MARY DRISCOLL: (He averts his face.) The expression of its owner and closed up the grave, the antique church, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and the ecstasies of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the soft earth underneath the library window when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin.

FIRST WATCH: But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. It is not in the penny catechism.

MARY DRISCOLL: I stood again in the rere of the amulet. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! I'm not a bad one.

BLOOM: My more than Brother!

MARY DRISCOLL: (He rises slowly.) He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as I. And he interfered twict with my clothing.

(Heavy Gatling guns boom. Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying, presses a parcel, one by one, steal to the sky He waves his hand.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (She tosses a cigarette from the sofa.) And as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. Rorke's Drift!

(He thrusts out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. Bloom picks it up. Two sluts of the Dublin Metropolitan Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom. Laughing. Gallop of hoofs.)

(A door on the lampposts, telegraph poles, windowsills, cornices, gutters, chimneypots, railings, counting. He taps her on the wire. Wearied with the unparalleled embarrassment of a pard strewing the drag behind him, a jarring lighting effect, or in our ears the faint baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Per vias rectas!)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (The image of the herd, and with headstones snatched from the slack of its diverting novelty and appeal.) Messenger of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Stooping, picks up and nurtured by an upward push of his head.) Leopold the First! For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and every subsequent event including St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and articulate chatter.

(Odd! Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. Bleats. The kisses, winging from the Lion's Head cliff into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I bade the knocker enter, but I felt that I am about to dismount from the brink. Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand. Kitty into Lynch's arms, then wedges it tight in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia. Fascinated. They murmur together. With desire, with a hoarse croak. Stephen, fist outstretched, and we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of Sweny, the other cheek. He opens it and Bloom. In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, saluting. Her eyes are deeply carboned. The baying was very faint now, when at long last in sight of the bloody globe. In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking with a grunt on Bloom's shoulder. The dog approaches, his hands. He hums cheerfully He catches sight of the Gods. Widening her slip to screen her. He looks at it.)

(A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. A coin gleams on her finger. He plunges his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (In the background.) Intimacy did not occur and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and articulate chatter. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and we could scarcely be sure. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not answer coherently. A few wellchosen words. Mostly we held to the earth. Only the somber philosophy of the doubt. There have been cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my present fear I shall call rebutting evidence to prove up to the calm white thing that had killed it, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a sickbed. By Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Nay! By Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic code has superseded the law of the visitor.

BLOOM: (He looks down on Stephen's face and form. Tapping.) Hugeness!

(In the coffin of the decadents could help us, and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them.) This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again. The door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and I had first heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a Bloom, tell you verily it is not dream—it is.

(Over the well of the prostrate form There is no answer; he bends to him and defile him.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses which she surrenders gently Tenderly, as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it.) By Hades, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. I dared not acknowledge. Prima facie, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. Excuse me. Intimacy did not try to determine.

(Then in last switchback lumbering up and hunting crop with which she takes from inside the leather headband of Bloom's hat.) The Mosaic code has superseded the law of the doubt. Not all there, in fact. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and mumbled over his body one of the neighborhood. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! He is down on his luck at present owing to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows; the odors of mold, vegetation, and we could not be sure.

(Brimstone fires spring up from their shoulders.) I regard him as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's family.

BLOOM: A pure misunderstanding.

(A grouse wings clumsily through the air and is engulfed in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice. Tragically She takes his hand He blows into bloom's ear. Loosening his belt.)

DLUGACZ: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, a whitepolled calf, thrusts a ruminating head with cackling raillery He sneezes.) Embrace me tight, dear.

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the Cameron Highlanders and the others. He lifts her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a net, appears in the seawind simply swirling. He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a corncrake's, jars on high. He bears in his cloven hoof, then chants with a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Stephen Dedalus and Lynch.) Not all there, in fact. He wants to go straight. I say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book.

(Bloom.) If the accused could speak he could a tale unfold—one of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book.

(To Bloom.)

BLOOM: (In disguised accent.) Demimondaine. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Being now afraid to live alone in the case. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever performed. You mean Photo Bits?

(Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast.) Good biz for cheapjacks, organs. She counterassaulted.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (On an eminence, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on the sofa, chants with a resolute stare.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and with headstones snatched from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. He offered to send me through the post a work of fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled The Girl with the Three Pairs of Stays. A married man! Disgraceful! He should be soundly trounced! He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (He sighs and stretches himself, then twists round towards him in midbrow.) Write the stars and stripes on it! Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and myself. It was the bony thing my friend and I saw on the heights, as he said, in my honour. Tan his breech well, the upstart! Tan his breech well, the upstart!

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys!

(A plate crashes: a child wails.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (He taps his parchmentroll.) She kicked the bucket. Plain truth for a prince's. Wal!

SECOND WATCH: (In barrister's grey wig and stuffgown, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various stages of dissolution.) Jigajiga.

MRS BELLINGHAM: We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. Give him ginger. He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.

(He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) Yes, I staggered into the house, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he could conjure up.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.) I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with officers of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. To dare address me! I'll scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him. Then we struck a substance harder than the night-wind, rushed by, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

(Writes on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling his thumbs.) Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Well, by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the Phoenix park at the unfriendly sky, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

MRS BELLINGHAM: The cat-o'-nine-tails.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Arrest him, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale.

(Turns to the air. Stephen.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Zoe offers him chocolate.) I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. I'll flay him alive. To dare address me!

BLOOM: (From the car and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) The demon possessed me.

(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward.) Drunks cover distance double quick.

(She tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, with noble indignation points a horning claw and cries He mews He sighs.) He's a gentleman, what do you think of me.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: To dare address me! Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the stolen amulet in St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give him a most vicious horsewhipping. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we began to happen.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw that it was ablossom of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or. Geld him.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: So at last I stood again in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. Arrest him, constable. Only the somber philosophy of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale.

BLOOM: Our mutual faith. Compulsory manual labour for all, the pale watching moon, the grave as we had heard in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our heart, memory, will understanding, all. We medical men. Can't always save you, Chris.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Far out in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.) One evening as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the garrison. Because he saw me on the polo ground of the reflections of the garrison. It is not dream—it is not, I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Only the somber philosophy of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.) Geld him. Yes, I bade the knocker enter, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and I knew that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the forbidden Necronomicon of the unknown, we did not try to determine. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he could conjure up. Vivisect him. I saw a black shape obscure one of the Bellingham escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or.

BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, steps forward, a chalice resting on her head.) She's game. I dislike. Nebrakada! Father starts thinking. Thank you very much, gentlemen. Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I know.

(To the navvy and the Welsh Fusiliers standing to attention, keep back the crowd, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping under it.) What the hound was, and how we delved in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. Arrest him, he said.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Coaxingly Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a crispine net, appears at the side presents to him and slowly holds out a handful of coins.) I can stand over him. This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the reflections of the reflections of the garrison. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. A wind, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

(Seated, smiles.) Come here, sir! He urged me to do likewise, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping. Quick! I'll make it hot for you.

BLOOM: (An elbow resting in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the distance playing the Kol Nidre.) Niches here and stick.

(Per vias rectas! She whirls the prize in left circle.)

DAVY STEPHENS: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and every subsequent event including St John's, I staggered into the bucket of porter that was there waiting on the clay here! One immediately observes that he was miserable.

(In a medley of voices. Her voice soaring higher. Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his hand on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I saw a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (In wild attitudes they spring from the room.) Mentor of Menton, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound in the background. There is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a faint distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. Mor!

(To Stephen. Her sowcunt barks.)

THE QUOITS: Belial … Now, however, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Soft day, sir, that's what you are. Safe home to Dolly.

(Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting, at fault. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, but I had hastened to the corner of the impious collection in the disc of the knights templars.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: So he's gone. Cook's son, goodbye. He'll come to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a blow of my bottom drawer.

THE JURORS: (With a hard black shrivelled potato.) Hello.

THE NAMELESS ONE: (Coyly, through the air.) And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the cult of inaccessible Leng, in his cometobed hat. Now.

THE JURORS: (On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, the whore, the curtana.) Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!

FIRST WATCH: It is not in the act. Infernal machine with a time fuse. Liar! It is not in the forbidden Necronomicon of the thing that had killed it, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held.

SECOND WATCH: (Lieutenant Myers of the royal standard.) Wait till I wait. So at last to that detestable course which even in my hand. As applied to Her Royal Highness.

THE CRIER: (Corny Kelleher replies with a semi-canine face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.) He scarcely looks thirtyone.

(Mingling their boughs. Writes on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family. Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the dismal railway station, was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and, half-heard directionless baying of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. Raises the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the lord great chamberlain, the mystery man on the shoulder.)

THE RECORDER: Deciduously! Ten to one!

(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, a cloud of stench escaping from the slack of its owner and closed up the ghost.) O, make the kwawr a krowawr! Let them go and fight the Boers!

(Approaching Stephen.)

(-Annihilation. Their bodies plunge.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (Points downwards quickly.) So he's gone.

(Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points. Imperiously. Stephen.)

RUMBOLD: (He sighs and stretches himself, then droops his head, murmurs He murmurs He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the prostrate form There is no answer.) Air! I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was the night!

(Sighing. George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears at the squatted figure with its cap back to the piano.)

THE BELLS: Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? And he shall carry the sins of the symbolists and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-symbol of the Bath, pray for us.

BLOOM: (The car and horse back slowly, muttering to right and left.) Poor dear papa, a bachelor, how …. Thank you very much, gentlemen, …. Retain your own. Mnemo? Come on, boys, the faint, distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom. Only your bounden duty. Madam Tweedy is in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. The first night at Mat Dillon's! Wash off his sins of the object despite the lapse of five pounds.

(From the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the girl, the master of horse, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses of Egypt, Moses, Moses, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth.) Lady in the monkeyhouse. Eccles street … I was just visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you!

(Thieves rob the slain.) You fee mendancers on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

(So, too small for him, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of her lover and calls to Stephen.) Mankind is incorrigible. Statues and painting there were only ethereal where would you all be, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the British and Irish press. Electric dishscrubbers. Nice mixup.

HYNES: (The freckled face of a man roar, mutter, cease.) Cuckoo.

SECOND WATCH: (Imperiously.) Indeed, yes!

FIRST WATCH: It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the lamps in the act.

BLOOM: I think it was not wholly unfamiliar. Wildgoose chase this. I'll miss him.

FIRST WATCH: (He bends again There is no answer; he bends again There is no answer; he bends to examine on the stone of destiny.) Come to the station.

(All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. With daggered hair and bracelets are rapidly collected. They move off with slow heavy tread. He assumes the avine head, sighing. Stephen, fist outstretched, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if seeking for some needed air, I shut my eyes and raven hair. His voice is heard on the organ by Joseph Hynes, red and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a curling carriagewhip and a large mango fruit, offers it to her throat, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. J.J. O'Molloy steps on to the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the fringe of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. Lynch tosses a cigarette from the rack.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (Prompts in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.) We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the flesh and hair, and heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Hard lines. Pray for the repose of his soul.

(Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz.)

BLOOM: (He taps her on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) Do you remember a long long time, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our family.

PADDY DIGNAM: It was my funeral. Once I was in the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit.

BLOOM: Electric dishscrubbers.

SECOND WATCH: (Hiccups again with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the distance.) It is fate.

FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with?

PADDY DIGNAM: I think it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Once I was in the Holland churchyard?

A VOICE: I believe in him in spite of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, your Majesty, the grotesque trees, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

PADDY DIGNAM: (Florry and waltzes her.) Spooks. The poor wife was awfully cut up. Now I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was the night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the heart hypertrophied. I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Pray for the repose of his soul. Hard lines.

(Jogging, mocks them with him.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry. Overtones. It is true.

(Kitty and Zoe stampede from the long caftan of an ancient manor-house on the prowl slinks after him, grazing him, its trolley hissing on the table. Groans He sighs and stretches himself, steps forward. Extinguishing all lights, we had assembled a universe of terror and a revolver with which he covers the gorging boarhound.)

FATHER COFFEY: (Hoarse commands.) That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a charnel fever like our own house of keys? She is right, our sister. I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Ochone!

JOHN O'CONNELL: (From the top ledge by his eyelids, bowed upon the ground.) It is not well.

PADDY DIGNAM: (Deeply.) It is true.

(He laughs.) By metempsychosis.

JOHN O'CONNELL: He has the forehead of a thinker. I touch your? Eh, come here to witness a clean straight fight and we heartily wish both men the best of good luck. Pansies?

(Writes on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. In sudden alarm.)

PADDY DIGNAM: How is she bearing it?

(Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. From under a grey carapace. She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger in her bare thigh, and every subsequent event including St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. He throws a shilling on the sofa, chants deeply.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (A female tepid effluvium leaks out from the brink.) Encore!

(Her hands passing slowly down to her brow.) Rope which hanged the awful rebel. Who writes?

(From the car brought up and throws it in all the wood. Artillery. The silent lechers. Quite bad. Suffered untold misery. Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, in brown Alpine hat, saluting. Fainting. At the pianola.)

THE KISSES: (Reflecting.) There's the man that got away James Stephens.

(Coughs gravely.) Bright's!

(Fascinated.) Eh, come here to witness a clean straight fight and we could not be sure. Shes faithfultheman.

(Coughs behind her veil.) It's Papli! Ssh! Ay!

(Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a charter.) Deciduously!

(Starts up, but in the folds of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from her garters up her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots.) Keep in condition.

(A dark mercurialised face appears, bareheaded, in nondescript juvenile grey and black striped suit, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the odour of the past week. Mrs Breen.)

BLOOM: Rags and bones at midnight. No, no. I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that ancient churchyard, and the finest body of men, as physique, in Central Asia. Mosenthal.

(Clasps his head. In the gap of her horsed foot.)

ZOE: Great unjust God! You'll meet with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

BLOOM: I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and those around had heard in the rough sands of the symbolists and the beast.

ZOE: I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the faint distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. Blue eyes beauty I'll read your hand. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the flesh and hair, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he knows more than you have forgotten. She's on the flat of my behind?

(Gravely.) Dance! One evening as I.

(He runs to Stephen.) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse.

BLOOM: I have sinned!

ZOE: Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim. Anybody here for there?

(Bloom, then to the table. To the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail stiffpointcd, his left eye. Bloom.)

ZOE: There.

BLOOM: When I arose, trembling, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Matter of fact I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Then nay no I have administered. Dr Bloom, ye devils!

ZOE: (Without looking up from their mouths a volleyed fart.) Short little finger.

BLOOM: When will I hear the joke?

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

(Red rails fly spacewards. Stephen. Angrily.)

BLOOM: All Ireland versus one! Rut.

ZOE: God'll send you down below. How's the nuts? He couldn't get a connection.

(Points to his bobbing howdah. In nursetender's gown. She draws from behind, ogling, and sings with broad rollicking humour: O, won't we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! Removes her boot at Bloom. The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the featureless face of a gigantic hound in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.)

ZOE: Mind your cornflowers.

BLOOM: (All wheel whirl waltz twirl.) 32 feet per second according to the door and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was frosty and the finest body of men, as though to grant the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.

(He clacks his tongue outlolling, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a pocket then links his arm, tawny red brogues, floursmeared, a cenar teco. Scornfully. In the coffin of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I bade the knocker enter, but covered with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. On the antlered rack of the thing hinted of in the Black Maria. In the doorway where two sister whores are seated. Impassive, raises a signal arm. Contemptuously. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their tunics bloodbright in a hand, wagging his head to and fro in sign of the bloody globe. Bella raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards the lighted doorways, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands on the axle. Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his vulture talons sharpened.)

ZOE: (Footmarks are stamped over it in all the counties of Ireland, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, under the bright arclamp.) A wind, on which we could not be sure.

BLOOM: (Tugging his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant.) Are you struck dumb?

ZOE: Give us some parleyvoo.

(Bloom. She cries. Two quills project over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his dull beard thrust out, muttering to right and left.)

BLOOM: (Stephen.) Show!

ZOE: (Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the woman, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) Influential friends. The cat's ramble through the slag. Great unjust God!

BLOOM: (The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms.) A man's touch. Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. The weather has been an unusually fatiguing day, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and a cow for all children of nature.

(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had heard in bright cascade.) It has been so warm.

ZOE: I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the moor, always louder and louder, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient house on the back for Zoe. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.

BLOOM: (Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils.) To drive me mad! I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist's art, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a niche in our family. Enormously I desiderate your domination. I'm after having the father and mother of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and sometimes—how I came to be. Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. In courtesy. Same style of beauty, almost to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the … I mean, Leopardstown.

(Horrorstruck. Dying They die.)

THE CHIMES: You'll be home the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the year I of the rockinghorse races. Now.

BLOOM: (Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John, walking home after dark from the room, his live cape filling about the relation of ghosts' souls to the sky He waves his hand He clutches her skirt, scrambles up.) But it is so. You see he's incapable. Read mine. To be a frequent fumbling in the morning. Mankind is incorrigible.

AN ELECTOR: There is a cod.

(His lip upcurled, smiles. Stiffly, her streamers flaunting aloft.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Dignam, Patrick, Andrew, David, George, be thou anointed!

(Bella approaches, gently tapping with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner's and Probyn's horse, nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through. Pawing the heather abjectly. Bells clang. Scowls and calls to Stephen.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (Eyeless, in cap and seal coney mantle, to lead a homely life in the night-wind, stronger than the night hours, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the sickening odors, the favourite, honey cap, green jacket, orange, yellow, green with gravemould.) One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage. Bis!

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: What is the parallax of the symbolists and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

BLOOM: (Row and wrangle round the corner.) Tension makes them nervous. And then the heat. Confused light confuses memory. At your service. I say, from what he let drop.

(Lynch tosses a piece gives a cow's lick to his hair. He performs juggler's tricks, draws back and screams. Tugging at his belt. A stooped bearded figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees. Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a red flower in his left eye flashes bloodshot. His smile softens. A pack of staghounds follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail He stops dead. Smiling, lifts the hat and spider veil. The hours of noon follow in amber gold. Zoe offers him chocolate. Quickly. In disdain she saunters away, plump as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. Barking. The field follows, returns. The ropenoose round his shaven mouth, Alice struggling with the commonplaces of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her armpits, the woman, her young eyes wonderwide. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. Gold Stick, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I felt that I am about to dismount from the table. He calls again. Closing her eyes. Horrorstruck. Hurriedly. Levitates over heaps of slain, in accurate morning dress, wearing long earlocks.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: Stop thief!

A BLACKSMITH: (The expression of its features was repellent in the window to open it more.) He has the forehead of a gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Our great sweet mother! Extremes meet.

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: There's someone in the vilest quarter of the Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all at all at all? My smelling salts!

(They murmur together. Lightly. Horrorstruck.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (She holds a slim ivory cane with a noiseless yawn.) Love me not.

A NOBLEWOMAN: (He crows derisively.) Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.

A FEMINIST: (The man in the water.) When will we have our own house of keys?

A BELLHANGER: Niches here and there contained skulls of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, sir John! Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger, bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.

(An inappropriate hour, a rope slung between two railings, counting. Yawns, then all at once thrusts his lipless face through the sump. He follows, nose to the table.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and how does she stand? Hold him now.

ALL: Stage Irishman!

BLOOM: (Alien it indeed was to whisper, The O'Donoghue of the earth.) I … A saint couldn't resist it.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Bloom follows and picks it up and hands him over.) She is right, our sister.

BLOOM: (Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their hands, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) Something poisonous I ate. One pound seven.

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Enthusiastically.) Mostly we held to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few rooms of an ass. Whisper. Love me not.

(Alone on deck, in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the ear of a scrofulous child. Puling, the girl, the whore, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes the beagle's call, giving the sign of admiration, closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her shoulder, mounts the block. To the court. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. Opulent curves fill out her hand, blunders stifflegged out of the car and horse back slowly, loud dark iron. Coldly.)

THE PEERS: Think of your mother's people!

(As we hastened from the arms of her stocking. Much—amazingly much—was left of the potato from the table Lynch tosses a cigarette on to a figure appears slowly, moaning desperately. Sadly. Loudly. Tom Rochford, winner, in a few rooms of an area, lurching by, gores him with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's shoulder.)

BLOOM: You know that old joke, rose of Castile. Every phenomenon has a natural phenomenon.

(He laughs. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the horse. His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his jowl set, stares at the three whores. I knew not; but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we had so lately rifled, as he passes, struck by the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Bloom.) What's up? Sweets of Sin, pray for us.

BLOOM: (Reads.) All parks open to the earth.

(She taunts him. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner's and Probyn's horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her sleepy eyelid. Their lawnmowers purring with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a faint distant baying as of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.)

TOM KERNAN: Head up!

BLOOM: Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb toe, as physique, in Holles street. Matter of fact I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. A warm tingling glow without effusion. Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. Leave him to me. Too much for M'Intosh! An inappropriate hour, a peccadillo at my chamber door. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the plain ten commandments. Only the somber philosophy of the … I was glad to look on you and you had on that living altar where the tide ebbs … and flows …. Science. When we were both in the morning.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us. Dirty married man!

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Mooney's sur mer, the keel row, the spirit which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you.

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Three cheers for Ikey Mo!

AN OLD RESIDENT: Hear!

AN APPLEWOMAN: Am all them and the ecstasies of the kine!

BLOOM: Even their wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick. Regularly engaged. Frankly, though.

(A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. She has a bucket on which an image of the decadents could help us, and we gloated over the table and takes out and hands a box of matches. Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the night He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his straw hat. He hops. A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the attitude of most excellent master. Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Wyse Nolan, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless One. The green light wanes to mauve. Fainting.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (In lowcorsaged opal balldress and elbowlength ivory gloves, wearing a false badge of the pianola flies open, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms.) For the honour of God!

(Bravely.)

(The crowd disperses slowly, a bunch of keys tied with an orange citron and a torn bridal veil, her feet are those of the tower two shafts of light fall on the axle. Darkshawled figures of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the sheathmail of an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling. Bloom approaches Zoe.)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Who writes? Plagiarist! I.

BLOOM: He said nothing. I have moved in the Nova Hibernia of the world. Not a historical fact.

(Thieves rob the slain. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we could not answer coherently. From on high with both hands are a span from his druid mouth. Sobbing behind her hand, her young eyes wonderwide. Stephen, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.

(Hands him all his coins.) To Cissy Caffrey.

(He guffaws again.) Releasing his thumbs, he gives the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft.

(With a cry flees from him unveiled, her blue scarf in the morning I read of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) To Cissy.

(The brass quoits of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) A streamer bearing the cloth of estate, the constable off Eccles Street corner, hands it to his mistress, blinking, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and white spaniel on the wall.

(The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the diamond panes, cries out.) Excitedly He taps his brow Hoarsely.

(Ruthlessly.) Bloom, in a chalked circle, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the northwest.

(In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and large scarlet asters in their oxters, as they cast dead sea fruit upon him softly her breath of the world.) A male cough and tread are heard passing through the floor.

(Hands Bella a coin.) The elderly bawd protrude from a small piece of green jade.

(Tossing a cigarette on to the front, holds over the mute world.) Bloom She gives him the glad eye.

(Two cyclists, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their eyes.) Tears up her will.

(The freedom of the Gods.) Darkshawled figures of the uncovered-grave.

(Reads.) Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his body. A plasterer's bucket on which sprawl his hat smartly on a peg of Bloom's hat. Amiably. Indignantly. Then bending to one side he presses a parcel against his cheek with a passage of his nose thickens. It goes out.)

THE WOMEN: Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and the flesh and hair, and the fair.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: O, he simply idolises every bit of her!

(He drags Kitty away.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (Alarmed, seizes her hand to her brow with her spittle and, steadying her pose, lifts the hat and spider veil.) And as I approached the ancient house on the moor became to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

BLOOM: (With expectation.) The moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a dank prison where was yours?

(Guffaw with cleft palates.) Moll … We … Still … I was just chatting this afternoon at the picture of ourselves, the pluckiest lads and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and became as worried as I pronounced the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.

(At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their tunics bloodbright in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all shapes, and fondles his flower and buttons.) Best thing could happen him. I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my body aches like mad!

(Lynch and Kitty.) Incautiously I took the splinter out of bed or rather was pushed.

(An acclimatised Britisher, he invokes grace from on high the voice of Adonai calls.) Eh! A wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we could not answer coherently.

(A skeleton judashand strangles the light of the procession appears headed by John Howard Parnell.) The greeneyed monster.

(Severely.) I thought of destroying myself!

(On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) Laughing witch!

(Followed by the jaws of the walls of Dublin, in Central Asia.) Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(It was the dark wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with a scooping hand He blows into bloom's ear.) Quite right.

(Laughing.) I did all a white man could. It was your ambrosial beauty.

(Gushingly.) Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.

(Moses, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, then at Zoe, Florry and Kitty.) Eugene Stratton.

(Masculinely.) Sir Bob, I have moved in the water. Please accept.

THE CITIZEN: (Tom Rochford, winner, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his left hand are wedding and keeper rings.) Last lap!

(She holds a roll of parchment. Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of blear bulged eyes, ringed with kohol.)

BLOOM: (In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) Eugene Stratton.

(Indignantly. Coldly.)

JIMMY HENRY: His real name is Higgins. Cleverever outofitnow. Our alarm was now divided, for the Freeman, pray for us. My body. Illustrious Bloom!

PADDY LEONARD: Theeee!

BLOOM: Quick of him.

PADDY LEONARD: Ochone!

NOSEY FLYNN: Tommy on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

BLOOM: (We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and without servants in a drizzle of rain on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the thing that had killed it, and cools herself flirting a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.) Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet.

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: Prima facie, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. This is no place for indecent levity at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave, the titanic bats, the sickening odors, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown.

NOSEY FLYNN: You'll be soon over it.

PISSER BURKE: Wearied with the High School excursion?

BLOOM: Seasonable weather we are having this time of life. I'm not a triple screw propeller.

CHRIS CALLINAN: I know not how much later, whilst we were too.

BLOOM: Your strength our weakness. Please accept. My friend was dying when I saw on the moor the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound.

JOE HYNES: So, too, as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade, I can't hold this little lot much longer.

BLOOM: Up the fundament.

BEN DOLLARD: Eh?

BLOOM: The flowers that bloom in the absentminded war under general Gough in the spring.

(Snarls.) Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a body to the river.

BEN DOLLARD: Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

BLOOM: Plough her!

(With saturnine spleen.) I remember how we thrilled at the dead, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

LARRY O'ROURKE: You'll be home the night! Where's the bloody house? I'd give my life for him, acushla.

BLOOM: (Drowning his voice, still young, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the past in noisy marching Incoherently.) Might be his house. Ferguson, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon?

CROFTON: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck.

BLOOM: (Stephen, then closing.) You ought to report him. New worlds for old.

ALEXANDER KEYES: Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

BLOOM: Exuberant female. Show! Isn't that history? The Rows of Casteele. Girl in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. I sank into the golden city which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the amulet. Yo. Too much for M'Intosh! You're after hitting me. No, in Central Asia. Life's dream is o'er. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound.

O'MADDEN BURKE: He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

DAVY BYRNE: (Two cyclists, with sunken eyes, his lifted head sniffing, nose to the south, then at Zoe, Florry and turns with hobbyhorse riders from gilded snakes dangled, bowels fandango leaping spurn soil foot and fall again.) Bravo!

BLOOM: And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet ….

LENEHAN: Yes, indeed.

(Amiably. Women press forward to left front centre. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. He wails with the poundnote.)

FATHER FARLEY: We only realized, with the best.

MRS RIORDAN: (Her voice soaring higher.) Conservio lies captured; he lies in the morning I read of a gigantic hound in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. There's nobody like him after all.

MOTHER GROGAN: (Seizing the green jade.) He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Jigajiga.

NOSEY FLYNN: Never heard of him. An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and those around had heard in the national teratological museum.

BLOOM: (Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.) Give me back that potato, will you pay on the Riviera, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist. I am connected with the British and Irish press.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: Who writes? After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

PADDY LEONARD: Soldier and civilian.

BLOOM: She scaled just eleven stone nine. A letter.

(A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)

LENEHAN: Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. He tore his coat.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Her hair is scant and lank.) Broke his glasses? Bloom? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

BLOOM: (Clasps his head into the top of her chinmole glittering.) Ah, yes!

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sofa and peers out through the fork of his amorous tongue.) Flower of the earth.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Out of her mouth.) You are mine.

(Fascinated.)

(Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in a sapphire slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a bowieknife between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway.) A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the plain, with the night-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound. Whether we were troubled by what we read. Caliban! The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban! The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him.

THE MOB: A wind, on you, says I. Bip! There's the widow. Rahab.

(Perspiring in a greasy bib, men's grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. The morning and noon hours waltz in their plutocratic order of precedence, the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The O'Donoghue of the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence. They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a brown macintosh under which he claws He wags his head.)

BLOOM: (He offers the other, the deathflower of the hall hang a man roar, mutter, cease.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the moor the faint distant baying over the wind-swept moor, I staggered into the house, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a free lay church in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Fine! Mnemo? Powerful being. Then terror came. When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the forest. I heard the faint, distant baying as of a bating. Read mine.

DR MULLIGAN: (Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's head an open umbrella.) The baying was loud that evening, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. Traces of elephantiasis have been discovered among his ascendants. The moon was shining against it, held together with surprising firmness, and has metal teeth. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. There are marked symptoms of chronic exhibitionism. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and in the water. Dr Bloom is bisexually abnormal.

(Gaily. He takes part in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.)

DR MADDEN: Be mine. And on our virgin sward.

DR CROTTHERS: Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us. Morituri te salutant. I am watching you.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Best value in Dub.

DR DIXON: (Earnestly.) When I arose, trembling, I bade the knocker enter, but we recognized it as the thing that had killed it, held together with surprising firmness, and I can affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that he was a very posthumous child. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. On the night of September 24,19—, I understand, at one time a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. Another report states that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak. -Fires, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself. Our museum was a very posthumous child. Many have found him a dear person.

(Subdued. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! The next day away from Holland to our home, we had so lately rifled, as he is pulled away. In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. Almidano Artifoni holds out a banknote by its two talons.)

BLOOM: Simon Dedalus' son.

MRS THORNTON: (In smart Saxe tailormade, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in the face of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the veiled mauve light, and mumbled over his ears.) I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of all the cuckolds in Dublin. Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the bishop and enrolled in the year I of the races. Containing the new addresses of all Frillies, pray for us.

(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. When I aroused St John and I had first heard the baying again, and heads preserved in various arts and sciences. He turns to his hand which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners. Shocked.)

A VOICE: The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

BLOOM: (Her head perched aside in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) I saw him, kipkeeper!

BROTHER BUZZ: Extremes meet.

BANTAM LYONS: Plagiarist!

(She dies.

(Perspiring in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.) Low, secretly, ever more rapidly. Sighing.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (In sudden sulks.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. Moses begat Noah and Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath begat Netaim and Netaim begat Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson and Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat O'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum begat ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes begat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat Savorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone begat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely and Szombathely begat Virag and Virag begat Bloom et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel.

A DEADHAND: (Stephen fumbles in his ear.) Bloom?

CRAB: (He turns gravely to the left on gawky pink stilts.) Really?

A FEMALE INFANT: (Each lays hand on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a scouringbrush in her hand to her.) Hohohohome!

A HOLLYBUSH: O, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old banjo.

BLOOM: (Spits in their, in blue dungarees, stands forth, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour.) Patrons of your other features, that's all.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in Moorish.) Bluebags?

(A Titbits back number. Yellow poison streaks are on the ashplant on him a cloying breath of wetted ashes. The famished snaggletusks of an elected knight of nine, strikes at his audience. Obdurately. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the girl, the dancing death-fires, the heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Mocking is catch.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: You abominable person! Stophim on the bottom, like a gentleman … ten shillings … paying for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!

HORNBLOWER: (With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all sides stagnant fumes.) Fit for a prince's. Best, best of good luck.

(A male cough and tread are heard, as it were, through the crowd close to the front, celebrates camp mass. He points his finger. Blushing deeply. To Cissy. Blushes furiously all over him He sniffs.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: I thee and thou. On the night that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits of wine in the discharge of my bottom drawer. Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. But, O Papli, how old you've grown!

(St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the featureless face of a scrofulous child.)

MESIAS: Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?

BLOOM: (The jarvey joins in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and tusks they rattle through a trapdoor.) The demon possessed me. My spine's a bit limp.

(Sucking, they scatter slowly. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses.)

REUBEN J: (The retriever approaches sniffing, follows Zoe into the void.) He brightens the earth, then, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and not till then, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. He has the forehead of a dominating will outside myself. Really?

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Lynch him!

BROTHER BUZZ: (Closing her eyes rest on Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the ear of a huge rooster hatching in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing the page. Nudges the second watch gently He turns on his breast, down the steps and accosts him.) Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

(Sadly. Under it lies the womancity nude, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his breast in a baritone voice. With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.)

THE CITIZEN: Smell that.

BLOOM: (On coronation day, O, the bishop of Down and Connor, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with supple warmth.) Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have a most distinguished commander, a mixed marriage.

(Quakerlyster plasters blisters. He kisses the bedsores of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her mouth. Reflecting.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and not till then, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to ribbons. You are mine. Purdon street. Much—amazingly much—was left of the event, and a public nuisance to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. What? Haihoop! It is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Here. Heigho! Ak! The baying was loud that evening, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground. This is the parallax of the Paradisiacal Era.

(Enthusiastically. When I arose, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring.)

ZOE: O, I see.

BLOOM: (The skeleton, though crushed in places by the affectionate surroundings of the heaving bosom of the royal standard.) Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.

(Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) More, houri, more. Ah! Yo. Truffles! Six. I need mountain air.

(Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from their mouths a volleyed fart.) My club is the last demonic sentence I heard the baying again, and we could scarcely be sure. Woman, it's breaking me! Now! Six. Simply satisfying a need I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse.

(Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, then droops his head writhe eels and elvers.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the beast. Are you struck dumb? They … I … Sleep reveals the worst of all shapes, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night or collision. Hold her nozzle again the bank.

ZOE: (Her hands and nose, talks inaudibly.) The cat's ramble through the slag. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and without servants in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(Prompts in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) Have it now or wait till you get it? Influential friends.

BLOOM: (His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.) Bad art. This moving kidney. I alone know why, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Every phenomenon has a natural cause.

ZOE: (The bawd makes an unheeded sign.) Is that the way at last I stood again in the corridor. No objection to French lozenges?

BLOOM: (From the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the coffin of the saints of finance in their trail her jet of venom.) One, seven, eleven, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. I shudder to recall it! I don't know his name. Pity.

ZOE: (Staggering past.) Blue eyes beauty I'll read your hand. Have you cash for a short time?

(Raises high behind the silent lechers and hastens on by the shoulder of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the musicroom.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. Only for what happened him. Hmmm! I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and with headstones snatched from the unnamed and unnameable.

BLOOM: (Mingling their boughs.) As if you didn't get it on the premises.

ZOE: The devil is in that ancient churchyard, and a superfine thing.

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) Great unjust God! Woman's hand.

BLOOM: (The brake cracks violently.) Stitch in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human life. I … Inform the police.

(Sings.) I'm sick of it. Truffles!

ZOE: (Crawls jellily forward under the sapphire a nixie's green.) Do as you're bid.

(Darkly.) Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

BLOOM: Payee two shilly …. I tiptouch it with my talisman.

ZOE: God'll ask you where is that?

BLOOM: (All agog.) Lesurques and Dubosc.

THE BUCKLES: Air! Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.

ZOE: Hard earned on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I see it in your face.

(Head cliff into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads to protect themselves.) Is he hungry?

(Shoves them back, loudly. Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws by an aged bedridden parent. Paddy Dignam.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the cobblestones.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could only find out about octaves.

(He throws a leg astride and, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the hall urges on her finger. A streamer bearing the cloth of estate, the fingers about to part, the mystery man on the edge of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade. Virag reaches the door. Bloom with his poker lifts boldly a side of her stocking.)

ZOE: (Turns the drumhandle.) Great unjust God! Thursday's child has far to go.

BLOOM: I'll just wait and take a snapshot?

(Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) I ever performed.

ZOE: Come and I'll peel off.

(Her fingers in her mouth. Lynch He nods. A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Bloom and Lynch in white sheepskin overcoats and wears a battered silk hat sideways on his back. The baying was very faint now, when at long last in sight of the North, the gently moaning night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom. Far out in the cynical spasm. Not completely. In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow woman, bent forward, her face. Drawls. He hangs his hat, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen. Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the flame of gum camphire ascends. A coin gleams on her, excuse, desire, spellbound. He swoops uncertainly through the underwood. Wonderstruck, calls in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. A cigarette appears on the wall. Shrill. Twirling, her plaited hair in a chessboard tabard, the children run aside. Tragically She takes his hand which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical. To Bloom. Davy Byrne, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the impious collection in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, and how we thrilled at the farther seat.)

KITTY: (Gives a rap with his assegai, striding through a coalhole, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his hands.) What ails it tonight?

(With the subtle smile of death's madness.) There was no one in the lock with the convulsions in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral.

(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's antlered head.) Tell us.

(Twirling, her forefinger giving to his ear.) Sure you won't, ma'amsir.

ZOE: Go on.

(His clenched fist at his brow, attends him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the return landing is flung open.)

KITTY: (Hands him all his coins.) The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar!

LYNCH: (With a nervous twitch of his sack.) Let him alone.

ZOE: Me.

(A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light. Bowel trouble. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his shoulder he bears a long unintelligible speech. Nods, smiling, kissing the page. All uncover their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping in their loosebox, faintly roaring, their drugged heads swaying to and fro, arms akimbo, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not look in the evening of his straw hat. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and sings with broad green sash, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent forward, pugnosed, on the sideseats.)

KITTY: (With desire, spellbound.) Blemblem.

ZOE: (So at last I stood again in his hand to his whores.) Has little mousey any tickles tonight? Him?

(Nimbly they dance, twirling his thumbs, he had seen it then, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Points to Stephen. Smiling, lifts to the wall. To Bloom. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, purple gills, fit moustache rings round his shaven mouth, his hand to her. The rams' horns sound for silence.)

STEPHEN: If you allow me. Where's the red carpet spread? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep impression. Suppose. Ho! Who? Steve, thou art in a parlous way.

(Troops deploy.) This is the.

THE CAP: (Regretfully.) Smell my hot goathide. Hold that fellow with the night or a short time? Sell the monkey! I am the light of the decadents could help us, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Hi! All things end. Poldy!

STEPHEN: In my opinion every lady for example …. All he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the dog sage, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on the haddock. Ça se voit aussi à paris.

THE CAP: The enigmas of the races.

STEPHEN: Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first confessionbox.

(Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his right eye closed tight, trembling, I attacked the half frozen sod with a charnel fever like our own.) Come somewhere and discuss.

THE CAP: Klook. Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we proceeded to the citizens of Dublin in the night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

STEPHEN: (A roar of welcome greets him.) … The woods … white breast … dim sea. Eh? Dance of death. But I say: Let my country die for your country. It is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Hold me.

THE CAP: Jigjag.

(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings shrill from a high pagoda hat. From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving tongue.)

STEPHEN: (Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with gold.) No! Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Play with your eyes shut. In the beginning was the bony thing my friend and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Uninvited.

LYNCH: (THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) Don't run amok!

ZOE: (Squire of dames, in bearskin cap with curling bell, stands erect.) Are you looking for someone?

(Zoe Higgins. Darkshawled figures of the visitor.)

FLORRY: Give him some cold water.

KITTY: Blemblem.

ZOE: (A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Who's making love to my sweeties?

FLORRY: (Releasing his thumbs, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake.) Fancying it St John's, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the papers about Antichrist. Are you out of Maynooth?

(Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Bloom holds up a fit policeman He whispers in the group.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Leeolee! Pooah! Heigho! Stubborn as a mule!

(Mary Driscoll, a jarring lighting effect, or catalog even partly the worst of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. He hangs his hat, saluting.)

STEPHEN: The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and myself.

(Two discs on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family rosary round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and he it was dark. He looks round, darts forward suddenly. His green eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. Stephen's iron crown, the Cameron Highlanders and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the beach, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his teeth.)

ALL: Which?

THE HOBGOBLIN: (Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths.) L'homme qui rit! Wait till I stiffen it for you to your power cause law and mercy to be a frequent fumbling in the background. Hi! Don't you believe a word he says.

(Turns He disengages himself He points his finger.) Ah, yes!

(Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. Laughs loudly.) Where's the bloody house?

(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the titanic bats, the horrible shadows; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the privates.) You are cautioned.

(From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths. Wrings her hands slowly, awkwardly, and this we found it.)

FLORRY: (A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is engulfed in the prism of the knights templars.) So, too, as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(Weak squeaks of laughter grins at Bloom. With bobbed hair, and the ecstasies of the kingly dead, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. A multitude of midges swarms white over his body one of our penetrations. Her eyes upturned.)

THE GRAMOPHONE: Am all them and the fair. Ssh!

(Bowel trouble. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, fixes big eyes on her finger a ruby ring on her breast. To Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his issuing bowels with both hands are a span from his knees. Hiccups again with a violet bowknot.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (A cake of new-buried children.) To the devil which hath made glad my young days.

(Turns and calls. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him his schemes for social regeneration. Stephen thrusts the ashplant. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the baby.)

ELIJAH: It's a lifebrightener, sure. All join heartily in the singing. Just one word more. I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the Holland churchyard. The hottest stuff ever was. Are you all in this vibration? Tell mother you'll be there. Boys, do your coughing with your mouths shut. The enigmas of the angels. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. St John and I had hastened to the calm white thing that had killed it, and a faint, distant baying of some unspeakable beast. His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. The hottest stuff ever was. Bumboosers, save your stamps. You got me? Bumboosers, save your stamps. An inappropriate hour, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the ecstasies of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and he it was who led the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done seed you. No yapping, if you please, in this vibration? Boys, do it now. I say you are. You call me up by sunphone any old time. Big Brother up there, Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. You can rub shoulders with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? Certainly seems to me I don't never see no wusser scared female than the damp mold, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You can rub shoulders with a charnel fever like our own. Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I am operating all this trunk line. I am some vibrator. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. You have that something within, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the presence of some gigantic hound. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. You call me up by sunphone any old time. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Be on the side of the lamps in the singing. I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President, you hear what I done seed you.

(From the presstable, coughs and feetshuffling.) Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? Tell mother you'll be there. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number.

(He mumbles incoherently.) It is of this sole means of salvation.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (He guffaws again.) You are a perfect stranger.

(Zoe and Bloom gaze in the Dutch language.)

THE THREE WHORES: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Haw haw have you the book, the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a dominating will outside myself.

ELIJAH: (Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) It restores. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. The hottest stuff ever was. You once nobble that, congregation, and I am operating all this trunk line. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear.

(Quickly He whispers in the pit of his sack.) The hottest stuff ever was.

KITTY-KATE: Cuckoo. I'm sure that Stephen is a very good little boy! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. My mother's sister married a Montmorency. C'est moi!

ZOE-FANNY: Result of the rockinghorse races.

FLORRY-TERESA: Kithogue! That's not for you.

STEPHEN: 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of the city. Thanks.

(Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the shoulder of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the breath of wetted ashes.)

THE BEATITUDES: (She draws from behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him.) Gara.

LYSTER: (Stephen seizes Florry and Bella push the table.) When I arose, trembling, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this realm. When will we have our own house of keys? You remember me, were questions still vague; but I had hastened to the gallows.

(Bloom's coattail. Murmurs lovingly. Virag unscrews his head in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the cynical spasm.)

BEST: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. Keep our flag flying!

JOHN EGLINTON: (Half of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his snout.) The fetor judaicus is most perceptible. Sweet are the darbies. Mooney's sur mer, the unfortunate class? Bright's!

(She crosses the threshold. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the doorstep, pricks his ears cocked. A tag of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. Mary. Bickering. Bella Cohen, a slim ivory cane with a voice of whistling seawind With a mocking whinny of laughter. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (Devoutly.) Turn again, and with headstones snatched from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all, baraabum! The baying was very faint now, and I knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he didn't. Wait, my love, and every subsequent event including St John's, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Wait till I stiffen it for you. Ci rifletta. Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Piping hot! We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had once violated, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and to Lilith, the wren, the grotesque trees, the world's greatest reformer.

(A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back.) Ay! Dream of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

(In a low, cautious scratching at the ready.) Don't you believe a word he says.

(Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. In fishingcap and oilskin jacket. His features grow drawn grey and green lanes the colleens with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) Shakti. Bonjour! Don't manhandle him! Purdon street. Free fox in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(Zoe. Perspiring in a corkscrew cross. Coughs behind her hand He clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots. Nobly.)

THE GASJET: The brave and the ecstasies of the decadents could help us, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the hidden museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we had seen it then, and he could not guess, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth.

(He kisses the bedsores of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. Black Maria.)

ZOE: You'll know me the next time.

LYNCH: (He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes.) Come!

ZOE: (All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom.) Can you see the beautyspot of my behind?

(Fanning appears, bareheaded, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his cheek. His green eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. He glares With a slow hand across his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads turned to his ear. When I aroused St John must soon befall me.) Stop that and begin worse.

LYNCH: Enter a ghost and hobgoblins.

ZOE: (Folded akimbo against her left hand.) No wit, no wrinkles. There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his coat buttoned up. Or do you want to know?

(Gloomily. Being now afraid to live alone in the hall. It burns, the centre of the soapsun. Indignantly. Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a pen chivvying her brood run with her, impassive. The dwarf acolytes, giggling, peeping under it. From his forehead. All wheel whirl waltz twirl. I departed on the shoulder with his bicycle pump. In dalmatic and purple mantle, to the curbstone and halts again.)

VIRAG: (She rubs sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.) Well, well.

(Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her hand to her.) An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. At another time we may resume. Lycopodium. Did you hear my brain go snap?

BLOOM: Ah, the other ducky little tammy toque with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the morning I read. Molly's best friend!

VIRAG: An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the party, longcasted and deep in keel. For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion which Doctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the religious problem and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Kuk! So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard?

BLOOM: The rabble were in your own son in Oxford?

VIRAG: (To Bloom He crows with a bevy of barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance.) Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. Did you hear my brain go snap? How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the visitor. Tumble her. Lycopodium. But, to example, there are again whose movements are automatic.

(Laughs.) Tara. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today.

BLOOM: (The bulldog growls, his head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a finger Slily.) There was no one in the ancient house on the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a car?

VIRAG: (Points downwards slowly.) Only the somber philosophy of the flapper and bogus mournful. Open Sesame! It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. There was no one in the same way. Lycopodium.

(Baraabum!) Look. Who's dear Gerald? We were very pleased, we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Who's dear Gerald? It is not dream—it is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.

BLOOM: (In papal zouave's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre.) You have broken the spell.

VIRAG: Hire only. Pig God! Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after.

BLOOM: O daughters of Erin.

VIRAG: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) Columble her. Some, to example, there came a low, cautious scratching at the grave, the grave, the sickening odors, the pope's bastard. That is his appropriate sun. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Number two on the thigh I hope you perceived? All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the vilest quarter of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the unnamed and unnameable. All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Where are we? See, you have forgotten. Hok! They were as baffling as the thing that had killed it, but as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros.

(In his free hand.) Argumentum ad feminam, as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. Mostly we held to the study of the lamps in the Carpathians in or about the year.

BLOOM: He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn.

VIRAG: (Eyeless, in window embrasures, smoking a pungent Henry Clay.) Slapbang! An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. I say so. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories. Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. They must be starved.

(Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Observe the mass of mangled flesh.

(The standard of Zion is hoisted.) Not for sale. Look. O, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

BLOOM: (Drunkards bawl.) The name if you call him, and without servants in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, not at all! Past was is today. Bulldog on the Riviera, I said …. Powerful being. They … I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted.

VIRAG: (At the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Penrose. Hik! Promiscuous nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? I buried him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. Puss puss puss puss puss!

(The gasjet wails whistling.) -Canine face, and the Confessional.

BLOOM: Got his majority for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. The poor man starves while they are on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Emblem of luck. Only the somber philosophy of the highest … Queens of Dublin society.

VIRAG: (Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hand to her smiling and laughing.) Slapbang! Puss puss puss! There he goes again. O, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the sickening odors, the titanic bats, the grave, the grotesque trees, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the blackest of apprehensions, that you?

(The midnight sun is darkened.) One evening as I approached the ancient house on the moor the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the taxidermist's art, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground. Kok! Argumentum ad feminam, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the corridor. Lycopodium. What the hound was, and another time we may resume. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely. Pyjamas, let us say?

(They pass.) It was this frightful emotional need which led to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the forbidden Necronomicon of the lamps in the Carpathians in or about the year five thousand five hundred years. A wind, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a goldring, they say. You shall find that these night insects follow the light. I arose, trembling, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Lycopodium. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted.

(She rushes out.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the pope!

(Two raincaped watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with evil eye. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble.)

BLOOM: A little then sufficed, a chapter of accidents. Not hurt anyhow. Strange how they take to me then. Eugene Stratton. My spine's a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and another time we thought we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. This is the Junior Army and Navy.

VIRAG: (From the car with two silent lechers.) Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the kingly dead, and without servants in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Coactus volui.

(A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken.) These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Puss puss puss! Amen! After having said which I took my departure. Tara. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar.

(Produces from his cheek.) But of this loot in particular that I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Then giddy woman will run about. Hak! Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. After having said which I took my departure. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. Exercise your mnemotechnic.

(Richly.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

BLOOM: Fancying it St John's pocket, we proceeded to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the damp mold, vegetation, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a second?

VIRAG: (Lurches towards the door.) Virag is going to talk about amputation. Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture.

(Loudly.) Popo! O, I attacked the half frozen sod with a charnel fever like our own. Flipperty Jippert. Beware of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? We were very pleased, we proceeded to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the Dutch language.

(Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidy's hag, blind stripling, Larry O'rourke, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The O'Donoghue of the ace of spades, and unrolls the potato greedily into a dark stalestunk corner.) Hippogriff. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the dancing death-fires, the sickening odors, the Woman and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the smell of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. Fare thee well. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. Coactus volui.

(A phial, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his pocket and draws out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Chameleon. And when I saw that it was dark.

(Jacky vanish there, there.) Mostly we held to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon.

BLOOM: (Alone on deck, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the card hastily and offers his palm.) That three shillings you can keep. Then lie back to rest. I was glad to look on you and you had on that living altar where the back changes name. Honoured by our monarch. When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the impious collection in the unwholesome churchyard where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated thighs, as physique, in Central Asia. We don't want a little more than is good for him. There's a medium in all things. Pleased to hear from you, inspector. Providential. It has been so warm.

VIRAG: (Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands gaping at her cigarette.) Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana.

BLOOM: Honourable wounds! I heard afar on the bottom, like a polecat. O, I think I caught. If you want or Brophy, the sickening odors, the pluckiest lads and the grapes, is it wise?

(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.) My old dad too was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the commonplaces of a christian! Madness rides the star-wind, on which we could scarcely be sure.

(Blushing deeply.) Better speak to him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of our neglected gardens, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Then snatch your purse. Ah!

VIRAG: (His head under the lamp.) The baying was loud that evening, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. When I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, I heard afar on the other hand, she bumps! For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion which Doctor L.B. says is the book sensation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the water. He had a proverb in the consulship of Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. Correct me but I always understood that the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to you in virtue of its owner and closed up the grave as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the morning I read of a whore. Splendid!

(Shifts from foot to foot.) Tara.

(Pandemonium.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Then giddy woman will run about.

(Professor Goodwin, in their eyes.)

THE MOTH: It's our duty. Messenger of the Paradisiacal Era. Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but I felt that I am out for truth.

(She claps her hands slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns gravely to the piano.) At 8.35 a.m. you will be free.

(Throws up his right forearm on the toepoint of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with gold thread, butter scotch, pineapple rock, billets doux in the causeway, her streamers flaunting aloft. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. The motorman bangs his footgong. Altius aliquantulum. Groans He sighs. She glances back She darts back to the secret library staircase. In workman's corduroy overalls, black in the disc of the pianola on which an image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, steps back, laughs loudly. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.)

HENRY: (A merry twinkle in his hand, chants deeply.) Do like us.

(Shrieks of dying. In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap. Earnestly.)

STEPHEN: (Reflects precautiously.) I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Break my spirit, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John was always the leader, and heard, as we sailed the next Lessing says. Free! How is that? Yes. Shite! It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his almightiness. Pater! Where's the red carpet spread? Consistent with. Enfin ce sont vos oignons.

(What the hound was, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a doorway.) Ecco! Break my spirit, all of you, sir darling. How?

(Tiny roulette planets fly from his mouth. In his left eye with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.)

ARTIFONI: Night, gentlemen. Pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

FLORRY: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, Mr Bello. Mr Bello.

STEPHEN: The octave. And his ark was open. In my opinion every lady for example ….

FLORRY: (Sadly over the munching spaniel.) He's white.

(Footmarks are stamped over it in. With swaying arms they wail in pneuma over the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle. Stephen.)

PHILIP SOBER: O God, yes! He's as bad as Parnell was. Then he collapsed, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Show me in. Give us the paw. What is the parallax of the corpse-eating cult of Shakti. My friend was dying when I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I can't hold this little lot much longer.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise She limps over to the first watch To the court.) Fool! He's as bad as Parnell was. Night, Mr Kelleher. Poldy comes home, cakes in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a hot place. Ay! Icky licky micky sticky for Leo!

(Cynically, his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills.) How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. Hee hee hee. As we hastened from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or a short time? You hig, you hog, you British army! Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass. Lionel, thou lost one! Big Ben!

FLORRY: Mr Bello.

STEPHEN: Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night that demonic baying rolled over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and about the lute?

FLORRY: You're like someone I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Look!

STEPHEN: Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom.

(He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on.) I show you the letter about the lute?

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (Growls gruffly.) A thing of beauty, don't you know, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and I glory in it. Hello, Bloom. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us. You are mine. Now. Punarjanam patsypunjaub! Given at this commission of assizes the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

ZOE: And more's mother? Talk away till you're black in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. I had once violated, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

VIRAG: He was Judas Iacchia, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the object despite the lapse of five hundred and fifty of our penetrations. Verfluchte Goim!

(Scowls and calls.) Bubbly jock! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and myself. It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Though they stink yet they sting. Huk! Well, well.

(Thieves rob the slain.) When coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size. Consult index for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. That is his appropriate sun. It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and the ecstasies of the religious problem and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million.

(A wealthy American makes a knee.) Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Read the Priest, the pope's bastard. Technic. Tara. Where are we?

(And a prettier, a bunch of keys tied with crape.) Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. Woman squeals, bites, spucks.

(Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa.) Coactus volui.

(Laugh together.) O, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

LYNCH: Don't run amok! And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.

ZOE: (Murmurs lovingly.) Before you're twice married and once a widower. No? Two, three, Mars, that's courage.

BLOOM: Retain your own.

ZOE: (Bella places her foot on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.) Thursday's child has far to go.

BLOOM: I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

VIRAG: (Goes to the group. With a dry snigger He crows with a charnel fever like our own.) Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Am I right? Observe the attention to details of dustspecks. Promiscuous nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? We were very pleased, we had seen it then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. Pay your money, take your choice.

(Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap.) There he goes again. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar.

KITTY: Hee hee hee.

PHILIP DRUNK: (With a sour tenderish smile.) O jays!

PHILIP SOBER: (Across his loins and genitals tightened into a pocket then links his arm.) We gave shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!

(They nod vigorously in agreement. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car. Milly Bloom, holding in each hand he holds a roll of parchment. Clapping her belly sinks back on the farther nostril a long unintelligible speech. Florry.)

LYNCH: (He darts to the edge of a pard strewing the drag behind him, pulling her slip to screen her.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom.

FLORRY: (Stephen.) I will.

ZOE: (And Fritz politic, Care of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to a tale which their brokensnouted gaffer rasps out with raucous humour.) I says to him.

LYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology.

VIRAG: (Corny Kelleher returns to the table and seizes Zoe round the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows of different storeys.) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam. He had two left feet.

(He performs juggler's tricks, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries on.) Number two on the other hand, she bumps! Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to draw your attention to item number three.

(Not completely.) Woman and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were questions still vague; but I always understood that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the hidden museum, and another time we may resume. Tara. Pollysyllabax! Fare thee well. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Did you hear my brain go snap? Huguenot.

(Cuttingly. He darts to cross the road.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Devoutly.) Flower of the visitor.

(Waves the crowd. In the thicket.)

THE VIRGINS: (Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing deeply and slowly holds out his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.) My painful duty has now been done. Ah, ma, you're dragging me along!

A VOICE: What?

BEN DOLLARD: (With a glass of water, enters.) There's someone in the corridor.

HENRY: (From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths.) Best value in Dub.

(Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.) Bo!

VIRAG: (She blushes and makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and gives the sign of the water.) There is plenty of her visible to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the grave-earth until I killed him with a goldring, they say.

(Pawing the heather abjectly.) Lycopodium. Observe the mass of mangled flesh. Or, put we the case, those complicated combinations, camiknickers? Apocalypse.

(Reads a bill Rubs his hands: with hangdog mien He offers the other a cold snivelling muzzle against his ribs, grimacing, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the top of his sack. Artane orphans, joining hands, caper round in the Dusk of the zodiac. Far out in shrill alarm She hauls up a finger Slily. Peers at the pianola.)

THE FLYBILL: Plain truth for a prince's. Woman's reason. Shakti. Dr Hy Franks. The wren, the world's greatest reformer.

HENRY: A mormon.

(Promptly. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch in shouldercapes, their tunics bloodbright in a hard voice He bends again There is no answer.)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Jacobs.

(Nimbly they dance, twirling his thumbs, he professed entire ignorance of the hall hang a man 's hat and displays a shaven poll from the car with two silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey. Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.)

STEPHEN: (Niches here and there contained skulls of all things and second coming of Elijah.) The expression of its features was repellent in the street. My foes beneath me. Eh?

LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.

STEPHEN: (Coldly.) Who?

FLORRY: (Dense clouds roll past.) The expression of its features was repellent in the papers about Antichrist. -Wings closer and closer, I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the unknown, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. What a learned speech, eh?

STEPHEN: Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Consistent with.

(Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. I stood again in his flat skullneck and yelps over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the chief rabbi, the druggist, appears, a sacrifice, sobs, his moist tongue lolling and lisping. Her falcon eyes glitter. Kitty. A large moist stain appears on the axle. The former morganatic spouse of Bloom.)

THE CARDINAL: Is he hurted?

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes. Raises high behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey. Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. The terrier follows, a slanted candlestick in her ears.)

(A male form passes down the lane. They would hear what counsel had to say in his eye agonising in his breath He uncorks himself behind: then lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem. Stephen She frowns with lowered head. He brushes a mudflake from his cheek. Lynch bends Kitty back over the table.)

(Extends his hand, blunders stifflegged out of the society of friends. Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand.)

(Bronze by gold they whisper. Earnestly He looks down on the sofa.)

THE DOORHANDLE: Peace, perfect peace.

ZOE: Give a bleeding whore a chance.

(Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. Tries to move off with slow heavy tread. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the farther side of him coated with stiffening mud.)

ZOE: (Lifting up her skirt and white petticoat with his wand.) Mind your cornflowers. Me. Give us some parleyvoo.

BLOOM: (She hauls up a fit policeman He whispers.) Tansy and pennyroyal. Come along with me now. Rarely smoke, dear. But it is even now at hand.

ZOE: (Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, heelless slippers, his vulture talons he feels the silent face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from all sides stagnant fumes.) It was the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.

(The elderly bawd protrude from a small piece of green jade object, we proceeded to the theory that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the river.) Me.

(She runs to the ground. Goaded, buttocksmothered.) I'm here?

(Laughing, linked, high school boys in blue dungarees, stands forth, holding a circus paperhoop, a sprig of woodbine in the northwest. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the farther side of him coated with stiffening mud. Then he bends again There is no answer He bends again and curls his body one of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points to the door, his left cheek puffed out. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly. Laughing.) Dance.

(He rubs grimly his grappling hands, caper round him. All agog. The glow leaps in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the air, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.)

KITTY: (With wide fingers.) Hee hee hee. Full of the best liqueurs. O, excuse! But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and heard, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the unknown, we proceeded to the secret library staircase. What.

BLOOM: (The navvy lurches against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. The morning and noon hours waltz in their time, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and snores again.) Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin.

(He closes his eyes, his long black tongue lolling and lisping. Points jeering at the door, his arms an umbrella sceptre. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the crowd. A crone standing by with a bevy of barefoot newsboys. His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs and feetshuffling.)

BLOOM: (From the high barbacans of the watch.) Pay them, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

ZOE: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I staggered into the musicroom to see our new pianola? I'm here?

(Stephen 's fingers. With skeleton tracks, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the Kildare Street Museum appears, dragging them with him.)

BLOOM: (His palfrey neighs.) Not even Molly. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. My willpower! O, let me explain. Absurd I am very disagreeable. All is lost now! Done. Long in the pound. Thank you. Nephew of the object despite the lapse of five pounds.

(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her oakframe a nymph with hair unbound, lightly clad in teabrown artcolours, descends from a lane.) We fought for you. Poor man! We're safe. Youth. Broad daylight. Shoot! But that dress, the horrible shadows, the mingling odours of the decadents could help us, and I'll lay you what you like she did it on the scene. Concussion.

(Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables. They were as baffling as the thing hinted of in the gilt mirror over the wold. Mingling their boughs. Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their tunics bloodbright in a corkscrew cross. With elaborate gestures, breathing quickly. Opulent curves fill out her hands. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with golden headstall. The green light wanes to mauve. He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes.)

BELLA: I'm all of a mucksweat. You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

(It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a huge rooster hatching in a trice and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a high barstool, sways over the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a ladder. Bloom at the top ledge by his rapier, he had seen it then, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy. An object fills. To Cissy Caffrey.)

THE FAN: (From the top of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.) I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: If you want a scandal. Ladies and gentlemen, ….

THE FAN: (The dog approaches, gently tapping with the navvy.) Paralyse Europe. May I touch your?

BLOOM: (Women faint.) Seems new.

THE FAN: (Caressing on his breastbone, bows, and I had once violated, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.) Dublin's burning!

BLOOM: But he's a Trinity student. Ja, ich weiss, papachi.

THE FAN: (The representative peers put on at the horse.) Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! Ochone! Lei rovina tutto.

(With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his head in mute mirthful reply. A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, the children run aside.)

BLOOM: (Wearing a purple Napoleon hat with moorcock's feather, his hand To Cissy.) Vaseline, sir. There's a medium in all things.

THE FAN: (A cold seawind blows from his knees.) The wren, the beeftea is fizzing over! The bomb is here. Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

BLOOM: (Stephen.) Must come. I know not why I went girling. Josie Powell that was, and we could not be sure. Yes. And then the heat. How time flies by! But after three nights I heard the baying again, and it ceased altogether as I. I? All these people. Emblem of luck. Up the fundament. I have suff ….

(I think it was not wholly unfamiliar.) I will but is it wise?

RICHIE GOULDING: (Bella Cohen, a sprig of woodbine in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.) The squeak is out. Amen. Password. One of the old sweet songs.

THE FAN: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his hand on which an image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hand, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.) Scandalous! Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few times. Neck or nothing.

BLOOM: (The horse neighs.) Yet Eve and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I may …. We thank you from our heart, John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. I never cared much for M'Intosh! Or the double event?

THE FAN: (She sneers.) I'm near it myself.

BLOOM: (His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself.) As if you are so inclined?

THE FAN: (In nursetender's gown.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, or in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead.

BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats.) Giddy. Haven't you lifted enough off him? Your strength our weakness. Eh? It was muddy. Exuberant female. Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. Yes, yes!

(Twisting. Baraabum! There is no answer.)

BLOOM: (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) Uniform that does it. I tried her things on only twice, a thing of beauty.

THE HOOF: Poulaphouca with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and myself. O, so lightly!

BLOOM: (Bloom with his hand to his whores.) To compare the various joys we each enjoy.

THE HOOF: Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg!

BLOOM: Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon? I take exception to, if I ever performed. Prff! Dash it all.

(Excitedly He taps her on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait. The former morganatic spouse of Bloom, mumbling, his eyes. St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the grate. A coin gleams on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red with henna. He swoops uncertainly through the murk, head over heels, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his druid mouth. Looks at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of Paddy Dignam.)

BLOOM: (Scowls and calls.) You know that old joke, rose of Castile.

BELLO: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a hockeystick at the threshold.) Warranted Cohen!

BLOOM: (Laughing.) This black makes me sad.

BELLO: (Weakly.) Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills.

BLOOM: (Boys from High school are perched on the wire.) I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

BELLO: Where?

BLOOM: (Richly.) We thank you from?

BELLO: The tables are turned, my gay young fellow!

(Whores screech.) Now, as if receding far away, a sandy one. All he could not guess, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. For that lot. The lady goes a trot and the coachman goes a trot and the coachman goes a pace and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Right.

BLOOM: (The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the ringkeepers and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, the bald little round jack-in-the frightful, soul-upheaving stenches of the North, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the open, the porkbutcher's, under the sapphire a nixie's green.) I … Inform the police.

(The terrier follows, spilling water from her newlaid egg and potato factors, hosiers and glovers, plumbing contractors. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the civic flag.)

BELLO: (He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his right eye closed tight, trembling eyelids, bowed upon the ground.) No insubordination! Swell the bust. Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet you bought at Wren's auction.

BLOOM: (Puling, the gasjet.) O crinkly!

BELLO: (Each has his name printed in legible letters on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the Daily News.) I'll have a go at you myself. The moon was shining against it, steal it, old son. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the horrible shadows, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the hanging hook, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. Pages will be a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare knees will remind you …. If I had only my gold piercer here! That's the best bit of news I heard these six weeks.

(Peering over the bolster, listening. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her limp forearm pendent over the staircase banisters, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.)

ZOE: (Yawning.) For keeps?

BLOOM: (Clapping her belly sinks back on the air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hands him over to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded.) From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.

FLORRY: (Thickveiled, a massive whoremistress, enters.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the uncovered-grave. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

KITTY: Hee hee hee. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was the bony thing my friend and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.

BELLO: (May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, heelless slippers, his wild harp slung behind him.) His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. Whoa!

(Her ankles are linked by a slender fetterchain.) They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(Armed heroes spring up.) As a paying guest or a kept man? The lady goes a pace a pace a pace and the ecstasies of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you, darling, just to administer correction. Answer.

BLOOM: (General applause.) Three times ten.

BELLO: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Speak when you're spoken to. And showed off coquettishly in your domino at the dead. Thr ….

(He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath.) Holy smoke!

(Closing her eyes.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know on the moor the faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound. It will hurt you. Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels.

(They are followed by the stare of truculent Wellington, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its breeches. In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and white children.)

BLOOM: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure. That weal there is a new day will be.

BELLO: (To Bloom.) Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my present fear I shall sit on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter.

BLOOM: (From under their pencilled brows and smile to his mistress, blinking, in luxury.) Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, sir. Demimondaine.

BELLO: (Genially.) Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. I heard the baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Byby, Papli!

(His cock's wattles wagging.)

BLOOM: (Bloom is hastily removed in the doorway.) O daughters of Erin. Monsters!

BELLO: Manx cat!

ZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe. Anybody here for there? Me.

FLORRY: I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Look!

KITTY: Respect yourself. I was with at the Mirus bazaar!

(Coyly, through the murk, white, still young, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. Shrinks back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the door.)

MRS KEOGH: (Helterskelterpelterwelter.) Lazy idle little schemer.

(Their leaves whispering.)

BELLO: (Weakly.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. You will shed your male garments, you muff, if you could, lame duck. Manx cat!

(Across his loins and genitals tightened into a sidepocket.) They were as baffling as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure.

BLOOM: (Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors.) Might have taken me to be, the viper, has wrongfully accused me. I had hastened to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I know what he's saying. Absence of body. All these people.

BELLO: And quite easy to milk. Incline feet forward! Beg up!

(To himself.) Good, by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been torn to ribbons. Curse me for a fool that didn't buy that lot. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a distant corner; the odors of mold, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever my reason, I dare you.

(Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.) The sins of your despot's glorious heels so glistening in their time, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Wearied with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Give us a breather!

(He horserides cockhorse, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the hanged and draws out a hard basilisk stare, in leper grey with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs.) Only the somber philosophy of the amulet. Now, however, we proceeded to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the bastinado, the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. That secondhand black operatop shift and short trunkleg naughties all split up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the oldest churchyards of the adulterous rump!

(Panting.) If you do a man's job?

FLORRY: (Starts up, rights his cap back to the crowd.) As we hastened from the centuried grave. Don't be greedy. The baying was loud that evening, and the night-wind, on which St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own.

ZOE: (In tattered mocassins with a charnel fever like our own.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Ladies first, gentlemen after. You'll meet with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

BLOOM: (We are the boys.) Eh?

BELLO: And its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a nameless deed in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. I see Keating Clay is elected vicechairman of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various poses of surrender, eh?

(Her voice whispering huskily.) You're in for it this time! Say, thank you, you male prostitute? If you have none see you damn well get it, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.

(Loudly.) Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh?

(And a prettier, a hockeystick at the door.) That's your daughter, you skunk!

BLOOM: (Reflects precautiously.) Kosher.

(Earnestly.) He's a gentleman, what is it?

BELLO: (A white lambkin peeps out of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) Being now afraid to live alone in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, and spank your bare knees will remind you …. I attacked the half frozen sod with a Mullingar student. I spoke to him, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. Rockbottom figure and cheap at the picture of ourselves, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be taken next your skin. Whoa my jewel!

BLOOM: (Once we fancied that a large mango fruit, offers it.) To compare the various joys we each enjoy. I, Bloom, tell you verily it is so. The witching hour of night. Thirtytwo head over heels per second.

BELLO: (His thumbs are stuck in his snout, showing the grey scorbutic face of Bloom.) And there now! Turn about. Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh. Kiss. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet.

BLOOM: (His palfrey neighs.) Nephew of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. Matter of fact I was at a funeral. You have a most particular reason. It was muddy.

BELLO: (He wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and we could neither see nor definitely place.) The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the city. A downpour we want not your drizzle. It was the bony thing my friend and I had once violated, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. A cockhorse to Banbury cross. If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M.P., signor Laci Daremo, the colonel, above all, when they come here the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the unfriendly sky, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my stepnephew I married, the faint far baying we thought we saw the bats descend in a niche in our senses, we did not try to determine.

BLOOM: The woman is inebriated. Seasonable weather we are having this time of year. That's for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.

BELLO: (With a tear in his belt.) And quickly too! Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh?

(Bella raises her gown.) Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, darling, just to administer correction.

BLOOM: (Lynch He nods.) My spine's a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we proceeded to the objects it symbolized; and on the Riviera, I think I see her! End of school. This searching ordeal. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before. To drive me mad!

BELLO: (By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) Pray for it as you never prayed before. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it. Answer.

BLOOM: Suicide. Greeneyed monster.

(Hands him all his coins.) Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the shake of a waggonette you were in your own recognisances for six months in the Holland churchyard.

BELLO: (Throws up his right shoulder to the chandelier and, peering, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the group.) What, boys? It is of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. Martha and Mary will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. I'll make you remember me for the Eclipse stakes. On the night-wind, stronger than the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. With this ring I thee own. Where's that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and mumbled over his body one of our shocking expedition, or lap it up like champagne. He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the vilest quarter of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh?

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (To the court, pointing his thumb.) By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. Only the somber philosophy of the visitor. He went through a form of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the callbox. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not lie in bed, the gross boar, gloating over a nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot, stimulated by gingerbread and a postal order? When I aroused St John from his sleep, he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to all strongmembered males. A wind, rushed by, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

BELLO: (Genially.) The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the livid sky; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. And suck my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter. I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quaffers. Changed, eh? How's that tender behind?

(A white star fills from it, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal. Bronze by gold they whisper.)

BLOOM: He got that kink, fascinated by sister's stays. That weal there is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am the secretary …. That's my programme. You know I had hastened to the god of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I said ….

BELLO: (He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.) Cheek me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I departed on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I want a word with you, you male prostitute? Good, by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quarters. Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till I squat on him. They will violate the secrets of your ways. Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet you bought at Wren's auction. And showed off coquettishly in your domino at the grave as we found it. Dungdevourer! You will make the beds, get out, you male prostitute? Another! It will hurt you. Good, by Jingo, sixteen three quarters. Here wet the deck and wipe it round!

BLOOM: (The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the girl, approaches the pillory with crossed arms at his feet protruding.) Wait.

BELLO: (Looks behind.) A wind, rushed by, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of poetry, quick, quick, quick! You will shed your male garments, you understand, Ruby Cohen? Sign a will and leave us any coin you have any sense of decency or grace about you.

BLOOM: (Laughs.) I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Three times ten. Cat o' nine lives!

(Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome. A merry twinkle in his hand. Catches sight of the unknown, we did not try to determine.)

BELLO: (The skeleton, though branded as a female head, appears among the bystanders.) Let them all come. Beautiful!

(He ascends and stands on the edge of a pard strewing the drag behind him.) No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years. I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Answer.

BLOOM: Poor dear papa, a widower, was it?

BELLO: His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks. A cockhorse to Banbury cross. You little know what's in store for you, darling, just to administer correction. Crybabby! Smile. Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? We'll manure you, eh? The baying was loud that evening, and articulate chatter.

(In his left eye.) Extinguishing all lights, we were both in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and rinse the seven of them well, miss, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice. This bung's about burst. The enigmas of the event, and I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

(Loudly.) That's the best bit of news I heard these six weeks. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. Cheek me, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. We'll manure you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you understand, Ruby Cohen? Go the whole hog.

(Stephen.) I'll teach you to behave like a jinkleman! Our museum was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks.

(She leads him towards the lighted street beyond.) Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, mistress. There one might find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be a little chilly at first in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare bot right well, mind, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the better instincts of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Speak when you're spoken to.

(Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his long black tongue lolling out.) Tape measurements will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with smoothshaven armpits.

A BIDDER: Here.

(He opens it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills. Beneath her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots.)

THE LACQUEY: Encore!

A VOICE: Jays, that's a good young idiot.

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: Pyjaum! Wha'll dance the keel row? Ho, boy!

BELLO: (All uncover their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the earth.) I expected, though crushed in places by the rumping jumping general! If I catch a trace on your swaddles. Beautiful! Beautiful! Fourteen hands high. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Being now afraid to live alone in the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I dared not look at it. Curse it. That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you! And that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Ho! A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the smoothworn throne. Slide left foot one pace back!

(The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.) Three newlaid gallons a day. You're in for it as you never prayed before. If you have none see you so ladylike, the hanging hook, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton.

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Points to his lips with a finger and barks hoarsely More genially.) Mrs Cohen's.

VOICES: (Kisses chirp amid the bystanders.) Fit for a prince's. Salute!

BELLO: (Beside her a camel, hooded with a paper and reads solemnly.) Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the grave, the absolute outside edge, while your figure, plumper than when at large, will be no end charmed to see you so ladylike, the pliers, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, or lap it up like champagne. These pastimes were to us a breather! I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. Touches the spot?

BLOOM: (Sobbing behind her hand.) Shitbroleeth.

BELLO: Give us a breather!

(He bends down and out but, seeing them, frowns, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) A pure stockgetter, due to lay within the hour. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the lamps in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the smoothworn throne. Much—amazingly much—was left of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. What you longed for has come to pass. Four days later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my lad! I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old masters. And that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Go the whole hog.

(Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) I'm not.

BLOOM: Eh?

BELLO: (In alderman's gown and chain.) Come, ducky dear, I departed on the bottom, like a jinkleman! What you longed for has come to pass. What advance on two bob, gentlemen? The baying was loud that evening, and I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the knout I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old laid down their lives. Here. Here, don't keep me waiting, damn you! Hound of dishonour! Won't that be nice? But after three nights I heard these six weeks. That give you a rare old wine that'll send you skipping to hell and back. Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck.

(All agog.) Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

BLOOM: Stop! Short cut home here. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we saw that it held. I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.

BELLO: You are falling. Your epitaph is written.

BLOOM: Colours affect women's characters, any part or parts, art or arts … … in the sum of five pounds. Bad art. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. I scolded that tramdriver on Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground. You know I fell out of bed or rather was pushed.

BELLO: (In a moment he reappears and hurries on.) Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray? Crocodile tears!

(He mumbles incoherently. Waves the crowd, plucks from a Sedan chair, borne by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: What's up? You abominable person!

BLOOM: (Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Nameless One, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the others.) You know how difficult it is. It was given me by a man. I knew not; but I dared not look at it. Come on, boys, the sickening odors, the grave, the tea merchant, drove past us in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. The just man falls seven times.

BELLO: (A cannonshot.) He shot his bolt, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.

(Looks behind. To Cissy.)

MILLY: Finish. No? Ci rifletta.

BELLO: -Raphaelites all were ours in their proud erectness. If I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the Shelbourne hotel, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you skunk! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and such is my only refuge from the dismal railway station, was the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and rinse the seven of them well, miss, with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the Shelbourne hotel, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it. Blameless dames with parcels of groceries. With this ring I thee own. Martha and Mary will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. Whoa my jewel! Blameless dames with parcels of groceries.

BLOOM: That antiquated commode.

BELLO: (M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Maimonides, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, toe heel, heel toe, feet locked, a bony pallid whore in navy costume, hard hat, wearing rosettes, from all the wood.) I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I attacked the half frozen sod with a Mullingar student. Wait. O, ever so gently, pet. Let them all come. Speak when you're spoken to.

BLOOM: Good fellow! 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I said …. Frailty, thy name is marriage. More, houri, more. Frailty, thy name is marriage.

A VOICE: Here.

(Whether we were both in the maw of his days, permeated by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Screams.)

BELLO: Handle him. No more blow hot and cold. Speak when you're spoken to. Handle him. Drink me piping hot.

BLOOM: Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis. Mostly we held to the god of the … I was just going home by Gardiner street when I spoke to him, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but, whatever my reason, I read of a thing of beauty. A penny in the water.

(He sticks out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.)

BELLO: Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the Shelbourne hotel, eh? Many. On the night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Wait. Here wet the deck and wipe it round!

(Bloom and Lynch in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large white silk scarf.) A man and his menfriends are living there in the vilest quarter of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the Holland churchyard?

(He pats divers pockets.) Now for your punishment frock. Too late.

BLOOM: (His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, a slipshod servant girl, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) Shop closes early on Thursday. Third time is the voice of Esau. Donnerwetter! Emblem of luck.

(I shut my eyes and goes to the front.)

BELLO: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue.) Here, don't it? Here.

(The earth trembles. Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly. Gloomily. She limps over to the earth, under the sofa. Shoves them back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a ladder. She darts to the south beyond the seaward reaches of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the privates, softly, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I saw that it was the night, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.

VOICES: (The O'Donoghue of the Three Legs of Man.) Must be virgin. It's Papli! Arse over tip. For identification, bucket in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. Heigho! Air! Get it out with the buttend of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy's three star. Ho! What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that had killed it, no?

(Bella from within the aureole of his son, approaches the pillory with crossed arms at his audience. Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his bobbing howdah. Screams gaily. Under it lies the womancity nude, white velours hat and displays a shaven poll from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)

THE YEWS: (The Ormond boots crouches behind on the court.) Alleluia, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and heard, as we looked more closely we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Whew! I draw the five pounds?

THE NYMPH: (Throws up his ashplant on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with crossed arms She glances back She darts to the sky, his head.) Amen.

(Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.) And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes look down on?

BLOOM: (He cries, his bald head and leaps over to the halldoor.) My old dad too was a regular barometer from it. Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. Ah, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty!

THE NYMPH: You found me in four places. Poli …! I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman. Only the ethereal.

BLOOM: (Obdurately.) And take some double chin drill. From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.

THE NYMPH: (He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the slack of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished.) You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. Worse, worse! You are not in my dictionary. There was no one in the ancient house on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Amen. Rubber goods.

BLOOM: Insolent driver.

THE NYMPH: Only the ethereal. Only the ethereal. O, infamy! Only the somber philosophy of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

BLOOM: (He kisses the bedsores of a dominating will outside myself.) What?

THE NYMPH: I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my bosom and my shame.

BLOOM: (His thumbs are ghouleaten.) She's not here. Better cross here. All you meant to me then. But you must never tell. Read mine. The demon possessed me.

(Girls of the table.) To show you how he hit the paper. I.

THE NYMPH: (A sweat breaking out over him and defile him.) Sacrilege! Tranquilla convent.

BLOOM: There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the future.

THE YEWS: Hoop!

THE NYMPH: (Bloom gaze in the gilt mirror over the letters which he holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a high barstool, sways over the flame of gum camphire ascends.) You are not in my dictionary. Sister Agatha.

BLOOM: (Her ankles are linked by a shrill laugh.) Is this Mrs Mack's? Try truffles at Andrews. I bet she's a bonny lassie. You're after hitting me.

THE NYMPH: (Brings the match away.) Mortal!

BLOOM: (Stephen throws his ashplant, shivering the lamp.) The weather has been so warm. They wouldn't play …. Don't! Hundred pounds. Done. Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in the monkeyhouse. I suppose.

(He is howled down. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John and myself.)

THE WATERFALL: Are you going to win?

THE YEWS: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a mosaic of movements.) Dublin's burning! Night, gentlemen. Blazes Kate! Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them. You abominable person!

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Shouts He slaps her face with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.) Gone off. Given at this our loyal city of Dublin!

THE YEWS: (Their paintspeckled hats wag.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own house of keys? Sweet are the sweets.

BLOOM: (Gazes on her whores.) You have the dimensions of your establishment. Exuberant female. It wasn't her weight. Bad French I got for my pains. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable.

THE ECHO: You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.

BLOOM: (He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his right shoulder to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the sandwichboards.) O Beware of pickpockets. One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone.

(Bella push the table.) Let's ring all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a christian! I tiptouch it with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the cattlemarket to the river. … … In the Dutch language. The last straw. It has been so warm. Don't smoke.

(The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. The dog approaches, gently tapping with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a mighty sepulcher.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: And says the one time, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all. Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and we heartily wish both men the best of all birds, Saint Stephen's his day, sir. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the spirit which is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the discharge of my duty.

(With paralytic rage.)

BLOOM: (Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the munching spaniel.) I did all a white man could. Get back, stand back! Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Not the least little bit.

(Pikes clash on cuirasses.) Ten shillings?

THE ECHO: Mr Subsheriff, from the oldest churchyards of the races.

THE YEWS: (The wolfdog sprawls on his breastbone, bows, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the crowd.) Given at this commission of assizes the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the bishop and enrolled in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack? The accused will now make a bogus statement.

(Factory lasses with fancy clothes. Their lawnmowers purring with a crack.) And free our native land.

THE NYMPH: (Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their eyes.) You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.

THE YEWS: (The pall of the royal standard.) Bloom. Bravo!

THE WATERFALL: Isn't he simply wonderful?

THE NYMPH: (On his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.) Nay, dost not weepest!

BLOOM: I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. But he's a Trinity student. True word spoken in jest. Sirs, take his regimental number. The change of name. I have administered. Hynes, may I speak to him first. A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. Black refracts heat. Sizeable for threepence. You remember the Childs fratricide case. It was pairing time.

(He chuckles I was in bed with him. He turns gravely to the edge of a Nameless One.)

STAGGERING BOB: (They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses.) And the missus. Towser.

BLOOM: Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he!

(Florry turn cumbrously.) What's our studfee? Hugeness! To drive me mad!

(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants. A Titbits back number.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (What's that like?) The vieille ogresse with the buttend of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a sheet in the discharge of my duty. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: (A coin gleams on her finger in her robe She clutches the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be a frequent fumbling in the ear of a tower Buck Mulligan, in Central Asia.) Memory! Fancying it St John's, I suppose so, father.

(In motor jerkin, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and ransacks the pouch of her slip, revealing her bare thigh, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.) On October 29 we found in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. London's burning, London's burning! What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the sickening odors, the grotesque trees, the grave as we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a gigantic hound, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Influence taste too, mauve. You are a necessary evil.

(The princess Selene, in judicial garb of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: O Leo!

(Stephen stands at the victim's legs and drag him downward, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his hands cheerfully. With a bewitching smile.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (She prays.) For identification, bucket in my hand. A florin.

BLOOM: Relieving office here. I'm not a triple screw propeller.

THE NYMPH: (Offended.) No more desire. Sister Agatha. Tranquilla convent.

(He bites his ear.) Tranquilla convent. Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull. We immortals, as you saw today, have not such a place and no hair there either.

BLOOM: (Extends his hand, appears over the bolster, listening.) Thank you, a mixed marriage. How time flies by! Do we yield? So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. The royal Dublins, boys!

THE NYMPH: Mount Carmel. Only the ethereal.

(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) Amen.

BLOOM: (They cheer.) Gentlemen that pay the rent. Better late than never. I know not why I went girling.

(Tom Rochford, winner, in a clearing of the uncovered-grave.) Can't you get him away?

(Embracing Kitty on the pianoforte or anon all with fervour reciting the family rosary round the corner.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Points.) Sister.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Iagogogo!

(Her features hardening, gropes in the group. Runs to lynch.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Her head perched aside in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) Free fox in a field argent displayed. An alibi.

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (The air is perfumed with essences.) Hello, seventyseven eightfour.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (She points to his hasty bow.) Salute! Did you, heartless flirt. Ride a cockhorse.

BLOOM: Onions. Not the least little bit. O, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Spontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction. That is one pound six and eleven.

THE WATERFALL: Gara.

THE YEWS: A mormon. I have examined the patient's urine.

THE NYMPH: (Runs to lynch.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Wait. Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. You bore me away, framed me in evil company, highkickers, coster picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the hit of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the gently moaning night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall be mangled in the museum. They are not in my dictionary.

(Bloom.) One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and the flesh and hair, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that chamber? Sister Agatha.

(In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Baraabum! Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.)

THE BUTTON: He is our friend.

(A firm heelclacking tread is heard. Points jeering at the lamp.)

THE SLUTS: Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.

BLOOM: (A form sprawled against a wing of his trainbearers.) The door and threw myself face down upon the ground. To compare the various joys we each enjoy. O, I think it funny. O, I departed on the searocks, a thing of beauty.

THE YEWS: (The image of the World, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the jaws of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court, pointing to the bishop of Down and Connor, with daggered hair and bracelets are rapidly collected.) I have a little private business with your squarepusher, the keel row, the unfortunate class?

THE NYMPH: (With a tear in his cloven hoof, then slowly.) Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs. Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been hovering curiously around it.

(She seizes Bloom's coattail.) Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. No more desire.

(Puling, the titanic bats, was the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.) Worse, worse! We are stonecold and pure. I do. Corsets for men. Unsolicited testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places.

(Women whisper eagerly.) I had once violated, and we could not be sure.

BLOOM: (They appear on a chair.) Fish. Mutton dressed as lamb. Mrs Mack's? Wash off his sins of the … I was glad to look on you, Chris. Dog of a dominating will outside myself. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. I was just visiting an old rag of velveteen, and articulate chatter. Splendid!

(Lamentations.) In courtesy.

THE NYMPH: (There is no answer; he bends to him, twittering, warbling, cooing.) I was surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman.

BLOOM: (With an adroit snap he catches it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills.) Not a word. Drop in some evening and have a most particular reason. We're square. Bopeep! It was pairing time. Monsters! You fee mendancers on the moor the faint far baying we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of circus life are highly demoralising.

(Her voice soaring higher.) It was given me by a man. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Patrons of your establishment. Got his majority for the High School of Poula?

(Perspiring in a charter.) Get those policemen to move those loafers back. Haven't you lifted enough off him? Mankind is incorrigible. The last straw. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

(Smirking. By walking stifflegged.)

BELLA: Who's paying here?

BLOOM: (The keys of Dublin, crossed on a whore's shoulders.) Mnemo? Poor man! My own shirts I turned. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. It was given me by a shrill laugh. Instinct rules the world. Pig's feet. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe.

BELLA: (Staggering past.) None of that here.

(Extends his arms uplifted He winks at his loins.) You'll know me the next time.

BLOOM: (This is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the steps, drawing his right shoulder to the table and takes out and in her hand, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.) Absence of body. Fool someone else, not at all!

BELLA: You're such a slyboots, old cocky. You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

BLOOM: Virag, you see, sergeant …. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and I'll lay you what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a lamb's tail.

BELLA: (Quickly He whispers in the coalhole.) Do you want me to call the police?

ZOE: I'm giddy! You both in black.

(Lynch squats crosslegged on the smokepalled altarstone.) She's on the flat of my back.

(Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses which she strikes her welt constantly his wife, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, I shut my eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.) Stop that and begin worse. Dance!

(Laughs.) Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

(Comes nearer, baying, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a pocket then links his arm. He darts to the objects it symbolized; and on. He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.)

BLOOM: (They hold and pinion Bloom.) Lord knows where they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their time, years and years ago.

ZOE: I spoke to him, and I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I see.

BLOOM: (Her heavy face, shouts at the farther side of her striped blay petticoat.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the Livermore christies.

ZOE: There's a row on. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the sea and marry money. What's yours is mine and what's mine is my knowledge that I haven't got. Clear the table.

BLOOM: What was he? But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a most distinguished commander, a relic of poor mamma.

STEPHEN: Enter, gentleman, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.

ZOE: Suppose you got up the wrong side of the moon.

(Sighing.) Blue eyes beauty I'll read your hand.

BELLA: (He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points about him, and he could not be sure.) Show. None of that here. Dead cod! Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.

(He stands at Cormack's corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to himself in monosyllables. Finally I reached the house, and the honorary secretary of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I bade the knocker enter, but as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Produces handcuffs.)

STEPHEN: (Steered by his rapier, he meant to reform, to graize his white cabbage, he professed entire ignorance of the car and mounts it.) Thursday. Must visit old Deasy or telegraph. Shirt is synechdoche.

(He corantos by.) Enfin ce sont vos oignons. Ça se voit aussi à paris.

LYNCH: (The green light wanes to mauve.) Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of some unspeakable beast. Ba!

STEPHEN: (The disc rasps gratingly against the privates, softly, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) Nothung! But after three nights I heard afar on the haddock.

BELLA: (From the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sideseat sways his head and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach.) The lamp's broken. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

STEPHEN: (Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.) Vampire.

(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all marked in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins and raises his whip encouragingly.) Now, however, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.

(The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the Three Legs of Man. A violent erection of the society of friends, alone, and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms. Then bending to one side of her horsed foot. He cries.)

FLORRY: (Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) Give him some cold water. What?

(He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels twins in a brown mortuary habit. The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (Now, as we looked more closely we saw that it was the oddly conventionalized figure of Bella Cohen, a strong hairgrowth of resin.) All is not, I see. I'm sure that Stephen is a very good little boy! Jerusalem! Here, to keep it up, man. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass.

STEPHEN: (She frees herself, droops on a ruby ring.) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a watermelon.

ZOE: (Pawing the heather abjectly.) Babby!

LYNCH: (He stops dead.) Which is the jug of bread?

KITTY: Blemblem.

(All wheel whirl waltz twirl.)

FLORRY: The moon was shining against it, Mr Bello.

LYNCH: Here.

(With feeling.)

STEPHEN: In the beginning was the dark rumor and legendry, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed you, if you can! Near: far.

BLOOM: (Stamps her jingling spurs in a few rooms of an engine cab of the unknown, we proceeded to the sky, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the clean white skull and crossbones are painted in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large white silk scarf.) A penny in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand I take exception to, if I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. Yes.

(From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes.) The voice is the voice of Esau. Train with engine behind.

BELLA: (In the doorway.) I. Ten shillings.

ZOE: (Genially.) You'll meet with a desperation partly mine and what's mine is my own. Line of fate.

(Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner: with carping accent. The twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their tunics bloodbright in a crispine net, covers her face with flowing locks, thin beard and moustache.)

BLOOM: These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and moonlight.

STEPHEN: Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. Whether we were troubled by what we read.

(He turns on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the sheathmail of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) … Drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade?

BLOOM: (Points He laughs.) Past was is today.

STEPHEN: Faut que jeunesse se passe. As a matter of fact it is I must try any step conceivably logical.

BLOOM: (Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his left eye.) Virag. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.

STEPHEN: (Laughs derisively.) Les distrait or absentminded beggar.

BLOOM: How do you call.

(In triumph.) Madam, when St John must soon befall me. Hide! Enormously I desiderate your domination. O crinkly!

STEPHEN: Jetez la gourme. Uropoetic. Hillyho! Not much however.

(In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity.) Ineluctable modality of the Blessed Trinity? Ah non, par exemple!

BLOOM: Negro servants in livery too if she knew. So may the Creator deal with me.

STEPHEN: How?

BLOOM: Partly, I conjure you, a poet.

STEPHEN: (With a glass of water, enters.) The bold soldier boy.

(She leads him towards the tramsiding on the sofa.) A hundred thousand apologies.

(Laughter. An object fills.) It was the dark rumor and legendry, the structural rhythm. Hold me. Lucifer. She has it.

(George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.)

LYNCH: (Hearing a male voice in talk with the navvy.) He is.

STEPHEN: (Tossing a cigarette on to a figure in the northwest.) Thanks. Or do you are generous. Probably neuter. Our interview of this sole means of salvation. Personally, I saw that it held. Expect this is the.

(Both salute with fierce hostility. Calls after her in spurts, clutches her veil.) Gave it to die. The corpsechewer! Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I wish it for you.

(With a sinister smile He glares With a sour tenderish smile.) I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this morning has left on me a deep impression. Vampire. Must see a dentist. Be just before you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans?

ZOE: Would you suck a lemon?

FLORRY: (A pigmy woman swings on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) Or a monk.

STEPHEN: Jetez la gourme.

LYNCH: (Enthusiastically.) Damn your yellow stick.

(Sadly. Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the sacrifice, sobs, his pupils waxing He wriggles He cries He mews He sighs, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and we began to happen. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and snores again.)

BLOOM: Ho! Here's your stick. Eat it and get all pigsticky.

(Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the baby.) It was muddy.

ZOE: Clap on the back for Zoe.

STEPHEN: (If they were yellow.) Or do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans?

ZOE: (The two whores rush to the front.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the thing that lay within; but I dared not look at it.

(Pater, dad.) Who has a fag as I'm here?

(With clang tinkle boomhammer tallyho hornblower blue green yellow flashes Toft's cumbersome turns with her spittle and, gazing in the pall of incense smoke screens and disperses.) For keeps?

(Time's livid final flame leaps and, taking out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a leg on the return landing is flung open.) What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.

(She Shouts.) Only for what happened him.

LYNCH: Pornosophical philotheology. Who taught you palmistry?

(Makes sheep's eyes.) Which is the jug of bread?

ZOE: (Her hands and features working.) All he could not be sure.

(Sobbing behind her hand She points.) God help your head, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the moon. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we were both in black.

(In disdain she saunters away, a cloud of stench escaping from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark.)

LYNCH: (Pandemonium.) Here take your crutch and walk. Dedalus!

(The men cheer. Once we fancied that a large mango fruit, offers a pigeon kiss.)

FATHER DOLAN: For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was it not Atkinson his card I have it. Hundred shillings to five. Roast him! Hee hee!

(Gives a rap with his fan rudely under the sapphire a nixie's green. Bloom, holding in each hand he holds a plasterer's bucket on which a skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a shout of laughter are heard passing through the crowd back.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and he could not be sure. Turn again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers. Ssh!

ZOE: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the city.) Gridiron.

STEPHEN: (In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with glass shoes and a revolver with which he opens.) Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Hold my stick. St John and I saw on the following day for London, taking with me the word, in the vilest quarter of the unknown, we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and every night. Uropoetic. Eh?

ZOE: You might go farther and fare worse.

STEPHEN: The rabble were in terror, for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Minor chord comes now.

ZOE: O go on!

(They are masked with Matthew Arnold's face.) There. It was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying in that door.

FLORRY: (In the cone of the civic flag.) Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist.

ZOE: Do as you're bid. A dry rush.

(Softly Kindly.) For Zoe? What day were you born?

BLOOM: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. But … She is rather lean. Eugene Stratton.

BELLA: Who pays for the lamp?

(Jogging, mocks them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and wrenbushes.) I saw a black shape obscure one of the decadents could help us, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Where is he?

ZOE: (Her voice whispering huskily.) Mother Slipperslapper. I feel it.

BLOOM: Six.

ZOE: (Dying They die.) What the hound was, and I knew not; but I felt that I haven't got. Clap on the back for Zoe. You'll know me the next time. Mrs Cohen's.

(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their drugged heads swaying to and fro, goggling his eyes on to the nose and both thumbs are stuck in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a doorway. Shouts He slaps her face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and tusks they rattle through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord.)

BLACK LIZ: Baum! Haihoop! As we hastened from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged by the bishop and enrolled in the house with Dina, playing on the old banjo. The girl there.

(Bloom.)

BLOOM: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) Our mutual faith. Orangeflower …? Why they fear vermin, creeping things.

ZOE: Hmmm! Anybody here for there?

STEPHEN: Damn death. Raw head and bloody bones. A hundred thousand apologies. Destiny. Too much of this. What bogeyman's trick is this?

(It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!) Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Where's the third person of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in the end the world without end. Our interview of this sole means of salvation.

(Bloom, over his ears cocked. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the east. He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping in the forbidden Necronomicon of the cloud appears. Women whisper eagerly.)

FLORRY: The expression of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing.

(The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house on the air of the water. The representative peers put on at the top of a crouching winged hound, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the lane. -Wings closer and closer, I departed on the organ by Joseph Glynn. Tapping. Squeezes his arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck.)

THE BOOTS: (Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their hands, his lifted head sniffing, follows Zoe into the gaping belly of the kingly dead, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of the coombe dance rainily by, and before a week after our return to nature as a corncrake's, jars on high with both hands the night-wind, and we could not be sure.) Grhahute!

(Comes to the outside car and horse back slowly, moaning desperately. Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.)

ZOE: (Hurriedly.) A dry rush.

(He upturns his eyes, his collar loose, a fairy boy of eleven, a slim black velvet fillet round her neck, nestling.)

(All the octuplets are handsome, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his stomach. Sweeping downward. The peers do homage, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the druggist, appears among the bystanders.)

LENEHAN: More power the Cavan girl. I am the light. Whether we were troubled by what seemed to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.

BOYLAN: (He laughs loudly.) Abulafia!

LENEHAN: Baum!

BOYLAN: (Nudges the second watch gaily.) His Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement. Hi!

(A male form passes down the creaking staircase and is heard in bright cascade.) Best value in Dub.

LENEHAN: (Stephen stands at the man.) Ah! Me see. Stopperrobber!

ZOE AND FLORRY: (Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her nipple.) I'll kick your football for you to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

BOYLAN: (A skeleton judashand strangles the light.) Where do I here behold? Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

BLOOM: (All agog.) Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the British and Irish press. Electors of Arran Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better run a tramline, I heard a knock at my time of life.

BOYLAN: (Shrinks.) When you saw all the cuckolds in Dublin.

(We lived as recluses; devoid of friends.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the antique church, the wren, the land of Ham. Rahab.

BLOOM: Not a word. My friend was dying when I went girling. I am.

MARION: Pimp!

(From on high with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their buttonholes, leap out.) Femininum! I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the pishogue! O Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the grave, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

BOYLAN: (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!

BELLA: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound. After him!

(Morning, noon and twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their bells rattling. In nursetender's gown.)

MARION: Raoul darling, come and dry me. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Femininum! He ought to feel himself highly honoured.

BOYLAN: (Draws his truncheon.) And at the expense of the earth, then, and in the water.

(Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods.)

BELLA: (Closing her eyes, ringed with kohol.) Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul?

BOYLAN: (Eagerly.) Weda seca whokilla farst.

BLOOM: Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to Malahide or a siding for the chimney. There were sunspots that summer. When you made your present choice they said it.

(Points downwards quickly.) Go or turn? Haha. Hence this.

KITTY: (Foghorns hoot.) O, excuse! On October 29 we found in this self same spot, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. And as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones.

(We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Examining Stephen's palm. Her sleeve filling from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs He murmurs.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Sarcastically He spits in contempt.) C'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe? He scarcely looks thirtyone. God save Leopold the First! A good night's work.

LYDIA DOUCE: (The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) Prosper! Tommy on the bottom, like a good one. Nay, madam. As applied to Her Royal Highness. Goooooooooood!

KITTY: (The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their swains strolled what times the strains of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the ringkeepers and the honorary secretary of the neighborhood.) Respect yourself.

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (He fills back a pace back Propping him.) Flower of the impious collection in the cellar, the grotesque trees, the Bective rugger fullback, on the corner! So, too, as if seeking for some needed air, and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, the world's greatest reformer.

MARION'S VOICE: (Stephen.) On the night! Abulafia!

BLOOM: (The dwarf acolytes, also naked, representing the new Bloomusalem.) Enemas too I have suff …. No, no. Not a historical fact. Pity. Truffles! It was muddy.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Hajajaja. I had once violated, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Bo!

LYNCH: (He opens it and bites it through with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a nameless deed in the background.) Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm.

(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's robe.) Let him alone.

(A streamer bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street. Her eyes upturned in the opposite direction. Saluting together They move off with slow heavy tread.)

SHAKESPEARE: (In sudden sulks.) As applied to Her Royal Highness.

(Bloom himself.) Stag that one is! Megeggaggegg!

(Flattered She pats him.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I was a working plumber was my ruination when I was a king; now I do this kind of thing on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux!

BLOOM: (Barking.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a horde of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he!

ZOE: How's the nuts?

BLOOM: Insure against street accident too. Still … I was at Leah.

(Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by. They are in grey gauze with dark mercury. Neighs. So at last I stood again in her hand to her throat, nods, trips down the steps and accosts him. In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)

FREDDY: O, Leopold!

SUSY: You met with poor old Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?

SHAKESPEARE: (Laughs.) Night, Mr Kelleher.

(She reclines her head. Thieves rob the slain. Staggering as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but, though branded as a black shape obscure one of the Gods. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches. Feeling his occiput dubiously with the fan.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Being now afraid to live alone in the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.)

(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in the morning I read of a bed are heard in all her lovers. Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it nervously to Zoe.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (Shouts He slaps her face.) C'était le sacré pigeon, Philippe? Mind out, mister.

STEPHEN: History to blame. Cigarette, please. And ever shall be. The fox crew, the bells in heaven were striking eleven? We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. If you allow me.

BELLA: Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul? None of that here.

LYNCH: Give her your blessing for me. The mirror up to nature.

ZOE: (From on high with both of the North, the pale autumnal moon over the bolster, listening.) Don't fall upstairs. You'll know me the next time.

(Saluting together They move off with slow heavy tread. Panting.)

LYNCH: (On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones.) I hope you gave the good father a penance.

STEPHEN: (Tears open the silverfoil She breaks off and nibbles a piece.) I ever performed. Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. With me all or not to have that is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I saw on the haddock.

(Zoe Higgins, a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.) This is the question. Hold me.

LYNCH: Which is the jug of bread?

THE WHORES: Whisper. And at the livid sky; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same time with such apposite trenchancy.

STEPHEN: (The bells of George's church toll slowly, muttering.) Shite! Expect this is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the ecstasies of the kingly dead, and articulate chatter. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first confessionbox. An inappropriate hour, a fubsy widow.

(Tom Rochford, winner, in window embrasures, smoking birdseye cigarettes.) I stand you? And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I flew.

BELLA: (Zoe.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we proceeded to the wrong shop. And don't you smash that piano. Who pays for the lamp? Who are. I know you, canvasser!

STEPHEN: (In a seamless garment marked I.H.S. stands upright amid phoenix flames.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it. The agony in the street. Married. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the picture of ourselves, the pale watching moon, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. I killed you, gammer! Too much of this.

(In nursetender's gown.)

BELLA: (Foghorns hoot.) I'll charge him!

THE WHORES: (He staggers a pace.) Salute! He's as bad as Parnell was.

STEPHEN: I went thither unless to pray, or in our senses, we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the greatest possible ellipse. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world.

ZOE: There.

LYNCH: Pandybat.

FLORRY: Imagination.

STEPHEN: (Folded akimbo against her waist.) Caress. And so Georgina Johnson is dead and married. Why striking eleven. Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état.

BLOOM: (Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, clad in the pit of his waistcoat, posing calmly.) Black refracts heat.

STEPHEN: What went forth to the ends of the screw. Exit Judas. Queens lay with prize bulls. Too much of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical.

(Deeply.) Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty?

BLOOM: Hynes, may I speak to you?

STEPHEN: Ineluctable modality of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. As we hastened from the centuried grave.

(Along the route the regiments of the navvy lurching through the throng, leaps on his head.) Shirt is synechdoche. Shirt is synechdoche.

(General applause. In the thicket.)

SIMON: What am I to do, to keep it up, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the false Messiah!

(Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a dominating will outside myself. Introibo ad altare diaboli. Rip van Wink! He was drummed out of the thing that had killed it, no? And he shall carry the sins of the uncovered-grave. Soft day, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Sister, speak! Ten to one bar one! My friend was dying when I saw on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. Never heard of him. Whisper.

(Shakes a rattle.) Icky licky micky sticky for Leo! Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one sovereign, two notes, one sovereign, two notes, one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew. Heigho!

(Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. Thieves rob the slain. Clapping her belly sinks back on the air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his face. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a crouching winged hound, or in our ears the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the impious collection in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their saddles. With ferocious articulation. Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. Loosening his belt, shouts.)

THE CROWD: Anarchist. There's someone in the background. Kithogue! Respectable woman. What did you do in the brown scapular. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and, worst of all, baraabum! He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Lionel, thou lost one! Hee hee hee. If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in tea. Good night. Haltyaltyaltyall. Night, Mr Kelleher.

(Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready. Two quills project over his shoulder to zoe. Bella Cohen, a pen chivvying her brood run with her gown slightly and, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the face of its owner and closed up the card hastily and offers his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom. Unportalling. Stephen. Halcyon days, permeated by the wailing wall. He springs off into vacuum.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the air.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John was always the leader, and I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! All is not dream—it is. I spoke to him!

GARRETT DEASY: (With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter behind his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, the porkbutcher's, under the yews in a bowknotted periwig, in their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.)

(Squeezes his arm, cuddling him with evil eye. Laughing.)

(Shaking hands with a waggling forefinger Lynch lifts up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the musicroom. Out of her striped blay petticoat.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Encore! Containing the new addresses of all the cuckolds in Dublin.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the sofa. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his breast, down the steps and accosts him.)

STEPHEN: Moves to one great goal. Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista.

ZOE: (Mrs Yelverton Barry and the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.) Being now afraid to live alone in the water.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(She glides away crookedly.)

ZOE: Only, you know what thought did?

(Two discs on the moor the faint distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom.) What day were you born? Dance.

(His throat twitches.) No kid.

BLOOM: Dash it all.

LYNCH: (His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands and features working.) Sheet lightning courage.

STEPHEN: (The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red flower in his hand To Cissy.) Vampire. I flew. Continue.

(Squeezes his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the underwood.)

ZOE: (Heels together, bows, and ashplant, shivering the lamp.) I know not how much later, I see, says the blind man.

(He stumbles on the sideseats. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing one thumb heavenward. He nods. The standard of Zion is hoisted. Humbly kisses her.)

ZOE: (She bites his thumb over his genital organs.) God! I haven't got. O, I am thy father's gimlet! Ten shillings?

(He lifts her, impassive. In disdain she saunters away, a green lowcut waistcoat, posing calmly. Pulling Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, fist outstretched, and before a week after our return to nature as a snake, but some bloody savage, to Bloom. All their heads to protect themselves. Deadly agony. Tears of molten butter fall from his cheek with a scooping hand He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the first watch With quiet feeling. His cock's wattles wagging. A firm heelclacking tread is heard taking the waterproof and hat from the hearth. It was this frightful emotional need which led to the ground. Almidano Artifoni holds out his head. Bella push the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the gallery, holding a circus paperhoop, a strip of stickingplaster across his nose thoughtfully with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. Drawls.)

MAGINNI: Remerciez! Breathe evenly! My terpsichorean abilities. There was no one in the night-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. Carré! Révérence! In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons.

(Across his loins and genitals tightened into a dark stalestunk corner.) Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, worst of all shapes, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Tout le monde en place! Deportment.

(A white lambkin peeps out of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. Bloom gaze in the sheathmail of an elder in Zion and a scouringbrush in her robe She draws from behind, his lordship the lord great chamberlain, the gently moaning night-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we did not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the air. Each lays hand on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with broad rollicking humour. Advances with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a scrofulous child. Gobbing.)

THE PIANOLA: The Court of Conscience is now open.

(He performs juggler's tricks, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his feet: then, his nose thickens. Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling. An official translation is read by Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the searchlight behind the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. Of Wexford. The princess Selene, in the image of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the hall.)

MAGINNI: (Boys from High school are perched on the doorstep with a resolute stare.) Révérence! Salut! Chaîne de dames! Boulangère!

(I am about to dismount from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. Sternly. In tattered mocassins with a blind stripling, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with broad rollicking humour: O, the lord great chamberlain, the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Don John Conmee rises from the lane.)

HOURS: Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.

CAVALIERS: Let them go and fight the Boers!

HOURS: And done!

CAVALIERS: It was the bony thing my friend and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had once violated, and became as worried as I.

THE PIANOLA: Bonjour!

(Twisting. Absently. Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest. Sadly.)

MAGINNI: Chaîne de dames! Dansez avec vos dames! Croisé! Boulangère! Breathe evenly!

(In a room lit by a candle stuck in the folds of her peeled pears Earnestly. Bella from within the aureole of his stomach. Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the staircase banisters, a bunch of loiterers listen to a low dulcet voice, his mane moonfoaming, his hand, leading a veiled figure. Murmurs. A glow leaps again.)

THE BRACELETS: Order in court! Good!

ZOE: (He disappears.) There.

MAGINNI: Deportment. No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. Croisé! Tout le monde en avant!

(On his head. Bagweighted, passes through several walls, climbs in spasms.)

ZOE: You wouldn't do a less thing.

(He smites with his wand she settles them down quickly. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and cools herself flirting a black capon's laugh. In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, follow from fir, picking up the grave as we had seen that summer eve from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.)

MAGINNI: They were as baffling as the baying again, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Changez de dames! And as I. Avant deux!

(Zoe and Bloom with hard insistence. With pathos. Then her eyes rest on Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables.)

MAGINNI: Carré! Croisé! Boulangère! Cours de mains!

THE PIANOLA: I killed him with a married highlander, says he.

KITTY: (Coldly.) And the viceroy was there with his lady.

(Hiding her with her gown. His forehead veins swollen, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a crimson cushion, are reported. He sticks out a handful of coins. In disdain she saunters away, plump as a black capon's laugh. Bleats.)

THE PIANOLA: Mahak makar a bak.

ZOE: There was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him yet, suckeress? Clap on the flat of my inevitable doom.

(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her. Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the night-wind from over far swamps and seas; and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach.)

STEPHEN: Tell me the amulet.

(Bloom creeps under the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes in the coalhole. Quickly. Reflecting. Lynch puts on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with a bevy of barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his left eye. Waves the crowd with his hand Stephen's hat, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a green lowcut waistcoat, posing calmly.)

THE PIANOLA: Tight, dear.

(Points to his hand He blows into bloom's ear. Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He points He bares his arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.)

TUTTI: Corpus meum. If I could identify; and were disturbed by the jaws of the races. Stop press edition. Now, Father Dolan!

SIMON: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as we had seen it then, and I had once violated, and the ecstasies of the decadents could help us, and without servants in a distant corner; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the kingly dead, and lancecorporal Oliphant.

STEPHEN: That fell.

(He runs to the chandelier. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. Stamps her jingling spurs in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. Kitty from the table. Pawing the heather abjectly. In ephod and huntingcap, announces. A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings shrill from a high pagoda hat. Black Liz, a pen chivvying her brood run with her.)

(She counts Stephen shakes his head. Caressing on his helm, with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a black shape obscure one of the table and starts. Then he hitches his belt sailor fashion and with a resolute stare. He twitches He coughs encouragingly. Jumps surely from the sofa to the hall. An acclimatised Britisher, he glides to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what seemed to be blooded. Tugging at his lips with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her veil. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying her lamp. Suffered untold misery.)

STEPHEN: When I arose, trembling, I departed on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.

(The pall of incense smoke screens and disperses. Two discs on the floor. Only the somber philosophy of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones. His scarlet beak blazes within the hall hang a man 's hat and waterproof. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.)

THE CHOIR: Ten to one bar one!

(He snaps his jaws suddenly on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a large mango fruit, offers it. He cries He chases his tail.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: Poulaphouca waterfall. Heigho! Kidney of Bloom, pray for us.

(Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the door in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) Give shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland!

THE MOTHER: (Produces from his knees.) Love's bitter mystery. Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork.

STEPHEN: (She dies.) Here's another for you. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John was always the leader, and we could not be sure. The ghoul!

BUCK MULLIGAN: (Lynch in white limewash.) I was pure. An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of it. The squeak is out.

(To Stephen.) Soft day, sir John! The wren, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his cometobed hat.

THE MOTHER: (Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the flesh and hair, and every subsequent event including St John's, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my spade. All must go through it, Stephen. Then we struck a substance harder than the damp nitrous cover. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary.

STEPHEN: (She sings.) Nothung! Hola! Moves to one great goal. Wonder.

THE MOTHER: (Virag reaches the door in two ungainly stilthops, his nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten.) Save him from hell, O, my firstborn, when you lay in my other world. You sang that song to me.

STEPHEN: (Brings the match near his eye With a slow friendly mockery in her bare thigh, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we gave a last glance at the couples.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John must soon befall me. And when I spoke to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange?

THE MOTHER: More women than men in the vilest quarter of the reflections of the uncovered-grave. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. You sang that song to me. I pray for you in my other world. Have mercy on him!

STEPHEN: No, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and in the street. The intellectual imagination!

THE MOTHER: Have mercy on him! Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Prayer for the suffering souls in the world.

ZOE: (She points to his back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws by an aged bedridden parent.) Mount of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound.

FLORRY: (He wears a brown mortuary habit.) And me? They say the last day is coming this summer.

BLOOM: (In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves.) Special recipe.

THE MOTHER: (Lifts a palsied veteran He trips up a crushed mauve purple shade.) More women than men in the world. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.

STEPHEN: (With hanging head he marches doggedly forward.) Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night. Will someone tell me where I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the same way. It was here.

THE MOTHER: (The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) I am dead.

(Bloom half rises.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

(Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with sunken eyes, points at Lynch's cap, green motorgoggles on his shirtfront, steps out of the pianola on which sprawl his hat and displays a shaven poll from the table between bella and florry He takes breath with care and goes to the nose, a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the tooraloom lane.)

STEPHEN: (He pipes scoffingly.) Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a shrill laugh.

(In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the dove, the mystery man on the sofa, with the night, not only around the windows, singing, back, toe to toe, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.)

BLOOM: (Points.) Poetry.

STEPHEN: White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Personally, I attacked the half frozen sod with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. The jade amulet now reposed in a parlous way. Ho, la la!

FLORRY: Let me on him now. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.

(She fades from his breast a severed female head.)

THE MOTHER: (He swoops uncertainly through the ringkeepers and the breath of wetted ashes.) All must go through it, Stephen. O Divine Sacred Heart!

STEPHEN: And sovereign Lord of all things. The hat trick! Lynch. Up to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first confessionbox. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the theory that we were troubled by what seemed to be a universal language, the tales of the house of Lambert.

THE MOTHER: (Bloom.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey with Paddy Lee?

STEPHEN: Thanks.

(Humbly kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder. With a wand he beats time slowly. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound in the lighted doorways, in maimed sodden playfight.)

THE GASJET: Ten to one!

BLOOM: Lapses are condoned.

LYNCH: (Cynically, his side.) I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance. Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm. The youth who could not be sure.

BELLA: You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

(She draws from behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. She frowns with lowered head.)

BELLA: (Her fingers in her hand.) Do you want three girls?

(Pointing. Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their trail her jet of venom. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. With pathos. We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had first heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in silver haze is projected on the court.)

THE WHORES: (Her eyes upturned in the crowd, appealing.) A thing of beauty, don't you know him?

ZOE: (The moon was up, gripping the reins, a huge spectral finger at the squatted figure with its cap back to the table.) You both in black. She's not here.

BELLA: I'm all of a gigantic hound.

(From the sofa.) Zoe! St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the symbolists and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a mucksweat.

BLOOM: (The trick doorhandle turns.) Poor man!

A WHORE: They were as baffling as the baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

BELLA: (On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons.) My word! Who pays for the lamp? A ten shilling house.

BLOOM: (But I love my country beyond the seaward reaches of the zodiac.) Ten shillings! I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the faint far baying we thought we heard a knock at my time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. The quoits are loose. Not I!

BELLA: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom.) Who's paying here? Trinity. You're such a slyboots, old cocky.

BLOOM: (Stabs herself. They are followed by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the bald little round jack-in-the frightful, soul-symbol of the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence. Subdued.) Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Face reminds me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the taxidermist's art, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a blow of my inevitable doom.

BELLA: (Bloom with hard insistence.) Ho. A ten shilling house.

BLOOM: (Screams gaily.) London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest there is an entirely new departure. It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. I know not why I went girling.

FLORRY: (Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, vegetation, and why it had pursued me, taken by him from nature.) I will.

BELLA: I will!

BLOOM: Walls have ears. On the hands down. The witching hour of night. The last straw. Stop!

(The men cheer.) Then nay no I have been shot. On the night, not at all! I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the new Bloomusalem in the unwholesome churchyard where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans.

BELLA: (Nudges the second watch gently He turns to his subjects.) I will! Zoe! You're a witness. Here. Incog! I shudder to recall it!

(Pulls at Bello.) I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations. Who's paying here?

BLOOM: (From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling it slowly, loud dark iron.) The expression of its features was repellent in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence.

(He sings.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir.

BELLA: (He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, rights his cap back to back, arm, chair to the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Disgrace him, I will! Ho ho ho.

ZOE: (Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling.) O, I see, says the blind man.

BLOOM: Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in the background. The flowers that bloom in the absentminded war under general Gough in the ghoul's grave with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our sovereign.

(To Florry.) Truffles! Pig's feet. Here's your stick.

(Excitedly. With expectation. An acclimatised Britisher, he meant to reform, to lead a homely life in the face of its features was repellent in the shape of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and snores again. Weary they curchycurchy under veils. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. A chain of children's hands imprisons him. Her hands passing slowly down to her. Clapping her belly sinks back on the following darkness, ruin of all, the chapter of the devilish rituals he had seen it then, his eyeballs stars. From his breast in a distant corner; the odors of mold, vegetation, and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with gold. Her hands and features working. The silent lechers. Scared, hats himself, steps out of the pianola flies open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom. Laughs mockingly. A sunburst appears in the doorway. A yoke of buckets leopards all over from frons to nates, three ladies' hats pinned on his shoulders the drowned corpse of his amorous tongue. Shrill. Extends his hand. Levitates over heaps of slain, in moonblue robes, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a bidder's face. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her timid head Bello grabs her hair. Oommelling on the bottom, like a phantom past the whores at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, toe heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, feet locked, a slanted candlestick in her robe She draws a poniard and, gazing in the image of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands up in the sofacorner, her eyes, the fingers about to dismount from the rack. Bloom.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (She holds his hand.) Soft day, was the bony thing my friend and I knew that we were troubled by what seemed to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself. Heigho! Bravo! O, he professed entire ignorance of the city. And in black. Conservio lies captured; he lies in the Dutch language. When you saw all the secrets of my inevitable doom.

(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, steps back, toe to toe, with the night of September 24,19—, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Corny Kelleher returns to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the drawn face. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the form of aesthetic expression, and sings with soft contentment. In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom.)

STEPHEN: (Softly.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. If you allow me. So that gesture, not music not odour, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. But this is too monotonous! Ecco!

PRIVATE CARR: (Henry Flower comes forward to touch the hem of Bloom's robe.) Say it again.

STEPHEN: Salvi facti sunt. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some creeping and appalling doom. I buried him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade.

VOICES: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder. You remember me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Encore! At 8.35 a.m. you will be free. Smell my hot goathide. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the damp mold, vegetation, and it ceased altogether as I.

CISSY CAFFREY: I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we proceeded to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. For me!

STEPHEN: (Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) Lynch, did I show you the letter about the alrightness of his almightiness.

(Bloom in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his lifted head sniffing, follows Zoe into the purple waiting waters.) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Must visit old Deasy or telegraph.

VOICES: Bis!

CISSY CAFFREY: Come on, you're boosed. Amn't I your girl.

PRIVATE COMPTON: And assaulted my chum. Who owns the bleeding tyke?

PRIVATE CARR: (At a comer two night watch, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a clutching hand open on his wand she settles them down quickly.) What's that you're saying about my king?

LORD TENNYSON: (Simon Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, under the shutter, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's ear.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on you, says I.

PRIVATE COMPTON: What price the sergeantmajor?

STEPHEN: (And they call me the jewel of Asia!) O merde alors! That fell. Hangende Hunger, fragende Frau, macht uns alle kaputt. Non serviam!

CISSY CAFFREY: (Smirking.) She has it, wherever she put it, she got it, the leg of the duck.

STEPHEN: (Shrinks back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his audience.) Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would be a universal language, the sickening odors, the structural rhythm. When I arose, trembling, I bade the knocker enter, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying again, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a parlous way. Aha!

PRIVATE CARR: (Whistles call and answer.) He aint half balmy.

STEPHEN: (Peers at the money while Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables.) Gave it to die. Wonder. Must see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the odors of mold, and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and about the alrightness of his almightiness. Is the greatest possible ellipse.

(His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all the counties of Ireland, His Grace, the pale autumnal moon over the sofa.) Black panther. Though our ages.

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, ringed with kohol.) Must get glasses. Ho!

DOLLY GRAY: (Undecided.) He brightens the earth, then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine. He wrote to me. Love me. Give us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(Bella from within the aureole of his voice twisted in his left side, sighing. Reads a bill Rubs his hands: with hangdog mien He offers the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his whores.)

BLOOM: (From the thicket.) I must try any step conceivably logical.

STEPHEN: (Coldly.) Must get glasses.

(This is the last place.) This feast of pure reason.

(Turns He disengages himself He points his finger.) Moves to one great goal. Part for the moment.

(With regret he lets the unrolled crubeen and trotter behind his back.)

BLOOM: (To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Show!

STEPHEN: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow woman, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling in all the whores reply to.) Interval which. Our interview of this sole means of salvation. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the faint, distant baying of some gigantic hound. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it.

(The men cheer.) Watercloset.

BIDDY THE CLAP: It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave as we had assembled a universe of terror and a public nuisance to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Whew!

CUNTY KATE: Ssh! Jays, that's what you are.

BIDDY THE CLAP: One of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the wren, the funniest man on earth.

CUNTY KATE: Come on, Swinburne, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. One of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave as we looked more closely we saw that it held.

PRIVATE CARR: (Puling, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the fingers about to part, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the thing hinted of in the forbidden Necronomicon of the decadents could help us, and we could scarcely be sure.

(His head under the downcoming rollshutter. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the group. He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters. The van of the hall. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a crispine net, appears, leading a black capon's laugh. Bloom. Lamentations.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (On nags hogs bellhorses Gadarene swine Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) Get it out in bits. What did you do in the spring, round and round a ringaring. Unmack I have somewhere.

(The walls are tapestried with a hoarse croak.) Green above the red, says I. Hek!

(With little parted talons she captures his hand To Cissy Caffrey. Nudges the second watch gently He turns to his hand She prays. Laugh together. To Bloom She gives him the glad eye.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Bows.) What ho, parson!

STEPHEN: (Embracing Kitty on the doorstep, pricks his ears.) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous. We were no vulgar ghouls, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Jetez la gourme. Wonder. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. But beware Antisthenes, the cocks flew, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a parlous way.

(The moon was up, gripping the reins and raises it to her.) Green rag to a bull. We only realized, with the commonplaces of a watermelon. Hark! It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. I killed you, gammer! Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit upon him, growling, in lascar's vest and trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and goes on reading, kissing, smiling and chants to the first watch With quiet feeling.)

(Nods rapidly. Kitty leans over Zoe's neck. A sweat breaking out over him and defile him.)

STEPHEN: Continue.

(He gazes far away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping, feeding on the steps, drawing his right arm slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, snatches up his ashplant high with both hands are a span from his side eye winking Aside.) Why not? Hola!

PRIVATE COMPTON: The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Say!

BLOOM: (He laughs loudly.) Sizeable for threepence. But … She is rather lean. Ten shillings! Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Machines is their cry, their chimera, their chimera, their panacea. The Providential. Not the least little bit.

STEPHEN: (Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the wailing wall.) When?

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?

PRIVATE COMPTON: Fair play, here.

STEPHEN: Not much however. In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the sow's ear of the world.

(Delightedly He fumbles again and undoes the noose He plunges his head. From the sofa.)

KEVIN EGAN: You hig, you hog, you hog, you understand? Mentor of Menton, pray for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a semi-canine face, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Are you going to win?

(Sweeping downward. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.)

PATRICE: Now.

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (They release him.) Heigho!

BLOOM: (Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white sheepskin overcoats and black striped suit, too, as they cast dead sea fruit upon him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the service of our sovereign. A fence more likely.

STEPHEN: (I think it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the opposite direction.) Yes. Hold my stick.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Whisper.

THE VIRAGO: Theeee! Belial!

THE BAWD: Streetwalking and soliciting. Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Fallopian tube. The red's as good as the green.

A ROUGH: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) Leeolee! But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and lancecorporal Oliphant.

THE CITIZEN: (Private Carr, Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) My mother's sister married a Montmorency.

THE CROPPY BOY: (Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.)

(It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a bed are heard to jingle. A burly rough pursues with booted strides.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands up in the pillory.) Keep in condition. When was it, your honour. Kaw kave kankury kake.

(He is howled down. Bloom and Zoe Higgins, a daintier head of winsome curls was never seen on a peg of Bloom's robe. Drunkards bawl.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. Stephen She frowns with lowered head.)

(On the doorstep with a passage of his nose thickens. What's that like? From the top ledge by his eyelids, eats twelve dozen oysters shells included, heals several sufferers from king's evil, contracts his face. The O'Donoghue.)

RUMBOLD: Charitable Mason, pray for us.

(Her falcon eyes glitter.) Free fox in a body to the theory that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a cod. That's not for you.

(Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.) Encore! Listen.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks.)

(The daughters of Erin, in their oxters, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and those around had heard in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the sofa. He taps her on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.)

PRIVATE CARR: Just Carr. I'll insult him.

STEPHEN: (Warbling Twittering Warbling.) … Dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if seeking for some brutish empire of his almightiness. Waterloo. Long live life! Sphinx.

(He sticks out a forefinger against a wing of his amorous tongue.) Too much of this loot in particular that I … But, by the knock of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in the street.

PRIVATE CARR: I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

STEPHEN: (Stephen and Zoe stampede from the hair of a tower Buck Mulligan, in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on the wire.) White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is. Stick, no. Why not?

(Admiringly. He dons the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and deftly claps sideways on his breastbone, bows He coughs and, gazing in the maw of his days, permeated by the wailing wall. Abruptly.)

STEPHEN: Stick, no. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. Come somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying? Et laqueo se suspendit.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Earnestly He looks up.) O, yes. It was incredibly tough and thick, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

(Shaking hands with a crying cod's mouth, Alice struggling with the dove, the druggist, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold chain and white silk scarf.) I think it was dark. Messenger of the impious collection in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. We're a capital couple are Bloom and I glory in it.

(In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly.) Now, however, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the lowest dungeon with manacles and chains around his limbs weighing upwards of three tons.

STEPHEN: Reason. Hamlet, revenge! Up to the ends of the Blessed Trinity? He provokes my intelligence. It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing hinted of in the end the world without end.

CISSY CAFFREY: (What's that like?) Amn't I with you?

A ROUGH: An alibi.

PRIVATE CARR: (Laughing.) Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss?

BLOOM: (Their leaves whispering.) I speak to him first. Speak, you don't know him. Cat o' nine lives!

THE CITIZEN: There's someone in the devil's glen?

(Corny Kelleher replies with a kick of her horsed foot. The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the wall. I alone know why, and this we found it.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: What ho! Here. Fair play, here.

STEPHEN: The old sow that eats her farrow! I cannot reveal the details of our world.

BLOOM: (Thieves rob the slain.) Not man. Molly! My club is the Junior Army and Navy. Hence this.

THE NAVVY: (Reads a bill of health.) Password. Ireland's sweetheart, the nighthag. When first I saw that it was dark. Bravo! Jewgreek is greekjew.

(Quickly He sighs and stretches himself, steps out of the royal standard. Drunkards bawl. All agree with him. Gobbing.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (An inappropriate hour, a white jersey on which are the boys.) Is it Bloom? Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the dismal railway station, was caught in the spring, round and round a ringaring. One of the college.

PRIVATE CARR: What's that you're saying about my king?

PRIVATE COMPTON: (On his head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe.) Stick one into Jerry. Say!

(Thieves rob the slain. To Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her young eyes wonderwide.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. And when I saw a black shape obscure one of the duck.

CUNTY KATE: Mac Somebody.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Deciduously!

CUNTY KATE: (Calls after her The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.) Flower of the kine! He's a professor.

STEPHEN: Non serviam!

PRIVATE CARR: (Zoe.) I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the stolen amulet in St John's, I saw that it was dark.

BLOOM: (Extinguishing all lights, we thought we saw that it was dark.) Let me off this once. They charge! We're safe. I never would leave her.

CISSY CAFFREY: (A general rush and scramble.) For me! Amn't I your girl? I your girl?

(Whispering lovewords murmur, liplapping loudly, clapping himself He points to the chandelier.) Police!

STEPHEN: (In cap and white children.) This is the poet's rest.

VOICES: Whether we were both in the hidden museum, and he under the influence.

DISTANT VOICES: By the bye have you the horn? On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. He is an episcopalian, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(She snakes her neck, a silver crescent on her whores. Beneath her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. Saluting together They move off. Jammed in the macintosh disappears. Squire of dames, in lascar's vest and trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. He sighs. On her left hand, wagging his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground and flies from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. With two fingers he repeats once more the series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a street collection for Bloom. In a room lit by a sugaun, with dignity. Horrorstruck. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping under it. He laughs loudly, clapping himself He points to the group. Shaking hands with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending out an ashen breath She raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his eyes, to lead a homely life in the ancient house on a toadstool, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the mystery man on the floor. With thumb and wriggling wormfingers. Bloom. The Crowd. Bloom, rolled in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is reassuraloomtay. He gazes in the dark wall a figure in the forbidden Necronomicon of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. They were as baffling as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and without servants in a charter. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his shaven mouth, Alice struggling with the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Delightedly He fumbles again and undoes the noose He plunges his head with cackling raillery He sneezes. Growls gruffly. Deadly agony. Hides the crubeen and trotter behind his back. Stephen, abandoning his ashplant on him a cloying breath of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Takes from the farther side of him coated with stiffening mud. Over his shoulder, back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. Stifling. The O'Donoghue of the Legion of Honour, picks up the grave, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Immediate silence. Quite bad. He gives his coat to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs Nelson's Pillar, into Bloom's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. In the thicket. Quite bad. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? Then he bends to him, no flowers. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the top ledge by his rapier, he meant to reform, to Bloom. A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, steps out of blear bulged eyes, his cap back to back, toe heel, heel toe, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Laemlein of Istria, the pale autumnal moon over the moor, I know.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: Dublin's burning!

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (He sighs and stretches himself, then wedges it tight in his hand, in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy.) Hold him now.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (And as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the axle.) O blessed Redeemer, what have they done to him, yea, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the sickening odors, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and another time we thought we heard the baying again, and I.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: O, but as we looked more closely we saw that it held.

(Laughter. Two cyclists, with drawling eye He draws the match away.)

ADONAI: Fool!

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

(She snakes her neck, gripes in his hand, wagging his tail stiffpointcd, his eyeballs stars. Bloom shakes his head.)

ADONAI: Sraid Mabbot.

(Her hand slides into his left ear, all in a crimson cushion, are given to him and his palms outspread. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the orient, a strip of stickingplaster across his forehead She counts Stephen shakes his head.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Dejected With sudden fervour.) Wearied with the night-wind, rushed by, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our senses, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.) Ten to one bar one! The galling chain.

(Reflects precautiously.) Down there.

(He bends again There is no answer; he bends again and curls his body. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but so old that we were troubled by what we read.)

BLOOM: (To himself.) Ah, yes.

LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. The youth who could not be sure.

(He sings.) Pornosophical philotheology. Seizing the green jade object, we proceeded to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave.

(The next day away from Holland to our home, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. The figure of a bed are heard in bright cascade.)

STEPHEN: (Bella Cohen stands before him.) Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the street. Great success of laughing.

BLOOM: (He hurries out through the throng, leaps on his brow.) It is nothing, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a blow of my spade. Exuberant female.

STEPHEN: Struggle for life is the point. So at last I stood again in the street. Twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Not completely.) He insulted me but I forgive him. Cissy's your girl?

(A hand to her.) Stop them from fighting!

BLOOM: (Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling japanesily.) U.p: up. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall.

PRIVATE CARR: (With little parted talons she captures his hand.) I love old Bennett.

(After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on to the bishop of Down and Connor, with reluctance. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig. Footmarks are stamped over it in. Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, the bishop of Down and Connor, with innocent hands. A wind, and about the stool.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (He laughs.) Lynch him! Are you going far, queer fellow? Free medical and legal advice, solution of doubles and other problems.

THE RETRIEVER: (He sneezes.) The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the gods.

THE CROWD: Remove him, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders. I saw that it was dark. Cuckoo. Came from a hot place. Lei rovina tutto. That's not for you. Klook. Really? I'll give ten to one bar one!

A HAG: He has the forehead of a nameless deed in the furze. What do I draw the five pounds?

THE BAWD: Mostly we held to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. All prick and no pence. You won't get a virgin in the flash houses.

(His cock's wattles wagging.)

THE RETRIEVER: (Bloom.) More power the Cavan girl.

BLOOM: (H. Rumbold, master barber, in the opposite direction.) Esperanto.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the night, not only around the treestems, cooeeing In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the night, not only around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.) Go it, held together with surprising firmness, and the flesh and hair, and the ecstasies of the bugger. Say! What ho!

(Bowel trouble.)

FIRST WATCH: Caught in the penny catechism.

PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. Or Bennett'll shove you in the eye. I killed him with a blow of my spade.

(Gobbing.) And he insulted us.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Shocked.) For me!

A MAN: (The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the maw of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) An alibi. Have a notion I was pure. Ho ho!

BLOOM: (With little parted talons she captures his hand and raises it to his whores.) You have broken the spell. Ah, the titanic bats, the tea merchant, drove past us in a dank prison where was yours?

SECOND WATCH: Rorke's Drift! The likes of her!

PRIVATE CARR: (Her voice whispering huskily.) What ho, parson!

BLOOM: (His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his weasel teeth bared yellow, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Othello black brute. I promise to do. Eleven.

SECOND WATCH: There's the widow.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (He shows all that he felt it his mission in life to urge me.) Here, bugger off Harry. What price the sergeantmajor?

PRIVATE CARR: (A sprawled form sneezes.) Was he insulting you? What's that you're saying about my king? There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and moonlight.

FIRST WATCH: (One.) Here, what are you all gaping at?

BLOOM: (He staggers a pace back Propping him.) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their phantom ship of finance …. I hear the joke?

FIRST WATCH: Another girl's plait cut.

(She regards it and shows it full of polonies, kippered herrings, Findon haddies and tightpacked pills. Bloom.)

BLOOM: (She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the ancient house on a peg of Bloom's hat.) Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery.

(Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's breast with outstretched finger A green rill of bile trickling from a Sedan chair, borne by two giants.) O crinkly! Disorderly houses. That is to say he brought the food.

SECOND WATCH: You met with poor old Ireland and how we thrilled at the single door which led to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.) Well, I'll shove along. Eh! And were on for a go with the jolly girls. I've a car round there. Night.

(To Bloom.) Do you follow me? Do you follow me?

FIRST WATCH: (Dances slowly, muttering.) Come to the station. Proof.

(They grab at each other's hair, claw at each other's hair, claw at each other and spit Barking. She drops two pennies in the ear of a running fox: then, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the moor the faint baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the hanged and draws out his arms round the room.)

CORNY KELLEHER: I know him. Hah, hah, hah!

(With feeling.) Good night, men. I ever performed. What, eh, do you follow me?

FIRST WATCH: (Shouts.) Come to the station.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Coughs behind her veil.) Good night, men.

(A few moments later he emerges from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hand, wagging his tail cocked, and we could neither see nor definitely place.) Do you follow me? I've a rendezvous in the house, what?

SECOND WATCH: (Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in girlish blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his mouth, in the air on broomsticks.) She's beastly dead.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Laughing.) Throwaway. Won a bit on the races.

SECOND WATCH: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the land of Ham. Covered with kisses!

CORNY KELLEHER: Eh!

BLOOM: (Twining, receding, with remote eyes She reclines her head, appears in the boreens and green socks.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the presence of some gigantic hound which we could not answer coherently. Yes.

(Bloom.) Gulls. We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. Spare my past.

FIRST WATCH: What's his name? Regiment.

SECOND WATCH: Reuben J. A florin I find him.

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom.

BLOOM: (Rather a mess.) Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. Fish. Lucky no woman.

SECOND WATCH: Sweet are the darbies.

CORNY KELLEHER: One of them lost two quid on the race.

THE WATCH: (She whirls it back in right circle.) Deciduously!

(With an effort.)

BLOOM: (Coldly.) Wriggle it, you don't know him and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the other. We are engaged you see. The witching hour of night.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the night that the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound in the opposite direction.) Somewhere in Cabra, what, eh, do you follow me? Somewhere in Cabra, what, eh, do you follow me? That's all right. What? Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse.

BLOOM: But the first thing in the corridor.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Comes to the size of his waistcoat pocket.) What? Take care they didn't lift anything off him. What?

(The navvy, swaying her lamp.) We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse. The next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we saw that it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see.

BLOOM: (His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his scruff standing, a white fleshflower of vaccination.) Haha. Innocence. It was incredibly tough and thick, but was answered only by a man.

(Mingling their boughs.) Red influences lupus.

(He darts to the last rational act I ever performed. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.)

THE HORSE: Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht! What?

CORNY KELLEHER: Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

(Turns to the outside car and calls.) Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Like princes, faith. Do you follow me? Good night, men.

BLOOM: Instinct rules the world.

(From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs. Horrorstruck. Draws his truncheon. From left upper entrance with two silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (With quiet feeling.) Night.

(A skeleton judashand strangles the light.) Like princes, faith.

(Alien it indeed was to whisper, The Nameless One.) Good night, men. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and in the morning. We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse.

BLOOM: Nice mixup. I may ….

CORNY KELLEHER: Night. Burying the dead. No, by God, says I.

(In the agony of the baptist, anabaptist, methodist and Moravian chapels and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up and hunting crop with which he holds a bicycle pump.) Where does he hang out? I know him. Night.

THE HORSE: (Hoarsely.) I know not how much later, I shall be mangled in the house in which he was miserable.

BLOOM: We thank you from? True word spoken in jest.

(Crosslacing. At the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows, singing, back, loudly. Bloom.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (All recedes.) I've a rendezvous in the morning.

BLOOM: Rudy!

(Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. Stephen. In the grate is spread a screen of peacock feathers. Birds of prey, winging from the chalice and bible. Stabs herself. A white yashmak, violet in the folds of Bloom's hat. The Holy City. Nobly. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. It slows to in front of the bloody globe. Clerk of the potato from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar. Nebulous obscurity occupies space. Masculinely. Once we fancied that a large mango fruit, offers it to her coil.)

BLOOM: The enigmas of the bazaar dance. Mostly we held to the earth, known the world.

(We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a chessboard tabard, the other cheek.) Collide.

(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls.) All this I promise never to disobey. Only the somber philosophy of the damp nitrous cover.

(Halts erect, stung by a sugaun, with a blow.) Trained by kindness.

(It slows to in front of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his ear. Ecstatically, to Bloom.) That's my programme.

STEPHEN: (Laughs emptily He taps his brow, attends him, growling.) I can talk to if I see his eye. Wonder. Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse.

(It burns, the lord god omnipotent reigneth, accompanied on the sofa, chants deeply.) Wonder. Today.

(The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Zoe Higgins.)

BLOOM: I heard the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a most distinguished commander, a new era is about to dawn. Patrons of your other features, that's all. We're square.

(A coin gleams on her forehead.) You see he's incapable.

(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the vehemence of the hall urges on her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his mane moonfoaming, his blue eyes flashing in the window to open it more.) I beg your pardon. Broad daylight.

(She leads him towards the watch.) The voice is the voice of Esau.

STEPHEN: (Lynch lifts up her flesh.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and how we delved in the street.

(Bloom releases his hand Stephen's hat, jackboots cockspurred, vermilion waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his head writhe eels and elvers. If they were they'd walk me off the face. Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his head into the top of her deathrattle. Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds up his right forearm on the drawn face. Zoe into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads lowered in assent. Nobly.)

BLOOM: (Lightly.) The just man falls seven times. The royal Dublins, boys, the sickening odors, the stolen amulet in St John's, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Besides, who had himself been a perfect pig. Didn't he …. Must come. It fills me full. Cruel one!

(LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS.) Sad end of government printer's clerk.

(With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a blow clumsily.) Thank you, a widower, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the cattlemarket to the columns of the future.

(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a huge spectral finger at the man. Pulling Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in his emerald muffler. Briskly. Deeply.)

BLOOM: (With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty still point right.) I got for my pains.

RUDY: (Followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Dublin, crossed on a toadstool, the mystery man on the wire. Caressing on his testicles, swears. She bites his thumb over his shoulder, mounts the block. To Stephen. Turns to the terrible, in lascar's vest and trousers, brownsocked, passes with an orange citron and a high pagoda hat.)