#Simon Le Clerk

[ulkaralakbarova]

Tess McGill is an ambitious secretary with a unique approach for climbing the ladder to success. When her classy, but villainous boss breaks a leg skiing, Tess takes over her office, her apartment and even her wardrobe. She creates a deal with a handsome investment banker that will either take her to the top, or finish her off for good. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Tess McGill: Melanie Griffith Jack Trainer: Harrison Ford Katharine Parker: Sigourney Weaver Mick Dugan: Alec Baldwin Cyn: Joan Cusack Oren Trask: Philip Bosco Ginny: Nora Dunn Lutz: Oliver Platt Turkel: James Lally Bob Speck: Kevin Spacey Armbriester: Robert Easton Personnel Director: Olympia Dukakis Alice Baxter: Amy Aquino Tim Rourke: Jeffrey Nordling Doreen DiMucci: Elizabeth Whitcraft Tess’s Birthday Party Friend: Maggie Wagner Tess’s Birthday Party Friend: Lou DiMaggio Tess’s Birthday Party Friend: David Duchovny Tess’s Birthday Party Friend: Georgienne Millen Petty Marsh Secretary: Caroline Aaron Petty Marsh Secretary: Nancy Giles Petty Marsh Secretary: Judy Milstein Petty Marsh Secretary: Nicole Chevance Petty Marsh Secretary: Kathleen Gray Petty Marsh Secretary: Jane B. Harris Petty Marsh Secretary: Sondra Hollander Petty Marsh Secretary: Samantha Shane Petty Marsh Secretary: Julia Silverman Jr. Executive: Jim Babchak Jim: Zach Grenier Dewey Stone Reception Guest: Ralph Byers Dewey Stone Reception Guest: Leslie Ayvazian Cab Driver: Steve Cody Dewey Stone Receptionist: Paige Matthews John Romano: Lee Dalton Phyllis Trask: Barbara Garrick Barbara Trask: Madolin B. Archer Hostess at Wedding: Etain O’Malley Bridesmaid: Ricki Lake Bitsy: Marceline Hugot Bridegroom: Tom Rooney Trask Wedding Orchestra: Peter Duchin Trask Secretary: Maeve McGuire Tim Draper: Timothy Carhart TV Weatherman: Lloyd Lindsay Young Bartender: F.X. Vitolo Clerk at Dry Cleaner’s: Lily Froehlich Heliport Attendant: Michael Haley Helicopter Pilot: Mario T. DeFelice Jr. Helicopter Pilot: Anthony Mancini Jr. Trask Receptionist: Suzanne Shepherd Rhumba Guy (uncredited): Matthew Bennett Staten Island Secretary (uncredited): Trish Cook Pretty Brunette Office Girl (uncredited): Priscilla Cory Cyn’s Aunt (uncredited): Marilyn Dobrin Trask Executive (uncredited): Kevin Fennessy Receptionist (uncredited): Anita Finlay Office Worker (uncredited): Tom Sean Foley Staten Island Ferry Commutor (uncredited): George Gerard Secretary (uncredited): Dhonna Harris Goodale Young Businessman (uncredited): Daniel Henning Office Party-Goer (uncredited): Eric Kramer Secretary (uncredited): Elisa London Secretary (uncredited): Karen Starr Petty Marshall Secretary (uncredited): Alison Wachtler Film Crew: Director of Photography: Michael Ballhaus Editor: Sam O’Steen Screenplay: Kevin Wade Costume Design: Ann Roth Makeup Artist: Joseph A. Campayno Makeup Artist: J. Roy Helland Art Direction: Doug Kraner Director: Mike Nichols Unit Production Manager: Robert Greenhut Set Decoration: George DeTitta Jr. Casting: Juliet Taylor Executive Producer: Laurence Mark Producer: Douglas Wick Hairstylist: Alan D’Angerio Gaffer: John W. DeBlau Production Design: Patrizia von Brandenstein Location Manager: Richard Baratta Supervising Sound Editor: Stan Bochner Transportation Captain: Tom O’Donnell Jr. First Assistant Camera: Florian Ballhaus Production Supervisor: Todd Arnow Boom Operator: Linda Murphy Still Photographer: Andrew D. Schwartz Assistant Costume Designer: Gary Jones Camera Operator: David M. Dunlap Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Lee Dichter Art Department Coordinator: Samara Schaffer Transportation Co-Captain: Louis Volpe Script Supervisor: Mary Bailey Assistant Art Director: Tim Galvin Production Coordinator: Ingrid Johanson Production Sound Mixer: Les Lazarowitz Music Editor: Patrick Mullins Sound Editor: Marshall Grupp ADR Editor: Michael Jacobi Property Master: James Mazzola Cableman: Mike Bedard First Assistant Director: Michael Haley Stunt Double: Vic Armstrong Original Music Composer: Carly Simon Stunt Coordinator: Jim Dunn Stunt Coordinator: Frank Ferrara Stunts: Phil Neilson Stunts: ...

[sublimegentlemanalpaca]

A reccomendation for the works of Charles Williams (aka 'the Third')

To those of you in the Chronicles of the Imaginerium Geographica fandom( whether you are aprentice Caretakers, Mesengers, or Mystorians), raise your hand if you only found out Charles Williams existed because of this series. Let me be the first to raise mine, because it's the truth. At the end of the first book, I of course recognized the full names of his contemporaries, but not his. For a while I kept reading the books enjoying them, and enjoying Charles as my favorite of the Inklings Trio of Caretakers( no disrespect to John or Jack of course). The sixth book came around and the joke was made about how none of Charles' books survived among the Ray Bradbury inspired reality (I forget the name of the society, apologies). After that, I made of my mind to eventually read something by Charles Williams. After finally getting around to going out to find his books (as well as the works of George MacDonald (read the Light Princess if you haven't. It's perhaps my favorite Art Fairytale)). However, in a not too surprising turn of events, I found out both are out of Print. That's where Amazon came in. I debated a while about which to buy, since all had equally interesting premises. I finally decided on Many Dimensions (one of his earlier novels). Overall I suppose you could say I enjoyed it, but I had a problem or two with the book. Being my introduction to Williams, I had a bit of difficulty getting used to his writting style. The characters were also a mixed bag. Chloe Burnete was good (although some of her inner thoughts became very confusing, and hard to follow). Giles Tumulty was a great villain IMHO. Did not care much for Lord Arglay and constantly bringing up Organic Law ( something I didn't and still don't understand that well). After reading Many Dimensions, I debated whether or not to read another. I decided since I had read at least two works by his contemporaries (including the first book of Lewis' Space Trilogy), I should at least read one more. I decided on his last novel All Hallows' Eve, getting an Ebook this time. I enjoyed it more than Many Dimensions for sure. The characters had actual growth, I had an easier time understanding the seriousness of the conflict, and the descriptive writting and dialogue was fantastic. Simon Le Clerk was a great (if problematic ) villain that came off as a legitimate threat. Since then I have read The Place of the Lion (also good for character growth), and War In Heaven. I've taken a break from reading Williams, but if I do start again, I'll probably read Descent into Hell (which I hear is supposed to be his best according to a Professor of mine). To be brief (TOO LATE), I would highly reccomend anyone read the works of Charles Williams, whether they are in the CotIG fandom or not. His strengths are in dialogue and description of the supernatural/spiritual. Mind you it should be pointed out, While the Christian elements of Tolkien and Lewis can be pushed aside as allegory or something that can be looked into on top of the fantasy, The religious aspect of Williams is right in front of you, and there is no ignoring it. Mind you, it's done well, and it never is shoved down your throat (mostly). And it's in the descriptions of the supernatural/ spiritual that his writting really shines...wait, I already said that. On another note, it should be pointed out there is an element or two that could come off as problematic. In a Shylock from the Merchant of Venice sort of way. In All Hallows' Eve for example, several mentions are made of Simon Le Clerk having Jewish features. He seems to be ethnically Jewish, though he is by no means practicing. If anything what makes him so evil would seem to be how he misuses the Hebrew Language. Also, he's basically the Anti-Christ. On another note though, Williams does seperate Le Clerk from being Jewish (even points out how Jesus was Jewish), I only mention it since the several references to Le Clerk being of Jewish heritage seemed...off to me. Mind you I am not Jewish so....I don't know what point I was trying to make there. Another character in War in Heaven is referred to as The Jew, more so than his name. And in Many Dimensions which has an artifact that would be of importance to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, only the later two perspectives are brought up. Thankfully little to nothing problematic about the Muslim characters (though one is shown to be wrong, another is shown very positively and highly respected) So, I would reccomend the works of Charles Williams. Partly to give an idea about how and what he wrote. Partly because of actual enjoyment. And Partly so one may compare him with his contemporaries and draw their own conclusions as to why he is generally forgotten. Apologies for my poor writting, and make of this what you will.

[justforbooks]

Nausea (French: La Nausée) is a philosophical novel by the existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre, published in 1938. It is Sartre’s first novel and, in his opinion, one of his best works.

The novel takes place in ‘Bouville’ (literally, 'Mud town’) a town similar to Le Havre, and it concerns a dejected historian, who becomes convinced that inanimate objects and situations encroach on his ability to define himself, on his intellectual and spiritual freedom, evoking in the protagonist a sense of nausea.

French writer Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre’s lifelong partner, claims that La Nausée grants consciousness a remarkable independence and gives reality the full weight of its sense.

It is one of the canonical works of existentialism. Sartre was awarded, though he ultimately declined, the Nobel Prize for literature in 1964. The Nobel Foundation recognized him “for his work which, rich in ideas and filled with the spirit of freedom and the quest for truth, has exerted a far-reaching influence on our age.” Sartre was one of the few people to have declined the award, referring to it as merely a function of a bourgeois institution.

The novel has been translated into English at least twice, by Lloyd Alexander as “The Diary of Antoine Roquentin” (John Lehmann, 1949) and by Robert Baldick as “Nausea” (Penguin Books, 1965).

Written in the form of journal entries, it follows 30-year-old Antoine Roquentin who, returned from years of travel, settles in the fictional French seaport town of Bouville to finish his research on the life of an 18th-century political figure. But during the winter of 1932 a “sweetish sickness,” as he calls nausea, increasingly impinges on almost everything he does or enjoys: his research project, the company of an autodidact who is reading all the books in the local library alphabetically, a physical relationship with a café owner named Françoise, his memories of Anny, an English girl he once loved, even his own hands and the beauty of nature.

Over time, his disgust towards existence forces him into self-hatred and near-insanity. He embodies Sartre’s theories of existential angst, and he searches anxiously for meaning in all the things that had filled and fulfilled his life up to that point. But finally Antoine comes to a revelation into the nature of his being when he faces the troublesomely provisional and limited nature of existence itself.

In his resolution at the end of the book he accepts the indifference of the physical world to man’s aspirations. He is able to see that realization not only as a regret but also as an opportunity. People are free to make their own meaning: a freedom that is also a responsibility, because without that commitment there will be no meaning.

Antoine Roquentin – The protagonist of the novel, Antoine is a former adventurer who has been living in Bouville for three years. Antoine does not keep in touch with family, and has no friends. He is a loner at heart and often likes to listen to other people’s conversations and examine their actions. Even though he at times admits to trying to find some sort of solace in the presence of others, he also exhibits signs of boredom and lack of interest when interacting with people. His relationship with Françoise is mostly hygienic in nature, for the two hardly exchange words and, when invited by the Self-Taught Man to accompany him for lunch, he agrees only to write in his diary later that: “I had as much desire to eat with him as I had to hang myself.” He can afford not to work, but spends a lot of his time writing a book about a French politician of the eighteenth century. Antoine does not think highly of himself: “The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so.” When he starts suffering from the Nausea he feels the need to talk to Anny, but when he finally does, it makes no difference to his condition. He eventually starts to think he does not even exist: “My existence was beginning to cause me some concern. Was I a mere figment of the imagination?”

Anny – Anny is an English woman who was once Antoine’s lover. After meeting with him, Anny makes it clear that she has changed a considerable amount and must go on with her life. Antoine clings to the past, hoping that she may want to redefine their relationship, but he is ultimately rejected by her.

Ogier P., generally referred to as “the self-taught man” or the Autodidact – An acquaintance of Antoine’s, he is a bailiff’s clerk who lives for the pursuit of knowledge and love of humanity. Highly disciplined, he has spent hundreds of hours reading at the local library. He often speaks to Roquentin and confides in him that he is a Socialist.

Like many Modernist novels, La Nausée is a “city-novel,” encapsulating experience within the city. It is widely assumed that “Bouville” in the novel is a fictional portrayal of Le Havre, where Sartre was living and teaching in the 1930s as he wrote it.

The critic William V. Spanos has used Sartre’s novel as an example of “negative capability,” a presentation of the uncertainty and dread of human existence, so strong that the imagination cannot comprehend it.

The Cambridge Companion to the French Novel places La Nausée in a tradition of French activism: “Following on from Malraux, Sartre, Beauvoir, and Camus among others were all able to use the writing of novels as a powerful tool of ideological exploration.” Although novelists like Sartre claim to be in rebellion against the 19th Century French novel, “they in fact owe a great deal both to its promotion of the lowly and to its ambiguous or 'poetic’ aspects.”

In his What Is Literature?, Sartre wrote, “On the one hand, the literary object has no substance but the reader’s subjectivity … But, on the other hand, the words are there like traps to arouse our feelings and to reflect them towards us … Thus, the writer appeals to the reader’s freedom to collaborate in the production of the work.”

The novel is an intricate formal achievement modeled on much 18th-century fiction that was presented as a “diary discovered among the papers of…”

Hayden Carruth wonders if there are not unrecognized layers of irony and humor beneath the seriousness of Nausea: “Sartre, for all his anguished disgust, can play the clown as well, and has done so often enough: a sort of fool at the metaphysical court.”

Like many modernist authors, Sartre, when young, loved popular novels in preference to the classics and claimed in his autobiography that it was from them, rather than from the balanced phrases of Chateaubriand that he had his “first encounters with beauty.”

Sartre described the stream of consciousness technique as one method of moving the novel from the era of Newtonian Physics forward into the era of Einstein’s theory of general relativity. He saw this as crucial because he felt that “narrative technique ultimately takes us back to the metaphysics of the novelist.” He wanted his novelistic techniques to be compatible with his theories on the existential freedom of the individual as well as his phenomenological analyses of the unstable, shifting structures of consciousness.

Disdaining 19th-century notions that character development in novels should obey and reveal psychological law, La Nausée treats such notions as bourgeois bad faith, ignoring the contingency and inexplicability of life.

From the psychological point of view Antoine Roquentin could be seen as an individual suffering from depression, and the nausea itself as one of the symptoms of his condition. Unemployed, living in deprived conditions, lacking human contact, being trapped in fantasies about the 18th century secret agent he is writing the book about, shows Sartre’s oeuvre as a follow-up of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge in search of the precise description of schizophrenia. Rilke’s character anticipates Sartre’s.

Roquentin’s problem is not simply depression or mental illness, although his experience has pushed him to that point. Sartre presents Roquentin’s difficulties as arising from man’s inherent existential condition. His seemingly special circumstances (returning from travel, reclusiveness), which goes beyond the mere indication of his very real depression, are supposed to induce in him (and in the reader) a state that makes one more receptive to noticing an existential situation that everyone has, but may not be sensitive enough to let become noticeable. Roquentin undergoes a strange metaphysical experience that estranges him from the world. His problems are not merely a result of personal insanity, without larger significance. Rather, like the characters in the Dostoevsky and Rilke novels, they are victims of larger ideological, social, and existential forces that have brought them to the brink of insanity. Sartre’s point in Nausea is to comment on our universal reaction to these common external problems.

Hayden Carruth wrote in 1959 of the way that “Roquentin has become a familiar of our world, one of those men who, like Hamlet or Julien Sorel, live outside the pages of the books in which they assumed their characters… . It is scarcely possible to read seriously in contemporary literature, philosophy, or psychology without encountering references to Roquentin’s confrontation with the chestnut tree, for example, which is one of the sharpest pictures ever drawn of self-doubt and metaphysical anguish.”

Certainly, Nausea gives us a few of the clearest and hence most useful images of man in our time that we possess; and this, as Allen Tate has said, is the supreme function of art.

Criticism of Sartre’s novels frequently centered on the tension between the philosophical and political on one side versus the novelistic and individual on the other.

Ronald Aronson describes the reaction of Albert Camus, still in Algeria and working on his own first novel, L’Étranger. At the time of the novel’s appearance, Camus was a reviewer for an Algiers left-wing daily. Camus told a friend that he “thought a lot about the book” and it was “a very close part of me.” In his review, Camus wrote, “the play of the toughest and most lucid mind are at the same time both lavished and squandered.” Camus felt that each of the book’s chapters, taken by itself, “reaches a kind of perfection in bitterness and truth.” However, he also felt that the descriptive and the philosophical aspects of the novel are not balanced, that they “don’t add up to a work of art: the passage from one to the other is too rapid, too unmotivated, to evoke in the reader the deep conviction that makes the art of the novel.” He likewise felt that Sartre had tipped the balance too far in depicting the repugnant features of mankind “instead of placing the reasons for his despair, at least to a certain degree, if not completely, on the elements of human greatness.” Still, Camus’s largely positive review led to a friendship between the two authors.

G.J. Mattey, a philosopher rather than a novelist like Camus, flatly describes Nausea and others of Sartre’s literary works as “practically philosophical treatises in literary form.”

In distinction both from Camus’s feeling that Nausea is an uneasy marriage of novel and philosophy and also from Mattey’s belief that it is a philosophy text, the philosopher William Barrett, in his book Irrational Man, expresses an opposite judgment. He writes that Nausea “may well be Sartre’s best book for the very reason that in it the intellectual and the creative artist come closest to being conjoined.” Barrett says that, in other literary works and in his literary criticism, Sartre feels the pull of ideas too strongly to respond to poetry, “which is precisely that form of human expression in which the poet—and the reader who would enter the poet’s world—must let Being be, to use Heidegger’s phrase and not attempt to coerce it by the will to action or the will to intellectualization.”

The poet Hayden Carruth agrees with Barrett, whom he quotes, about Nausea. He writes firmly that Sartre, “is not content, like some philosophers, to write fable, allegory, or a philosophical tale in the manner of Candide; he is content only with a proper work of art that is at the same time a synthesis of philosophical specifications.”

Barrett feels that Sartre as a writer is best when “the idea itself is able to generate artistic passion and life.”

Steven Ungar compares Nausea with French novels of different periods, such as Madame de Lafayette La Princesse de Clèves (1678), Honoré de Balzac Le Père Goriot (1835), André Malraux La Condition humaine (1933), and Annie Ernaux Une femme (1988), all of which have scenes with men and women faced with choices and “provide literary expressions to concerns with personal identity that vary over time more in detail than in essence.”

A main theme in La Nausée is that life is meaningless unless a person makes personal commitments that give it meaning. William Barrett emphasizes that the despair and disgust in Nausea contrast with the total despair of Céline (who is quoted on the flyleaf of the French edition) that leads to nothing; rather, they are a necessary personal recognition that eventuate in “a release from disgust into heroism.”

Barrett adds that, “like Adler’s, Sartre’s is fundamentally a masculine psychology; it misunderstands and disparages the psychology of woman. The humanity of man consists in the For-itself, the masculine component by which we choose, make projects, and generally commit ourselves to a life of action. The element of masculine protest, to use Adler’s term, is strong throughout Sartre’s writings … the disgust … of Roquentin, in Nausea, at the bloated roots of the chestnut tree …”

Mattey elaborates further on the positive, redeeming aspect of the seemingly bleak, frustrating themes of existentialism that are so apparent in Nausea: “Sartre considered the subjectivity of the starting-point for what a human is as a key thesis of existentialism. The starting-point is subjective because humans make themselves what they are. Most philosophers consider subjectivity to be a bad thing, particularly when it comes to the motivation for action… . Sartre responds by claiming that subjectivity is a dignity of human being, not something that degrades us.” Therefore, the characteristic anguish and forlornness of existentialism are temporary: only a prerequisite to recognizing individual responsibility and freedom. The basis of ethics is not rule-following. A specific action may be either wrong or right and no specific rule is necessarily valid. What makes the action, either way, ethical is “authenticity,” the willingness of the individual to accept responsibility rather than dependence on rules, and to commit to his action. Despair, the existentialist says, is the product of uncertainty: being oriented exclusively to the outcome of a decision rather than to the process yields uncertainty, as we cannot decide the future, only our action.

In his “Introduction” to the American edition of Nausea, the poet and critic Hayden Carruth feels that, even outside those modern writers who are explicitly philosophers in the existentialist tradition, a similar vein of thought is implicit but prominent in a main line through Franz Kafka, Miguel de Unamuno, D. H. Lawrence, André Malraux, and William Faulkner. Carruth says:

'Suffering is the origin of consciousness,’ Dostoevsky wrote. But suffering is everywhere in the presence of thought and sensitivity. Sartre for his part has written, and with equal simplicity: 'Life begins on the other side of despair.’

Sartre has written, “What is meant … by saying that existence precedes essence? It means that, first of all, man exists, turns up, appears on the scene, and only afterwards defines himself. If man, as the existentialist conceives of him, is undefinable, it is only because he is nothing. Only afterwards will he be something, and he will have made what he will be.”

If things—and also people—are contingent, if they “just are,” then we are free and we create ourselves solely through our decisions and choices.

David Drake mentions that, in Nausea, Sartre gives several kinds of examples of people whose behavior shows bad faith, who are inauthentic: members of the bourgeoisie who believe their social standing or social skills give them a “right” to exist, or others who embrace the banality of life and attempt to flee from freedom by repeating empty gestures, others who live by perpetuating past versions of themselves as they were or who live for the expectations of others, or those who claim to have found meaning in politics, morality, or ideology.

In simply narrative terms, Roquentin’s nausea arises from his near-complete detachment from other people, his not needing much interaction with them for daily necessities: “the fact of his alienation from others is important; as his own work ceases to entertain and to occupy him, Roquentin has nothing that could distract him from the business of existing in its simplest forms.” As a practical matter, he could solve his problem by getting a job; but, as a device for developing the novel’s theme, his aloneness is a way of making him (and the reader) recognize that there is nothing inherent in the objective nature of the world that would give any necessary meaning to whatever actions he chose, and therefore nothing to restrict his freedom. “[H]is perception of the world around him becomes unstable as objects are disengaged from their usual frames of reference,” and he is forced to recognize that freedom is inescapable and that therefore creating a meaning for his life is his own responsibility. “Nothing makes us act the way we do, except our own personal choice.”

“But,” David Clowney writes, “freedom is frightening, and it is easier to run from it into the safety of roles and realities that are defined by society, or even by your own past. To be free is to be thrown into existence with no "human nature” as an essence to define you, and no definition of the reality into which you are thrown, either. To accept this freedom is to live “authentically”; but most of us run from authenticity. In the most ordinary affairs of daily life, we face the challenge of authentic choice, and the temptation of comfortable inauthenticity. All of Roquentin’s experiences are related to these themes from Sartre’s philosophy.“

Genius is what a man invents when he is looking for a way out.

During the Second World War, the experience of Sartre and others in the French Resistance to the Nazi occupation of France emphasized political activism as a form of personal commitment. This political dimension was developed in Sartre’s later trilogy of novels, Les Chemins de la Liberté (The Roads to Freedom) (1945–1949), which concern a vicious circle of failure on the part of a thinking individual to progress effectively from thought to action. Finally, for Sartre, political commitment became explicitly Marxist.

In 1945, Sartre gave a lecture in New York that was printed in Vogue in July of that year. In it he recast his prewar works, such as Nausea into politically committed works appropriate to the postwar era.

Marxism was not, in any case, always as appreciative of Sartre as he was of it. Mattey describes their objections:

Marxism was a very potent political and philosophical force in France after its liberation from the Nazi occupation. Marxist thinkers tend to be very ideological and to condemn in no uncertain terms what they regard to be rival positions. They found existentialism to run counter to their emphasis on the solidarity of human beings and their theory of material (economic) determinism. The subjectivity that is the starting point of existentialism seemed to the Marxists to be foreign to the objective character of economic conditions and to the goal of uniting the working classes in order to overthrow the bourgeoise capitalists. If one begins with the reality of the "I think,” one loses sight of what really defines the human being (according to the Marxists), which is their place in the economic system. Existentialism’s emphasis on individual choice leads to contemplation, rather than to action. Only the bourgeoise have the luxury to make themselves what they are through their choices, so existentialism is a bourgeoise philosophy.

Sartre was influenced at the time by the philosophy of Edmund Husserl and his phenomenological method. He received a stipend from the Institut Français, allowing him to study in Berlin with Husserl and Martin Heidegger in 1932, as he began writing the novel.

Roy Elveton reports:

In January, 1939, one year after the death of Edmund Husserl, Sartre published a short essay entitled 'Husserl’s Central Idea.’ In the space of a few paragraphs, Sartre rejects the epistemology of Descartes and the neo-Kantians and their view of consciousness’s relationship to the world. Consciousness is not related to the world by virtue of a set of mental representations and acts of mental synthesis that combine such representations to provide us with our knowledge of the external world. Husserl’s intentional theory of consciousness provides the only acceptable alternative: 'Consciousness and the world are immediately given together: the world, essentially external to consciousness, is essentially related to it.’ The only appropriate image for intentionality and our knowing relationship to the world is that of an 'explosion’: 'to know is to “explode” toward’ an object in the world, an object 'beyond oneself, over there…towards that which is not oneself…out of oneself.’

Following Husserl, Sartre views absurdity as a quality of all existing objects (and of the material world collectively), independent of any stance humans might take with respect to them. Our consciousness of an object does not inhere in the object itself. Thus in the early portions of the novel, Roquentin, who takes no attitude towards objects and has no stake in them, is totally estranged from the world he experiences. The objects themselves, in their brute existence, have only participation in a meaningless flow of events: they are superfluous. This alienation from objects casts doubt for him, in turn, on his own validity and even his own existence.

Roquentin says of physical objects that, for them, “to exist is simply to be there.” When he has the revelation at the chestnut tree, this “fundamental absurdity” of the world does not go away. What changes then is his attitude. By recognizing that objects won’t supply meaning in themselves, but people must supply it for them – that Roquentin himself must create meaning in his own life – he becomes both responsible and free. The absurdity becomes, for him, “the key to existence.”

Victoria Best writes:

Language proves to be a fragile barrier between Roquentin and the external world, failing to refer to objects and thus place them in a scheme of meaning. Once language collapses it becomes evident that words also give a measure of control and superiority to the speaker by keeping the world at bay; when they fail in this function, Roquentin is instantly vulnerable, unprotected.

Thus, although, in some senses, Sartre’s philosophy in Nausea derives from Husserl and ultimately from René Descartes, the strong role he gives to the contingent randomness of physical objects contrasts with their commitment to the role of necessity. (Elveton mentions that, unknown to Sartre, Husserl himself was developing the same ideas, but in manuscripts that remained unpublished.)

Ethan Kleinberg writes that, more than Husserl, it was Martin Heidegger who appealed to Sartre’s sense of radical individualism. He says, “for Sartre, the question of being was always and only a question of personal being. The dilemma of the individual confronting the overwhelming problem of understanding the relationship of consciousness to things, of being to things, is the central focus” of Nausea. Eventually, “in his reworking of Husserl, Sartre found himself coming back to the themes he had absorbed from Heidegger’s Was ist Metaphysik?” Nausea was a prelude to Sartre’s sustained attempt to follow Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit by analyzing human experience as various ontological modes, or ways of being in the world.

In 1937, just as Sartre was finishing Nausea and getting it to press, he wrote an essay, The Transcendence of the Ego. He still agreed with Husserl that consciousness is “about” objects or, as they say, it “intends” them – rather than forming within itself a duplicate, an inner representation of an outward object. The material objects of consciousness (or “objects of intention”) exist in their own right, independent and without any residue accumulating in them from our awareness of them. However, the new idea in this essay was that Sartre now differed in also believing that the person’s ego itself is also “in the world,” an object of consciousness to be discovered, rather than the totally known subject of consciousness. In the novel, not only Roquentin’s consciousness but his own body also becomes objectified in his new, alarming perception.

And so Sartre parted company with Husserl over the latter’s belief in a transcendent ego, which Sartre believed instead was neither formally nor materially in consciousness, but outside it: in the world.

This seemingly technical change fit with Sartre’s native predisposition to think of subjectivity as central: a conscious person is always immersed in a world where his or her task is to make himself concrete. A “person” is not an unchanging, central essence, but a fluid construct that continually re-arises as an interaction among a person’s consciousness, his physiology and history, the material world, and other people. This view itself supported Sartre’s vision of people as fundamentally both doomed and free to live lives of commitment and creativity.

As Søren Kierkegaard, the earliest existentialist, wrote: 'I must find a truth that is true for me … the idea for which I can live or die.’

La Nausée allows Sartre to explain his philosophy in simplified terms. Roquentin is the classic existentialist hero whose attempts to pierce the veil of perception lead him to a strange combination of disgust and wonder. For the first part of the novel, Roquentin has flashes of nausea that emanate from mundane objects. These flashes appear seemingly randomly, from staring at a crumpled piece of paper in the gutter to picking up a rock on the beach. The feeling he perceives is pure disgust: a contempt so refined that it almost shatters his mind each time it occurs. As the novel progresses, the nausea appears more and more frequently, though he is still unsure of what it actually signifies. However, at the base of a chestnut tree in a park, he receives a piercingly clear vision of what the nausea actually is. Existence itself, the property of existence to be something rather than nothing was what was slowly driving him mad. He no longer sees objects as having qualities such as color or shape. Instead, all words are separated from the thing itself, and he is confronted with pure being.

Carruth points out that the antipathy of the existentialists to formal ethical rules brought them disapproval from moral philosophers concerned with traditional schemes of value. On the other hand, analytical philosophers and logical positivists were “outraged by Existentialism’s willingness to abandon rational categories and rely on non mental processes of consciousness.”

Additionally, Sartre’s philosophy of existentialism is opposed to a certain kind of rationalistic humanism. Upon the confession of the Self-Taught Man as to being a member of the S.F.I.O., a French Socialist party, Roquentin quickly engages him in a Socratic dialogue to expose his inconsistencies as a humanist. Roquentin first points out how his version of humanism remains unaffiliated to a particular party or group so as to include or value all of mankind. However, he then notes how the humanist nonetheless caters his sympathy with a bias towards the humble portion of mankind. Roquentin continues to point out further discrepancies of how one humanist may favor an audience of laughter while another may enjoy the somber funeral. In dialogue, Roquentin challenges the Self-Taught Man to show a demonstrable love for a particular, tangible person rather than a love for the abstract entity attached to that person (i.e. the idea of Youth in a young man). In short, he concludes that such humanism naively attempts to “melt all human attitudes into one.” More importantly, to disavow humanism does not constitute “anti-humanism”.

The kind of humanism Sartre found unacceptable, according to Mattey, is one that denies the primacy of individual choice… . But there is another conception of humanism implicit in existentialism. This is one that emphasizes the ability of individual human beings to transcend their individual circumstances and act on behalf of all humans. The fact is, Sartre maintains, that the only universe we have is a human universe, and the only laws of this universe are made by humans.“

In his Sartre biography, David Drake writes, Nausea was on the whole well received by the critics and the success of Sartre the novelist served to enhance the reputation he had started to enjoy as a writer of short stories and philosophical texts, mostly on perception.”

Although his earlier essays did not receive much attention, Nausea and the collection of stories The Wall, swiftly brought him recognition.

Carruth writes that, on publication, “it was condemned, predictably, in academic circles, but younger readers welcomed it, and it was far more successful than most first novels.”

Sartre originally titled the novel Melancholia. Simone de Beauvoir referred to it as his “factum on contingency.” He composed it from 1932 to 1936. He had begun it during his military service and continued writing at Le Havre and in Berlin.

Ethan Kleinberg reports:

Sartre went to study in Berlin for the academic year 1933. While in Berlin, Sartre did not take any university courses or work with Husserl or Heidegger. Sartre’s time seems to have been spent reading Husserl and working on the second draft of Nausea.

Drake confirms this account.

The manuscript was subsequently typed. It was at first refused by the Nouvelle Revue Française (N.R.F.), despite a strong recommendation from their reviewer, Jean Paulhan. In 1937, however, the imprint’s publisher, Gaston Gallimard accepted it and suggested the title La Nausée.

Brice Parain, the editor, asked for numerous cuts of material that was either too populist or else too sexual to avoid an action for indecency. Sartre deleted the populist material, which was not natural to him, with few complaints, because he wanted to be published by the prestigious N.R.F., which had a strong, if vague, house style. However, he stood fast on the sexual material which he felt was an artistically necessary hallucinatory ingredient.

Michel Contat has examined the original typescript and feels that, “if ever Melancholia is published as its author had originally intended it, the novel will no doubt emerge as a work which is more composite, more baroque and perhaps more original than the version actually published.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[nemesisbinxartifactseries]

Artifact Series J

J. Allen Hynek's Telescope

J. Edgar Hoover's Tie

J. McCullough's Golf Ball

J. Templer's Wind-Up Tin Rooster *

J. C. Agajanian’s Stetson

J.T. Saylors's Overalls

J.M. Barrie’s Swiss Trychels

J.M.W. Turner's Rain, Steam and Speed-The Great Western Railway *

J.R.R. Tolken's Ring

Jack-in-the-Box

Jack's Magic Beanstalk

Jack Daniel's Original Whisky Bottle

Jack Dawson's Art Kit

Jack Duncan's Spur *

Jack Frost's Staff

Jack Kerouac's Typewriter

Jack Ketch's Axe

Jack LaLanne's Stationary Bike *

Jack London's Dog Collar

Jack Parson's Rocket Engine

Jack Sheppard's Hammer

Jack Sparrow's Compass

Jack Torrance's Croquet Mallet

Jack the Ripper's Lantern *

Jackie Robinson's Baseball

Jackson Pollock's "No. 5, 1948"

Jackson Pollock's Pack of Cigarettes

Jackson Pollock's Paint Cans

Jack's Regisword

Jack Vettriano's "The Singing Butler"

Jack's Wrench

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm's Kinder- und Hausmarchen

Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian's Otoscope

Jacob Kurtzberg's Belt *

Jacqueline Cochran's Brooch

Jacques Aymar-Vernay’s Dowsing Rod

Jacques Cousteau's Goggles

Jacques Cousteau's Diving Suit

Jacques-Louis David's Napoleon Crossing the Alps *

Jade Butterfly

Jadeite Cabbage

Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad Akbar's Smoke Pipe

Jamaica Ginger Bottle

Jaleel White's Hosting Chair

James Abbot McNeill Whistler's Whistler's Mother *

James Allen's Memoir

James Bartley's Britches

James Ben Ali Haggin's Leaky Fountain Pen

James Bert Garner’s Gas Mask

James Bett's Cupboard Handle

James Braid's Chair *

James Brown's Shoes

James Bulger's Sweater

James Buzzanell's Painting "Grief and Pain"

James Buzzanell’s Survey Books

James C. McReynolds’ Judicial Robe

James Chadwick's Nobel Prize

James Clerk Maxwell's Camera Lens

James Colnett's Otter Pelt

James Condliff's Skeleton Clock

James Cook's Mahiole and Feather Cloak

James Craik's Spring Lancet

James Dean's 1955 Prosche 550 Spyder, aka "Little Bastard"

James Dean's UCLA Varsity Jacket

James Dinsmoor's Dinner Bell

James Eads How’s Bindle

James Earl Ray's Rifle

James Fenimore Cooper's Arrow Heads

James Gandolfini's Jukebox

James Hadfield’s Glass Bottle of Water

James Hall III’s Shopping Bags

James Henry Atkinson's Mouse Trap

James Henry Pullen’s Mannequin

James Hoban's Drawing Utensils

James Holman’s Cane

James Hutton's Overcoat

James Joyce’s Eyepatch

James M. Barrie's Grandfather Clock

James M. Barrie's Suitcase

James Murrell's Witch Bottle

James Philip’s Riata

James Prescott Joule's Thermodynamic Generator

James Smithson's Money

James Tilly Matthews’ Air Loom

James Warren and Willoughby Monzani's Piece of Wood

James Watt's Steam Condenser

James Watt's Weather Vane

James W. Marshall’s Jar

Jan Baalsrud’s Stretcher

Jan Baptist van Helmont's Willow Tree

Jane Austen's Carriage

Jane Austen's Gloves

Jane Austen's Quill

Jane Bartholomew's "Lady Columbia" Torch

Jane Pierce's Veil

Janet Leigh's Shower Curtain

Janine Charrat's Ballet Slippers

Jan Janzoon's Boomerang *

Janis Joplin's Backstage Pass from Woodstock *

Jan Karski's Passport

Janus Coin *

Jan van Eyck’s Chaperon

Jan van Speyk's Flag of the Netherlands

Jan Wnęk's Angel Figurine

Jan Žižka's Wagenburg Wagons

The Japanese Nightingale

Jar of Dust from the Mount Asama Eruption

Jar of Greek Funeral Beans

Jar of Marbles

Jar of Molasses from The Boston Molasses Disaster

Jar of Sand

Jar of Semper Augustus Bulbs

Jar of Shiva

Jar of Sugar Plums

Jascha Heifetz's Violin Bow

Jason Voorhese's Machete

Javed Iqbal's Barrel of Acid

Jay Maynard's Tron Suit

Jean II Le Maingre's Gauntlets

Jean Baptiste Charbonneau’s Cradleboard

Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin's Bubble Pipe

Jean Chastel's Silver Gun

Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin's Pocket Watch

Jean Fleury's Aztec Gold Coins

Jean-François Champollion’s Ideographic Dictionary

Jean Froissart's Mirror *

Jean-Frédéric Peugeot's Pepper Mill

Jean Hilliard’s Earmuffs

Jean Parisot de Valette’s Sword Sheath

Jean-Paul Marat's Bathtub

Jean Paul-Satre’s Paper Cutter

Jean-Pierre Christin's Thermometer

Jean Senebier's Bundle of Swiss Alpine Flowers

Jean Valnet's Aromatherapy Statue

Jean Vrolicq’s Scrimshaw

Jeanne Baret's Hat

Jeanne de Clisson's Black Fleet

Jeanne Villepreux-Power's Aquarium

Jeannette Piccard's Sandbag

Jeff Dunham's First Ventriloquist Box

Jefferson Davis' Boots

Jefferson Randolph Smith's Soap Bar

Jeffrey Dahmer's Handkerchief

Jeffrey Dahmer's Pick-Up Sticks

Jemmy Hirst's Carriage Wheel

Jenny Lind's Stage Makeup

Jeopardy! Contestant Podiums

Jerome Monroe Smucker's Canning Jars

Jerry Andrus’ Organ

Jerry Garcia's Blackbulb *

Jerry Siegel's Sketchbook

Jesse James' Saddle

Jesse James' Pistol

Jesse Owens' Hitler Oak

Jesse Owens' Running Shoes

Jesse Pomeroy's Ribbon and Spool

Jester's Mask

Jesus of Nazareth's Whip

Jesús García's Brake Wheel

Jet Engine from the Gimli Glider

Jet Glass Cicada Button

Jethro Tull's Hoe

Jeweled Scabbard of Sforza

Jiang Shunfu’s Mandarin Square

Jim Davis' Pet Carrier

Jim Fixx's Shorts

Jim Henson's Talking Food Muppets

Jim Jones' Sunglasses

Jim Londos' Overalls

Jim Robinson's Army Bag

Jim Thorpe's Shoulder Pads

Jim Ward's Piercing Samples

Jimi Hendrix's Bandana

Jimi Hendrix's Bong

Jimi Hendrix's Guitars *

Jimmie Rodgers Rail Brake

Jimmy Durante's Cigar

Jimmy Gibb Jr's Stock Car

Jimmy Hoffa's Comb

Jin Dynasty Chainwhip

Jingle Harness

Joan II, Duchess of Berry's Dress

Joan of Arc's Chain Mail

Joan of Arc's Helmet (canon)

Joan Feynman's Ski Pole

Joanna of Castile's Vase

Joan Rivers' Carpet Steamer

Joan Rivers' Red Carpet

Joe Ades's Potato Peeler

Joe Girard’s Keys

Joe Rosenthal's Camera Lens

Joel Brand's Playing Cards

Joséphine de Beauharnais' Engagement Ring

Johan Alfred Ander’s Piece of Porcelain

Johann Baptist Isenring’s Acacia Tree

Johann Bartholomaeus Adam Beringer's Lying Stones

Johann Blumhardt's Rosary

Johann Dzierzon’s Beehive Frame

Johann Georg Elser's Postcard

Johann Maelzel's Metronome *

Johann Rall's Poker Cards

Johann Tetzel's Indulgence

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Prism

Johannes Brahms' Coffee Creamer

Johannes Diderik van der Waals' Gloves

Johannes Fabricius' Camera Obscura

Johannes Gutenburg's Memory Paper *

Johannes Gutenburg's Printing Press *

Johannes Gutenberg's Printing Press Keys

Johannes Kepler's Planetary Model

Johannes Kepler's Telescope Lense

Johannes Kjarval’s Landscape Painting

John A. Macready's Ray-Bans *

John A. Roebling's Steel Cable

John A.F. Maitland's Musical Brainnumber *

John André’s Stocking

John Anthony Walker's Minox

John Axon's Footplate

John Babbacombe Lee’s Trapdoor

John Bardeen's Radio

John Bodkin Adams’ Stethoscope

John Brown's Body *

John Brown's Machete

John C. Koss SP3 Stereophones

John C. Lilly's Isolation Tank Valve

John Cabot's Map

John Carl Wilcke's Rug *

John Crawley's Painting

John Croghan's Limestone Brick

John Dalton's Weather Vane

John Dee's Golden Talisman

John Dee's Obsidian Crystal Ball

John Dee’s Seal of God

John DeLorean's Drawing Table

John Dickson Carr's Driving Gloves

John Dillinger's Pistol *

John D. Grady’s Satchel

John D. Rockefeller's Bible

John D. Rockefeller, Sr. and Jr.'s Top Hats

John Dwight's Hammer

John F. Kennedy's Coconut

John F. Kennedy's Presidental Limousine

John F. Kennedy's Tie Clip *

John Flaxman's Casting Molds

Sir John Franklin's Scarf

John Gay's Shilling

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.'s Pen

John H. Kellogg's Bowl

John H. Kellogg's Corn Flakes

John H. Lawrence's Pacifier

John Hancock's Quill

John Harrison’s Longcase Clock

John Hawkwood’s Lance

John Hendrix's Bible

John Henry Moore's White Banner

John Henry's Sledge Hammer

John Hetherington's Top Hat

John Holland, 2nd Duke of Exeter's Torture Rack

John Holmes Pump *

John Hopoate's Cleats

John Howard Griffin's Bus Fare

John Hunter's Stitching Wire

John Hunter's Surgical Sutures

John J. Pershing's Boots

John Jacob Astor's Beaver Pelt

John Jervis’ Ship

John Joshua Webb’s Rock Chippings

John Kay's Needle

John Keat's Grecian Urn *

John, King of England's Throne

John L. Sullivan's Boots

John Langdon Down's Stencils

John Lawson's Mannequin Legs

John Lennon's Glasses

John "Liver-Eating" Johnson's Axe

John Logie Baird's Scanning Disk *

John M. Allegro's Fly Amanita

John Macpherson's Ladle

John Malcolm's Chunk of Skin

John Malcolm's Skin Wallet

John McEnroe's Tennis Racket *

John Milner's Yellow '32 Ford Deuce Coupe

John Moore-Brabazon’s Waste Basket

John Morales' McGruff Suit

John Mytton’s Carriage

John Pasche's Rolling Stones Poster Design

John Paul Jones's Sword

John Pemberton's Tasting Spoon

John Philip Sousa's Sousaphone

John Rambo's Composite Bow

John Rykener's Ring

John Shore's Tuning Fork

John Simon's Mouthwash

John Simon Ritchie's Padlock Necklace

John Smith of Jamestown's Sword

John Snow's Dot Map

John Snow’s Pump Handle

John Stapp’s Rocket Sled

John Steinbeck's Luger

John Sutcliffe's Camera

John Sutter's Pickaxe

John Tunstall's Horse Saddle

John Trumbull's "Painting of George Washington"

John von Neumann's Abacus

John Walker's Walking Stick

John Wayne Gacy's Clown Painting *

John Wayne Gacy's Facepaint

John Wesley Hardin's Rosewood Grip Pistol

John Wesley Powell's Canoe

John Wesley Powell’s Canteen

John Wilkes Booth's Boot *

John Wilkes Booth Wanted Poster

John William Polidori's Bookcase

Johnny Ace's Gun

Johnny Appleseed's Tin Pot *

Johnny Campbell's University of Minnesota Sweater

Johnny Depp's Scissor Gloves

Johnny Smith's Steering Wheel

Johnny Weismuller's Loincloth *

Joker's BANG! Revolver

Jon Stewart's Tie

Jonathan Coulton's Guitar

Jonathan R. Davis' Bowie Knife

Jonathan Shay's Copy of Iliad/Odyssey

Jonestown Water Cooler

Jorge Luis Borges' Scrapbook

José Abad Santos' Pebble

José Delgado’s Transmitter

Jose Enrique de la Pena's Chest Piece

Jōsei Toda’s Gohonzon Butsudan

Josef Frings’ Ferraiolo

Josef Mengele's Scalpel

Josef Stefan's Light Bulbs

Joseph of Arimathea's Tomb Rock

Joseph of Cupertino's Medallion *

Joseph Day's Sickle

Joseph Ducreux's Cane

Joseph Dunninger's Pocket Watch

Joseph Dunningers’ Props

Joseph E. Johnston Confederate Flag

Joseph Force Crater's Briefcases

Joseph Fourier's Pocket Knife

Joseph Glidden’s Barbed Wire

Joseph Goebbels' Radio *

Joseph Jacquard's Analytical Loom

Joseph Bolitho Johns’ Axe

Joseph Kittinger's Parachute

Joseph Lister's Padding

Joseph McCarthy's List of Communists

Joseph Merrick's Hood

Joseph-Michel Montgolfier's Wicker Basket

Joseph Moir’s Token

Joseph Pilate's Resistance Bands *

Joseph Polchinski’s Billiard Ball

Joseph Stalin's Gold Star Medal *

Joseph Stalin's Sleep Mask *

Joseph Swan's Electric Light

Joseph Vacher's Accordion

Joseph Vacher's Dog Skull

Joseph Valachi's '58 Chevrolet Impala

Josephus' Papyrus

Joseph Wolpe's Glasses

Josephine Cochrane's Dishwasher

Joshua's Trumpet *

Josiah S. Carberry's Cracked Pot

Joshua Vicks' Original Batch of Vicks Vapor Rub

Josiah Wedgewood's Medallion

Jost Burgi's Armillary Sphere *

Jovan Vladimir's Cross

Juana the Mad of Castiles' Crown

Juan Luis Vives' Quill Set

Juan Moreira’s Facón

Juan Pounce de Leon's Chalice

Juan Ponce de León's Helmet

Juan Seguin's Bandolier

Jubilee Grand Poker Chip *

Judah Loew ben Belazel's Amulet *

Judas Iscariot’s Thirty Silver Coins

Judson Laipply's Shoes

Jules Baillarger's Decanter

Jules Leotard's Trapeze Net

Jules Verne's Original Manuscripts

Julia Agrippa's Chalice

Julia Child's Apron *

Julia Child's Whisk

Julian Assange’s Flash Drive

Julie d’Aubigny's Sabre

Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's Wedding Rings

Julius Asclepiodotus’ Shield Boss

Julius Caesar's Wreath

Julius Wilbrand's Lab Coat Buttons *

Jumanji

Jumper Cables

Junji Koyama’s Vegetables

Jure Sterk's Ballpoint Pen

Jürgen Wattenberg's Leather Provision Bag

Justa Grata Honoria’s Engagement Ring

Justin Bieber's Guitar

Justinian I's Chariot Wheel

Justin O. Schmidt's Wasp Mask

Justus von Liebig's Fertilizer Sack

Justus von Liebig's Mirror

[brookston]

Holidays 10.19

Holidays

Change Your Life Day

Constitution Day (New Zealand, Niue)

Dress Like a Dork Day

Evaluate Your Life Day

Feast of the Wicked Scam

International Human Rights Day (Turks and Caicos Islands)

LGBT Center Awareness Day

Make A Scarecrow Day

Mother Theresa Day (Albania)

National Clean Your Virtual Desktop Day

National Kentucky Day

New Friends Day [also 1.19; 7.19]

Oxfordshire Day (UK)

Rainforest Day

Samora Machel Day (Mozambique)

World Pediatric Bone and Joint Day

Yabusame Festival (Koyama, Japan)

Yorktown Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Greasy Spoon Day

International Gin and Tonic Day

National Seafood Bisque Day

3rd Wednesday in October

Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day [3rd Wednesday]

Day of National Concern About Young People and Gun Violence [3rd Wednesday]

Global Dignity Day [3rd Wednesday]

Hagfish Day [3rd Wednesday]

International Pronouns Day (a.k.a. Pronouns Day) [3rd Wednesday]

Love Your Body Day [3rd Wednesday]

Medical Assistants Recognition Day [3rd Wednesday]

Missouri Day [3rd Wednesday]

Support Your Local Chamber of Commerce Day [3rd Wednesday]

Thank Your Cleaner Day [3rd Wednesday]

Unity Day [Wednesday closest to 10.22]

Independence Days

Niue (1974)

Feast Days

Aaron (Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria)

Aquilinus of Évreux (Christian; Saint)

Armilustrium (Ancient Roman Festival of Mars)

Barbarella Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Bettara Ichi (Pickle Market a.k.a. Sticky-Sticky Fair; Ebisu Shrine, Tokyo, Japan)

Desiderius (Didier) of Auxerre (Christian; Saint)

Diderot (Positivist; Saint)

Ethbin (a.k.a. Egbin; Christian; Saint)

Frideswide (Christian; Saint)

Henry Martyn (Anglican Communion)

Isaac Jogues, Jean de Brébeuf, and Companions (Christian; Saints)

Jerzy Popiełuszko (Christian; Blessed)

Paul of the Cross (Christian; Saint)

Peter of Alcantara (Christian; Saint)

Prides (Christian; Saint)

Ptolemaeus and Lucius (Christian; Saint)

Rene Goupil (Christian; Saint)

Travel Poobah (Muppetism)

Try Not To Die Day (Pastafarian)

Varus (Christian; Saint)

Veranus of Cavaillon (Christian; Saint)

William Carey (Episcopal Church)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Tomobiki (友引 Japan) [Good luck all day, except at noon.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 48 of 60)

Premieres

Angels in the Outfield (Film; 1951)

Antipop, by Primus (Album; 1999)

A Chorus Line (Broadway Musical; 1975)

Clerks (Film; 1994)

Counterparts, by Rush (Album; 1993)

Damn the Torpedoes, by Tom Petty (Album; 1979)

I Second That Emotion, by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles (Song; 1967)

Le Belle Sauvage, by Philip Pullman (Novel; 2017) [The Book of Dust Trilogy #1]

Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury (Novel; 1953)

Looking for Mr. Goodbar (Film; 1977)

Mulholland Drive (Film; 2001)

Mylo Xyloto, by Coldplay (Album; 2011)

Pin Ups, by David Bowie (Album; 1973)

Prince, by Prince (Album; 1979)

Riding in Cars with Boys (Film; 2001)

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, recorded by Brenda Lee (Song; 1958)

Stop Making Sense, by Talking Heads (Film; 1984)

Take On Me, by A-ha (Song; 1985)

Tannhäuser, by Richard Wagner (Opera; 1845)

Vs., by Pearl Jam (Album; 1993)

Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M., by Simon & Garfunkel (Album; 1963)

Today’s Name Days

Frieda, Paul (Austria)

Ivan, Izak, Joel, Pavao (Croatia)

Michaela (Czech Republic)

Balthasar (Denmark)

Stella, Tähte, Tähti (Estonia)

Uljas (Finland)

Cléo, René (France)

Frieda, Frida, Isaak, Paul (Germany)

Cleopatra, Felix (Greece)

Nándor (Hungary)

Isaac, Laura (Italy)

Drosma, Drosme, Drosmis, Elīna, Valts (Latvia)

Geisvilas, Kantrimė, Kleopatra, Laura (Lithuania)

Tora, Tore (Norway)

Ferdynand, Fryda, Pelagia, Pelagiusz, Piotr, Siemowit, Skarbimir, Toma, Ziemowit (Poland)

Kristián (Slovakia)

Laura, Pablo, Pedro (Spain)

Tor, Tore (Sweden)

Cleo, Cleon, Cleopatra, Howard, Howie (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 292 of 2022; 73 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 3 of week 42 of 2022

Celtic Tree Calendar: Gort (Ivy) [Day 19 of 28]

Chinese: Month 9 (Júyuè), Day 24 (Yi-Si)

Chinese Year of the: Tiger (until January 22, 2023)

Hebrew: 24 Tishri 5783

Islamic: 23 Rabi I 1444

J Cal: 22 Shù; Sunday [22 of 30]

Julian: 6 October 2022

Moon: 32%: Waning Crescent

Positivist: 12 Descartes (11th Month) [Diderot]

Runic Half Month: Wyn (Joy) [Day 9 of 15]

Season: Autumn (Day 27 of 90)

Zodiac: Libra (Day 25 of 30)

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 10.19

Holidays

Change Your Life Day

Constitution Day (New Zealand, Niue)

Dress Like a Dork Day

Evaluate Your Life Day

Feast of the Wicked Scam

International Human Rights Day (Turks and Caicos Islands)

LGBT Center Awareness Day

Make A Scarecrow Day

Mother Theresa Day (Albania)

National Clean Your Virtual Desktop Day

National Kentucky Day

New Friends Day [also 1.19; 7.19]

Oxfordshire Day (UK)

Rainforest Day

Samora Machel Day (Mozambique)

World Pediatric Bone and Joint Day

Yabusame Festival (Koyama, Japan)

Yorktown Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Greasy Spoon Day

International Gin and Tonic Day

National Seafood Bisque Day

3rd Wednesday in October

Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day [3rd Wednesday]

Day of National Concern About Young People and Gun Violence [3rd Wednesday]

Global Dignity Day [3rd Wednesday]

Hagfish Day [3rd Wednesday]

International Pronouns Day (a.k.a. Pronouns Day) [3rd Wednesday]

Love Your Body Day [3rd Wednesday]

Medical Assistants Recognition Day [3rd Wednesday]

Missouri Day [3rd Wednesday]

Support Your Local Chamber of Commerce Day [3rd Wednesday]

Thank Your Cleaner Day [3rd Wednesday]

Unity Day [Wednesday closest to 10.22]

Independence Days

Niue (1974)

Feast Days

Aaron (Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria)

Aquilinus of Évreux (Christian; Saint)

Armilustrium (Ancient Roman Festival of Mars)

Barbarella Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Bettara Ichi (Pickle Market a.k.a. Sticky-Sticky Fair; Ebisu Shrine, Tokyo, Japan)

Desiderius (Didier) of Auxerre (Christian; Saint)

Diderot (Positivist; Saint)

Ethbin (a.k.a. Egbin; Christian; Saint)

Frideswide (Christian; Saint)

Henry Martyn (Anglican Communion)

Isaac Jogues, Jean de Brébeuf, and Companions (Christian; Saints)

Jerzy Popiełuszko (Christian; Blessed)

Paul of the Cross (Christian; Saint)

Peter of Alcantara (Christian; Saint)

Prides (Christian; Saint)

Ptolemaeus and Lucius (Christian; Saint)

Rene Goupil (Christian; Saint)

Travel Poobah (Muppetism)

Try Not To Die Day (Pastafarian)

Varus (Christian; Saint)

Veranus of Cavaillon (Christian; Saint)

William Carey (Episcopal Church)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Tomobiki (友引 Japan) [Good luck all day, except at noon.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 48 of 60)

Premieres

Angels in the Outfield (Film; 1951)

Antipop, by Primus (Album; 1999)

A Chorus Line (Broadway Musical; 1975)

Clerks (Film; 1994)

Counterparts, by Rush (Album; 1993)

Damn the Torpedoes, by Tom Petty (Album; 1979)

I Second That Emotion, by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles (Song; 1967)

Le Belle Sauvage, by Philip Pullman (Novel; 2017) [The Book of Dust Trilogy #1]

Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury (Novel; 1953)

Looking for Mr. Goodbar (Film; 1977)

Mulholland Drive (Film; 2001)

Mylo Xyloto, by Coldplay (Album; 2011)

Pin Ups, by David Bowie (Album; 1973)

Prince, by Prince (Album; 1979)

Riding in Cars with Boys (Film; 2001)

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, recorded by Brenda Lee (Song; 1958)

Stop Making Sense, by Talking Heads (Film; 1984)

Take On Me, by A-ha (Song; 1985)

Tannhäuser, by Richard Wagner (Opera; 1845)

Vs., by Pearl Jam (Album; 1993)

Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M., by Simon & Garfunkel (Album; 1963)

Today’s Name Days

Frieda, Paul (Austria)

Ivan, Izak, Joel, Pavao (Croatia)

Michaela (Czech Republic)

Balthasar (Denmark)

Stella, Tähte, Tähti (Estonia)

Uljas (Finland)

Cléo, René (France)

Frieda, Frida, Isaak, Paul (Germany)

Cleopatra, Felix (Greece)

Nándor (Hungary)

Isaac, Laura (Italy)

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Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 292 of 2022; 73 days remaining in the year

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Positivist: 12 Descartes (11th Month) [Diderot]

Runic Half Month: Wyn (Joy) [Day 9 of 15]

Season: Autumn (Day 27 of 90)

Zodiac: Libra (Day 25 of 30)

[blackkudos]

Lorraine Hansberry

Lorraine Vivian Hansberry (May 19, 1930 – January 12, 1965) was an African-American playwright and writer.

She was the first black woman to write a play performed on Broadway. Her best known work, the play A Raisin in the Sun, highlights the lives of Black Americans living under racial segregation in Chicago. Hansberry's family had struggled against segregation, challenging a restrictive covenant and eventually provoking the Supreme Court case Hansberry v. Lee. The title of the play was taken from the poem "Harlem" by Langston Hughes: "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?"

At the young age of 29, she won the New York's Drama Critic's Circle Award — making her the first black dramatist, the fifth woman, and the youngest playwright to do so.

After she moved to New York City, Hansberry worked at the Pan-Africanist newspaper Freedom, where she dealt with intellectuals such as Paul Robeson and W. E. B. Du Bois. Much of her work during this time concerned the African struggle for liberation and their impact on the world. Hansberry has been identified as a lesbian, and sexual freedom is an important topic in several of her works. She died of cancer at the age of 34. Hansberry inspired Nina Simone's song "To Be Young, Gifted and Black".

Family

Lorraine Hansberry was the youngest of four children born to Carl Augustus Hansberry, a successful real-estate broker, and Nannie Louise (born Perry) a driving school teacher and ward commiteewoman. In 1938, her father bought a house in the Washington Park Subdivision of the South Side of Chicago, incurring the wrath of their white neighbors. The latter's legal efforts to force the Hansberry family out culminated in the U.S. Supreme Court's decision in Hansberry v. Lee. The restrictive covenant was ruled contestable, though not inherently invalid. Carl Hansberry was also a supporter of the Urban League and NAACP in Chicago. Both Hansberrys were active in the Chicago Republican Party. Carl died in 1946, when Lorraine was fifteen years old; "American racism helped kill him," she later said.

The Hansberrys were routinely visited by prominent Black intellectuals, including W.E.B. Du Bois and Paul Robeson. Carl Hansberry's brother, William Leo Hansberry, founded the African Civilization section of the history department at Howard University. Lorraine was taught: ‘‘Above all, there were two things which were never to be betrayed: the family and the race.’’

Lorraine Hansberry has many notable relatives including director and playwright Shauneille Perry, whose eldest child is named after her. Her grandniece is actress Taye Hansberry. Her cousin is the flutist, percussionist, and composer Aldridge Hansberry.

Hansberry became the godmother to Nina Simone's daughter Lisa—now Simone.

Education

Hansberry graduated from Betsy Ross Elementary in 1944 and from Englewood High School in 1948. She attended the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where she immediately became politically active and integrated a dormitory. Hansberry's classmate Bob Teague remembered her as "...the only girl I knew who could whip together a fresh picket sign with her own hands, at a moment's notice, for any cause or occasion".

She worked on Henry A. Wallace's presidential campaign in 1948, despite her mother's disapproval. She spent the summer of 1949 in Mexico, studying painting at the University of Guadalajara.

Move to New York City

She decided in 1950 to leave Madison and pursue her career as a writer in New York City, where she attended The New School. She moved to Harlem in 1951 and became involved in activist struggles such as the fight against evictions.

Freedom

 newspaper

In 1951, she joined the staff of the black newspaper Freedom, edited by Louis E. Burnham and published by Paul Robeson. At Freedom, she worked with W. E. B. Du Bois, whose office was in the same building, and other Black Pan-Africanists. At the newspaper, she worked as "subscription clerk, receptionist, typist and editorial assistant" in addition to writing news articles and editorials.

One of her first reports covered the Sojourners for Truth and Justice convened in Washington, D.C., by Mary Church Terrell. She traveled to Georgia to cover the case of Willie McGee, and was inspired to write the poem "Lynchsong" about his case.

She worked not only on the US civil rights movement, but also on global struggles against colonialism and imperialism. Hansberry wrote in support of the Mau Mau Uprising in Kenya, criticizing the mainstream press for its biased coverage.

Hansberry often clarified these global struggles by explaining them in terms of female participants. She was particularly interested in the situation of Egypt, "the traditional Islamic 'cradle of civilization,' where women had led one of the most important fights anywhere for the equality of their sex."

In 1952, Hansberry attended a peace conference in Montevideo, Uruguay, in place of Paul Robeson, who had been denied travel rights by the State Department.

Marriage

On June 20, 1953, she married Robert Nemiroff, a Jewish publisher, songwriter and political activist. Hansberry and Nemiroff moved to Greenwich Village, the setting of The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window. Success of the song "Cindy, Oh Cindy", co-authored by Nemiroff, enabled Hansberry to start writing full-time. On the night before their wedding in 1953, Nemiroff and Hansberry protested the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg in NYC.

It is widely believed that Hansberry was a closeted lesbian, a theory supported by her secret writings in letters and personal notebooks. She was an activist for gay rights and wrote about feminism and homophobia, joining the Daughters of Bilitis and contributing two letters to their magazine, The Ladder, in 1957 under her initials "LHN." She separated from her husband at this time, but they continued to work together.

A Raisin in the Sun was written at this time and completed in 1957.

Success as playwright

Opening on March 11, 1959, A Raisin in the Sun became the first play written by an African American woman to be produced on Broadway. The 29-year-old author became the youngest American playwright and only the fifth woman to receive the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play. Over the next two years, Raisin was translated into 35 languages and was being performed all over the world.

Hansberry wrote two screenplays of Raisin, both of which were rejected as controversial by Columbia Pictures. Commissioned by NBC in 1960 to create a television program about slavery, Hansberry wrote The Drinking Gourd. This script was called "superb" but also rejected.

In 1960, during Delta Sigma Theta's 26th national convention in Chicago, Hansberry was made an honorary member.

In 1961, Hansberry was set to replace Vinnette Carroll as the director of the musical Kicks and Co, after its try-out at Chicago's McCormick Place. It was written by Oscar Brown, Jr. and featured an interracial cast including Lonnie Sattin, Nichelle Nichols, Vi Velasco, Al Freeman, Jr., Zabeth Wilde and Burgess Meredith in the title role of Mr. Kicks. A satire involving miscegenation, the $400,000 production was co-produced by her husband Robert Nemiroff; despite a warm reception in Chicago, the show never made it to Broadway.

In 1963, Hansberry participated in a meeting with Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, set up by James Baldwin.

Also in 1963, Hansberry was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She underwent two operations, on June 24 and August 2. Neither was successful in removing the cancer.

On March 10, 1964, Hansberry and Nemiroff divorced but continued to work together.

While many of her other writings were published in her lifetime—essays, articles, and the text for the SNCC book The Movement—the only other play given a contemporary production was The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window. The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window ran for 101 performances on Broadway and closed the night she died.

Beliefs

Hansberry was an atheist.

According to historian Fanon Che Wilkins, "Hansberry believed that gaining civil rights in the United States and obtaining independence in colonial Africa were two sides of the same coin that presented similar challenges for Africans on both sides of the Atlantic." In response to the independence of Ghana, led by Kwame Nkrumah, Hansberry wrote: "The promise of the future of Ghana is that of all the colored peoples of the world; it is the promise of freedom."

Regarding tactics, Hansberry said Blacks "must concern themselves with every single means of struggle: legal, illegal, passive, active, violent and non-violent.... They must harass, debate, petition, give money to court struggles, sit-in, lie-down, strike, boycott, sing hymns, pray on steps—and shoot from their windows when the racists come cruising through their communities."

In a Town Hall debate on June 15, 1964, Hansberry criticized white liberals who couldn't accept civil disobedience, expressing a need "to encourage the white liberal to stop being a liberal and become an American radical." At the same time, she said, "some of the first people who have died so far in this struggle have been white men."

Hansberry was a critic of existentialism, which she considered too distant from the world's economic and geopolitical realities. Along these lines, she wrote a critical review of Richard Wright's The Outsider and went on to style her final play Les Blancs as a foil to Jean Genet's absurdist Les Nègres. However, Hansberry admired Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex.

In 1959, Hansberry commented that women who are "twice oppressed" may become "twice militant". She held out some hope for male allies of women, writing in an unpublished essay: "If by some miracle women should not ever utter a single protest against their condition there would still exist among men those who could not endure in peace until her liberation had been achieved."

Hansberry was appalled by the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki which took place while she was in high school, and expressed desire for a future in which: "Nobody fights. We get rid of all the little bombs—and the big bombs." She did believe in the right of people to defend themselves with force against their oppressors.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation began surveillance of Hansberry when she prepared to go to the Montevideo peace conference. The Washington, D.C. office searched her passport files "in an effort to obtain all available background material on the subject, any derogatory information contained therein, and a photograph and complete description," while officers in Milwaukee and Chicago examined her life history. Later, an FBI reviewer of Raisin in the Sun highlighted its Pan-Africanist themes as dangerous.

Death

Hansberry, a heavy smoker her whole life, died of pancreatic cancer on January 12, 1965, aged 34. James Baldwin believed "it is not at all farfetched to suspect that what she saw contributed to the strain which killed her, for the effort to which Lorraine was dedicated is more than enough to kill a man."

Hansberry's funeral was held in Harlem on January 15, 1965. Paul Robeson and SNCC organizer James Forman gave eulogies. The presiding minister, Eugene Callender, recited messages from Baldwin and the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. which read: "Her creative ability and her profound grasp of the deep social issues confronting the world today will remain an inspiration to generations yet unborn." The 15th was also Dr. King's birthday. She is buried at Asbury United Methodist Church Cemetery in Croton-on-Hudson, New York.

Posthumous works

Hansberry's ex-husband, Robert Nemiroff, became the executor for several unfinished manuscripts. He added minor changes to complete the play Les Blancs, which Julius Lester termed her best work, and he adapted many of her writings into the play To Be Young, Gifted and Black, which was the longest-running Off Broadway play of the 1968–69 season. It appeared in book form the following year under the title To Be Young, Gifted and Black: Lorraine Hansberry in Her Own Words. She left behind an unfinished novel and several other plays, including The Drinking Gourd and What Use Are Flowers?, with a range of content, from slavery to a post-apocalyptic future.

Legacy

Raisin, a musical based on A Raisin in the Sun, opened in New York in 1973, winning the Tony Award for Best Musical, with the book by Nemiroff, music by Judd Woldin, and lyrics by Robert Britten. A Raisin in the Sun was revived on Broadway in 2004 and received a Tony Award nomination for Best Revival of a Play. The cast included Sean Combs ("P Diddy") as Walter Lee Younger Jr., Phylicia Rashad (Tony Award-winner for Best Actress) and Audra McDonald (Tony Award-winner for Best Featured Actress). It was produced for television in 2008 with the same cast, garnering two NAACP Image Awards.

Nina Simone first released a song about Hansberry in 1969 called "To Be Young, Gifted and Black." The title of the song refers to the title of Hansberry's autobiography, which Hansberry first coined when speaking to the winners of a creative writing conference on May 1, 1964, "t]hough it be a thrilling and marvellous thing to be merely young and gifted in such times, it is doubly so, doubly dynamic — to be young, gifted and black." Simone wrote the song with a poet named Weldon Irvine and told him that she wanted lyrics that would "make black children all over the world feel good about themselves forever." When Irvine read the lyrics after it was finished, he thought, "I didn't write this. God wrote it through me." In a recorded to the introduction of the song, Simone explained the difficulty of losing a close friend and talented artist.

Patricia and Fredrick McKissack wrote a children's biography of Hansberry, Young, Black, and Determined, in 1998.

In 1999 Hansberry was posthumously inducted into the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame.

In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante listed Hansberry as one of his 100 Greatest African Americans.

The Lorraine Hansberry Theatre of San Francisco, which specializes in original stagings and revivals of African-American theatre, is named in her honor. Singer and pianist Nina Simone, who was a close friend of Hansberry, used the title of her unfinished play to write a civil rights-themed song "To Be Young, Gifted and Black" together with Weldon Irvine. The single reached the top 10 of the R&B charts. A studio recording by Simone was released as a single and the first live recording on October 26, 1969, was captured on Black Gold(1970).

Lincoln University's first-year female dormitory is named Lorraine Hansberry Hall. There is a school in the Bronx called Lorraine Hansberry Academy, and an elementary school in St. Albans, Queens, New York, named after Hansberry as well.

On the eightieth anniversary of Hansberry's birth, Adjoa Andoh presented a BBC Radio 4 programme entitled "Young, Gifted and Black" in tribute to her life.

In 2010, Hansberry was inducted into the Chicago Literary Hall of Fame.

In 2013, Hansberry was inducted into the Legacy Walk, an outdoor public display which celebrates LGBT history and people. This makes her the first Chicago-native honored along the North Halsted corridor.

Also in 2013, Lorraine Hansberry was inducted into the American Theatre Hall of Fame.

Lorraine Hansberry Elementary School was located in the 9th Ward of New Orleans. It was heavily damaged by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. It has since closed.

In 2017, she was inducted into the National Women's Hall of Fame.

Works

A Raisin in the Sun (1959)

A Raisin in the Sun, screenplay (1961)

"On Summer" (essay) (1960)

The Drinking Gourd (1960)

What Use Are Flowers? (written c. 1962)

The Arrival of Mr. Todog – parody of Waiting for Godot

The Movement: Documentary of a Struggle for Equality (1964)

The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window (1965)

To Be Young, Gifted and Black: Lorraine Hansberry in Her Own Words (1969)

Les Blancs: The Collected Last Plays / by Lorraine Hansberry. Edited by Robert Nemiroff (1994)

Toussaint. This fragment from a work in progress, unfinished at the time of Hansberry's untimely death, deals with a Haitian plantation owner and his wife whose lives are soon to change drastically as a result of the revolution of Toussaint L'Ouverture. (From the Samuel French, Inc. catalogue of plays.)

Wikipedia

[locke-writes]

Lights, Camera, Action

I made a movie recommendation list awhile back but since then there’s a lot more I’ve seen. As that one was based on what to watch if you were a film student I figured I’d make one that’s what to watch just to enjoy film. I’ve got them set up by decade starting from the 1800′s until now. This list is far from complete and id certainly missing some great films but nonetheless hopefully you find something enjoyable to watch.

For more films I’m itsnoah on Letterboxd

The Burglars (1897)

Fire! (1901)

A Trip to the Moon (1902)

The Great Train Robbery (1903)

Rescued by Rover (1905)

The Cameraman’s Revenge (1912)

Gertie the Dinosaur (1914)

The Tramp (1915)

The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920)

The Kid (1921)

Nosferatu (1922)

Metropolis (1927)

The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)

Blackmail (1929)

City Lights (1931)

Dracula (1931)

M (1931)

Frankenstein (1931)

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1931)

Freaks (1932)

Modern Times (1936)

Le Grande Illusion (1937)

Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (1937)

Robin Hood (1938)

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Gone With the Wind (1939)

Mr Smith Goes To Washington (1939)

The Grapes of Wrath (1940)

The Great Dictator (1940)

Citizen Kane (1941)

Casablanca (1942)

Double Indemnity (1944)

Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)

Detour (1945)

Hamlet (1948)

Oliver Twist (1948)

The Red Shoes (1948)

Bicycle Thieves (1948)

The Third Man (1949)

Sunset Boulevard (1950)

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)

Julius Caesar (1953)

Seven Samurai (1954)

On the Waterfront (1954)

Rear Window (1954)

Night and Fog (1955)

Father Panchali (1955)

Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

12 Angry Men (1957)

Cat on a Hot Tin Rood (1958)

Vertigo (1958)

Breathless (1960)

Psycho (1960)

The Time Machine (1960)

La Jetée (1962)

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

The Birds (1963)

Dr Strangelove (1963)

Doctor Zhivago (1965)

The Trip (1967)

The Graduate (1967)

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

Easy Rider (1969)

Midnight Cowboy (1969)

Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factor (1971)

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

The Godfather (1972)

Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (1974)

Young Frankenstein (1974)

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)

Taxi Driver (1976)

All the President’s Men (1976)

Hospital (1977)

Days of Heaven (1978)

Elephant Man (1980)

An American Werewolf in London (1981)

Tootsie (1982)

The Outsiders (1983)

WarGames (1983)

Amadeus (1984)

The Last Starfighter (1984)

The Breakfast Club (1985)

The Goonies (1985)

Blue Velvet (1986)

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

Sid & Nancy (1986)

Heaven (1987)

The Lost Boys (1987)

The Pick Up Artists (1987)

The Princess Bride (1987)

Less Than Zero (1987)

Beetlejuice (1987)

Big (1988)

Young Guns (1988)

Heathers (1988)

Mississippi Burning (1988)

Rain Man (1988)

Working Girl (1988)

Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure (1989)

Do the Right Thing (1989)

Weekend At Bernie’s (1989)

Dead Poet’s Society (1989)

Glory (1989)

Edward Scissorhands (1989)

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

Reservoir Dogs (1992)

Death Becomes Her (1992)

Of Mice and Men (1992)

School Ties (1992)

Chaplin (1992)

Swing Kids (1993)

Benny & Joon (1993)

The Piano (1993)

Heart and Souls (1993)

Searching for Bobby Fischer (1993)

Dazed and Confused (1993)

Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

In the Name of the Father (1993)

Natural Born Killers (1994)

Clerks (1994)

Leon the Professional (1994)

Tommy Boy (1995)

Empire Records (1995)

Seven (1995)

Mallrats (1995)

Sabrina (1995)

Jumanji (1995)

Mr Holland’s Opus (1995)

Trainspotting (1996)

Primal Fear (1996)

Gattaca (1997)

Boogie Nights (1997)

Wag the Dog (1997)

The Truman Show (1998)

Can’t Hardly Wait (1998)

Pleasantville (1998)

Rushmore (1998)

What Dreams May Come (1998)

Velvet Goldmine (1998)

Office Space (1999)

Never Been Kissed (1999)

eXistenZ (1999)

The Iron Giant (1999)

Spring Forward (1999)

But I’m A Cheerleader (1999)

Being John Malkovich (1999)

The Talented Mr Ripley (1999)

Man on the Moon (1999)

Galaxy Quest (1999)

American Psycho (2000)

High Fidelity (2000)

Almost Famous (2000)

Cast Away (2000)

Donnie Darko (2001)

A Kight’s Tale (2001)

Legally Blonde (2001)

Ghost World (2001)

Wet Hot American Summer (2001)

Kate and Leopold (2001)

The Pianist (2002)

Equilibrium (2002)

Gangs of New York (2002)

Danny Deckchair (2003)

Elephant (2003)

School of Rock (2003)

Shattered Glass (2003)

Big Fish (2003)

Cold Mountain (2003)

Garden State (2004)

The Girl Next Door (2004)

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

Shaun of the Dead (2004)

13 Going on 30 (2004)

Dear Frankie (2004)

Napoleon Dynamite (2004)

The Woodsman (2004)

Hard Candy (2005)

Red Eye (2005)

Kinky Boots (2005)

Breakfast on Pluto (2005)

V for Vendetta (2005)

Grandma’s Boy (2006)

Marie Antoinette (2006)

Little Miss Sunshine (2006)

Stranger Than Fiction (2006)

Employee of the Month (2006)

The Prestige (2006)

The History Boys (2006)

The Holiday (2006)

Zodiac (2007)

I Could Never Be Your Woman (2007)

Paranoid Park (2007)

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007)

Control (2007)

Martian Child (2007)

August Rush (2007)

Juno (2007)

Be Kind Rewind (2008)

Definitely, Maybe (2008)

Charlie Bartlett (2008)

Fish Tank (2009)

Legion (2010)

13 (2010)

Peacock (2010)

Inception (2010)

Brighton Rock (2010)

Hanna (2011)

We Need To Talk About Kevin (2011)

Super 8 (2011)

Butter (2011)

Warrior (2011)

The Ides of March (2011)

In Time (2011)

J Edgar (2011)

Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

On the Road (2012)

Mud (2012)

Lawless (2012)

For A Good Time Call (2012)

The Words (2012)

Seven Psychopaths (2012)

The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012)

Warm Bodies (2013)

Side Effects (2013)

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

The Way Way Back (2013)

Locke (2013)

Prisoners (2013)

The Skeleton Twins (2014)

Nightcrawler (2014)

Theory of Everything (2014)

Adult Beginners (2014)

Interstellar (2014)

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (2015)

Chappie (2015)

Mad Max Fury Road (2015)

The Gift (2015)

Room (2015)

The Martian (2015)

The Lobster (2015)

Christine (2016)

Midnight Special (2016)

Blue Jay (2016)

Brimstone (2016)

Call Me By Your Name (2017)

T2 (2017)

Baby Driver (2017)

The Shape of Water (2017)

Lady Bird (2017)

Three Billboards outside Ebbing Missouri (2017)

Phantom Thread (2017)

Red Sparrow (2018)

Love, Simon (2018)

Isle of Dogs (2018)

[linleywild]

Journalists from around the world stood in a semi-circle before her, their arms and voices raised as they jostled to ask questions. Among the impatient crowd, all of whom were men, television cameras rolled and flash bulbs flared. Behind her, standing on the street outside, members of the public pressed themselves against a wall of glass to spectate on the event unfolding within. It was Monday, 16 July 1956 and Marilyn Monroe was in London. The Hollywood Star was attending a press conference at the Savoy to talk about her new film, a musical comedy that was soon to commence shooting at Pinewood studios, The Prince and The Showgirl. Wearing a black knee-length dress, matching heels and white opera gloves, Monroe was sitting beside her husband, Arthur Miller, who appeared agitated and crumpled, and her director and co-star, Sir Laurence Olivier, who was poised and quite perfect. Playing with a recently lit cigarette in her right hand, Monroe seemed confident, but her smiles were hard rather than happy; she was bracing herself for the cross-examination.

One of the more impertinent journalists asked about her nocturnal dress: “Do you still sleep in Channel no. 5?” An impossibly large grin stretched across Monroe’s face. “Considering I’m in England”, she began coquettishly, “let’s say I am sleeping in Yardley’s Lavender”. Monroe’s interrogators delighted in her wickedly smart retort and she looked justifiably jubilant.

The Savoy press conference is depicted in Simon Curtis’ film My Week with Marilyn (2011) and Yardley continue to clarify the connection between Monroe and one of their best-selling fragrances. Of course, whether Marilyn Monroe actually wore Yardley’s Lavender perfume was never really the point (and she may not have worn Channel, either: records from perfumer Floris show that an order for six bottles of ‘Rose Geranium’ were placed by Monroe’s personal assistant Dorothy Blass in December 1959). Her quick-witted response did much to demonstrate her guile, which contemporaries doubted. The comment also added to Monroe’s libidinous allure, which was, and remains, central to her critical and commercial appeal. The significance that Yardley beauty products assumed for Monroe during the 1950s was momentary, but it is possible – and certainly interesting to ponder – that her riposte, delivered at a time of heightened tension in the Cold War, provided inspiration for Soviet spies. Far from the public eye, hollowed tins of Yardley Aftershave Powder were being used by members of the Portland spy ring to send British nuclear secrets to Moscow.

The activities of the Portland spy ring were exposed on 7 January 1961 by Polish-born triple agent Michael Goleniewski (codenamed ‘Sniper’ by the CIA and ‘Lavinia’ by MI5), who had defected to the United States. Goleniewski alerted law enforcement agencies to a mole at the Royal Navy’s Admiralty Underwater Weapons Establishment on the Isle of Portland in Dorset. Apparently, details of Britain’s first nuclear submarine, HMS Dreadnought, had been leaked to the Soviets. Names were not disclosed, but suspicion quickly focused on former sailor, likely alcoholic and suspected security risk, Harry Houghton, who worked at the facility. Minimal surveillance soon revealed the other members of the spy ring: Houghton’s mistress, naval clerk Ethel Gee and Konon Trofimovich Molody, who masqueraded as Canadian Gordon Lonsdale, an apparently successful entrepreneur who sold jukeboxes and bubble-gum machines. Completing the sextet were quinquagenarian vintage bookseller Peter Kroger and his wife Helen, whom Molody frequently visited.

The Krogers appeared to live a frugal life at 45 Cranley Drive, an unassuming bungalow in Ruislip, Middlesex. The impression of banality was purposefully deceptive. The couple were actually Morris and Lona Cohen, KGB agents. They had met in America, where they were born. Lona’s parents were Polish; Morris had a Ukrainian father and a Lithuanian mother. A graduate of Columbia University, in the 1930s Morris had fought in a volunteer division during the Spanish Civil War against General Franco. Whilst in Spain, he met Amadeo Sabatini, a long-serving Soviet spy, and gained his entrée into the world of espionage. Morris Cohen appears to have stayed loyal to the Americans during the Second World War, but on his return to the States, and as the Cold War began, he resumed his work for the Russians. At some point before 1954, he and Lona relocated to London, and to Cranley Drive.

The Krogers’ bungalow was no ordinary suburban residence. Upon entering the property in 1961, Special Branch officers discovered the bathroom had been converted into a dark room. The attic space contained a 74-foot radio aerial and a transmitter capable of reaching Moscow. Bank notes totalling $6,000 were also seized. Most surprising of all was the array of unassuming household bric-a-brac the couple possessed: a cigarette lighter with a false bottom, a torch with hollowed batteries, drinking flasks with secret compartments and metal tins of Yardley Aftershave Powder that contained microfilm with radio contact times. Details of the haul were disclosed at the spies’ trials. Molody, as go-between and mastermind, was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison; the Krogers to twenty. In each case, the sentences were commuted and the spies were exchanged for British subjects who had been incarcerated by the Soviets. Harry Houghton and Ethel Gee served the full length of their fifteen-year sentences. In a sort-of happy ending, they married a year after their release, in 1971.

The exposure of the Portland spy ring came at a time of acute anxiety in the Cold War. In October 1957, the USSR had launched the Sputnik satellite into orbit around the Earth. The Americans were unable to match this feat until 1958. Understandably, they were deeply concerned at how quickly the Soviets had progressed in the Space Race; espionage was suspected. Three months after the Krogers’ home was raided, Fidel Castro declared his revolution in Cuba to be Socialist. This act humiliated America’s new president, John FitzGerald Kennedy, who received a drubbing from the Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev, when the pair first met in Vienna in June 1961. Recalling the incident at a later date, JFK admitted, ‘He beat the hell out of me’. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, as the threat of Nuclear Armageddon threatened, there was good reason to believe the Communists were gaining the upper hand in the Cold War.

Simultaneously stoking and sating people’s paranoia about Mutually Assured Destruction, a new genre of spy fiction provided fantastic stories about the enemies in people’s midst. The villains thwarted by Ian Fleming’s James Bond were invariably larger than life caricatures with melodramatic schemes for world domination. The foe that surfaced in John le Carré’s novels, the first of which, Call For The Dead, was published in 1961, seemed all the scarier for their apparent normality and ability to hide in plain sight.

Two weeks after the police raided Cranley Drive, Marilyn Monroe divorced Arthur Miller. She spent much of the next six months recovering from physical illness and depression. News of the Portland spy ring’s discovery may never have reached her. If it did, it’s anyone’s guess whether the spies’ use of Yardley products recalled to her mind the comment she had made in the Savoy five years’ earlier. It is tempting to think the Krogers and their spy masters were attentive in 1956 and that they had been influenced by Monroe’s remarks. How better – and cruelly ironic – to disguise confidential secrets heading into Communist Russia than in containers depicting a popular brand associated with one of the Capitalist West’s best loved Stars.

An edited version of this article first appeared in Article Magazine.

English Lavender & the KGB Journalists from around the world stood in a semi-circle before her, their arms and voices raised as they jostled to ask questions.

[hanchaouiayoub]

Cayenne (2020) from SPIRA on Vimeo.

CAYENNE

A film by Simon Gionet. Fiction, Canada, 2020, 10min41. Production : Littoral Films | Distribution : SPIRA OV with English subtitles

— SYNOPSIS — During her shift at a remote gas station, a female clerk ventures in the night to fix a man’s broken car, unsure if she should have trusted him.

— ÉQUIPE/CREW — Scénario/Screenplay : Simon Gionet Direction de la photographie/Cinematographer : François Herquel Montage/Editor : Simon Gionet Prise de son/Sound : Pierre Cautain Mixage/Sound mix : Joey Simas Conception sonore/Sound design : Marianne Boisvert, Joshua Crosby (assistant) Musique /Music : Paloma B. Daris Direction artistique/Artistic Direction : Gabrielle Laurendeau-Martin Interprètes/Cast : Marianne Fortier , Jean-Sébastien Courchesne

— BIO — EN: Originally from Quebec City, Simon Gionet is a Montreal-based director, screenwriter and co-founder of Littoral Films. After completing his degree in Film Production at Concordia University, where he studied the viewer’s role in fiction filmmaking, he currently dedicates himself to writing and directing stories that are driven by strong narrative frames where characters reveal their contradictions in the circumstances of their environment.

— FESTIVALS — - 2020 - In competition | Festival de Clermont-Ferrand, France Canadian Grand Prize | REGARD - Festival international de court métrage au Saguenay, Canada In competition | Tampere Film Festival, Finland In competition | Carrousel de RImouski, Canada In competition | Palm Springs International ShortFest, USA In competition | The Norwegian Short Film Festival, Norway In competition | Brussels Short Film Festival, Belgium In competition | Indy Shorts International Film Festival, USa In competition | La Guarimba International Film Festival, Italy Special Mention Best Director | Flickers’ Rhode Island International Film Festival, USA In competition | Molise Cinema, Italy In competition | Fantasia Film Festival, Canada In competition | Odense International Film Festival, Danmark In competition | Busho Film Festival, Hungary In competition | Off-courts Trouville, France Best Fiction Short Award | Minikino Film Week, Indonesia In competition | Wiz-Art, Ukraine In competition | Leiden International Short Film Festival, The Netherlands In competition | Figari Film Fest, Italy Audience Choice Best Short Film Award | Cinefest Sudbury, Canada In competition | Indie Street Film Fest, USA In competition | Sedicicorto Forli International Film Festival, Italy In competition | Schlingel - International Film Festival for Children and Young Audience, Germany In competition | Filmets Badalona, Spain In competition | Bolton Film Festival, England In competition | Asiana International Short Film Festival, South Korea In competition | Thessaloniki Short Film Fest, Greece In competition | Cinémania, Canada In competition | Courts en scène, France In competition | Festival du Film Francophone de Tübingen-Stuttgart, Germany In competition | FICFA, Canada In competition | Festival du court métrage d'Auch, France In competition | Visioni Corte Short Film Festival, Italy In competition | Longue vue sur le court, Canada In competition | Shorts That Are Not Pants, Canada In competition | Festival Images en vues, Canada In competition | Hamilton Film Festival, Canada ______

EN : spira.quebec/film/459-cayenne.html

SPIRA — Sébastien Merckling / distribution@spira.quebec / 418-523-1275

[sublimegentlemanalpaca]

Thoughts on Shadows of Ecstasy and Charles Williams’ books over all.

I found Charles Williams’ Shadows of Ecstasy to Perhaps be the worst of his seven novels. The characters weren’t too likable (Ingram deciding to ignore the whole ‘mind control thing’ because ‘THIS GUY GETS ME AND MY POETRY’. The best was perhaps...Sir Bernard. Caithness was alright, but I much preferred the Clergyman from War in Heaven. The supernatural theological stuff in his works tends to go over my head...especially in this one. I have the Inkling of an idea about what’s going on....but it’s all muddled in the repetition of Consodine’s Conquest of Death spiel. Oh and of course the African Characters....like Inkamassi...the Zulu King...he’s alright? No Racist caricatures here? If there were I’ve forgotten because I can hardly recall a thing that was said. Didn’t care much for it. Pretty meh. As for Scowler Charles’ books overall...I’m quite glad I read them. If only to sate my curiosity as to who the he’ll Charles is. It’s amusing how compared to his more famous contemporaries, like Lewis and Tolkien, I’ve read more of Williams than either of them. Weird. That being said however...I’m not sure I can exactly call myself a complete fan of Charles Williams’ books. Not entirely at least. On the one hand, they generally have really cool premises and beautiful descriptions. On the other hand they can be a bit bogged down by a problematic element here or there, and ignoring that I found most of his writing to be very dense, abstract?, and more often than not flying right over my head in such a way that the deeper meaning of any of it is completely lost on me. Now, this may be because I’m not the most a Theologically minded or generally religious person. I imagine these books would have a much greater impact on someone who is more religiously minded. At least more so than one who rarely gives such topics serious thought day to day if at all. Another positive I can give is to characters....Mostly. Some are great going through neat (if a bit repetitive?) arcs of becoming a better person, and learning to be caring toward people (see Damaris, and Lester). Some Sacrifice (Chloe Burnette and the Clergyman from War in Heaven whose name escapes me). Others (Lord Arglay)...kind of boring. And then there’s the villains like Sir Giles Tumulty (the sort one loves to hate), Simon Le Clerk ( even though there might be a smidge of Antisemitism? I don’t recall exactly), and Gregory Persimmons. However....Having read all seven of his completed novels, I think I might have an idea or two as to why he’s forgotten by main stream audiences. For one thing the Urban Fantasy sort of thing might have turned people off at the time? For a more modern audience, the Heavy theology might be a bit much as well as some notable Problematic elements. Also...I must admit there’s the matter of Memorability. I can only speak for myself but I’m having a hard time remembering what anyone exactly said with certainty. Not too quotable I mean. Again, only speaking for myself. Since I’m running out of stuff to say, I’ll end it here. I’m quite glad to have read Charles Williams books...even if my actual enjoyment of them varied. I doubt I’ll go on to read his plays, Poetry, or Essays, sorry Charles. If I do read his work again, I’ll probably stick to re reading three in particular...with that said, my ranking of the Works of Charles Williams from Best to Worst: 1. War in Heaven. 2. All Hallows’ Eve. 3. The place of the Lion. 4. Many Dimensions. 5. The Greater Trumps. 6. The Descent into Hell. 7. Shadows of Ecstasy. There’s some thoughts on Charles Williams. And interesting and usually entertaining writer who probably isn’t great for everybody. Make of this what you will. Al, the Chronographing Cottager and Prince of Naming

[artwalktv]

CAYENNE A film by Simon Gionet. Fiction, Canada, 2020, 10min41. Production : Littoral Films | Distribution : SPIRA OV with English subtitles — SYNOPSIS — During her shift at a remote gas station, a female clerk ventures in the night to fix a man’s broken car, unsure if she should have trusted him. — ÉQUIPE/CREW — Scénario/Screenplay : Simon Gionet Direction de la photographie/Cinematographer : François Herquel Montage/Editor : Simon Gionet Prise de son/Sound : Pierre Cautain Mixage/Sound mix : Joey Simas Conception sonore/Sound design : Marianne Boisvert, Joshua Crosby (assistant) Musique /Music : Paloma B. Daris Direction artistique/Artistic Direction : Gabrielle Laurendeau-Martin Interprètes/Cast : Marianne Fortier , Jean-Sébastien Courchesne — BIO — EN: Originally from Quebec City, Simon Gionet is a Montreal-based director, screenwriter and co-founder of Littoral Films. After completing his degree in Film Production at Concordia University, where he studied the viewer’s role in fiction filmmaking, he currently dedicates himself to writing and directing stories that are driven by strong narrative frames where characters reveal their contradictions in the circumstances of their environment. — FESTIVALS — - 2020 - In competition | Festival de Clermont-Ferrand, France Canadian Grand Prize | REGARD - Festival international de court métrage au Saguenay, Canada In competition | Tampere Film Festival, Finland In competition | Carrousel de RImouski, Canada In competition | Palm Springs International ShortFest, USA In competition | The Norwegian Short Film Festival, Norway In competition | Brussels Short Film Festival, Belgium In competition | Indy Shorts International Film Festival, USa In competition | La Guarimba International Film Festival, Italy Special Mention Best Director | Flickers’ Rhode Island International Film Festival, USA In competition | Molise Cinema, Italy In competition | Fantasia Film Festival, Canada In competition | Odense International Film Festival, Danmark In competition | Busho Film Festival, Hungary In competition | Off-courts Trouville, France Best Fiction Short Award | Minikino Film Week, Indonesia In competition | Wiz-Art, Ukraine In competition | Leiden International Short Film Festival, The Netherlands In competition | Figari Film Fest, Italy Audience Choice Best Short Film Award | Cinefest Sudbury, Canada In competition | Indie Street Film Fest, USA In competition | Sedicicorto Forli International Film Festival, Italy In competition | Schlingel - International Film Festival for Children and Young Audience, Germany In competition | Filmets Badalona, Spain In competition | Bolton Film Festival, England In competition | Asiana International Short Film Festival, South Korea In competition | Thessaloniki Short Film Fest, Greece In competition | Cinémania, Canada In competition | Courts en scène, France In competition | Festival du Film Francophone de Tübingen-Stuttgart, Germany In competition | FICFA, Canada In competition | Festival du court métrage d'Auch, France In competition | Visioni Corte Short Film Festival, Italy In competition | Longue vue sur le court, Canada In competition | Shorts That Are Not Pants, Canada In competition | Festival Images en vues, Canada In competition | Hamilton Film Festival, Canada ______ EN : https://bit.ly/3cdr6kb SPIRA — Sébastien Merckling / distribution@spira.quebec / 418-523-1275

[mmwm]

This month, I’m going to write words and post images relating to the landscape of memory. I hope to write poems most days and also share photos, quotes, and more prosaic thoughts related in some way to memory, nostalgia, longing for place, remembering and forgetting, landscape, dreamscape, landscape’s memory and memory’s landscape, the intersection of the layered historical physical world with personal memory, the frames that both landscape and memory use to contain and order our focus, the landscape of childhood, the landscape of devastation, how memories lie and tell the truth, the fragmentation of memory, how landscapes shape us and our memories, and so on. All the posts will be linked to the Introductory Page as they are posted. Thanks for visiting.

*

Today, I’ve got a messy tangle of thoughts about landscape, landscape painting & impressionism, photography, Arcadia (Western idealised landscape), and memory, beginning with a bit of background on the Impressionist painter Camille Pissarro, a Danish-French Impressionist painter living from 1830 to 1903, the only artist to have shown work at all eight Paris ‘Impressionist’ exhibitions (held from 1874 -1886), a father figure and master for many Impressionists and all four of the major Post-Impressionists: Georges Seurat, Paul Cézanne, Vincent van Gogh, and Paul Gauguin.

Pissarro was born on the island of St. Thomas (then part of the Danish West Indies) to French-Jewish parents, attending otherwise all-black schools until being sent to boarding school near Paris. He returned to the island at 17, worked as a cargo clerk and drew in his spare time, then travelled with another Dutch artist to Venezuela to sketch for a couple of years before moving to France to draw and paint, eventually seeking out Camille Corot, a pivotal French landscape painter, as a tutor. Corot inspired Pissarro to paint ‘plein air’; as Pissarro later explained it to a student,

“Work at the same time upon sky, water, branches, ground, keeping everything going on an equal basis and unceasingly rework until you have got it. Paint generously and unhesitatingly, for it is best not to lose the first impression.”

In fact, while Corot reworked his paintings in his studio afterward, “often revising them according to his preconceptions” (per Wikipedia), Pissarro finished his outdoors, usually in one sitting, giving them a more realistic feel. Sometimes his work was criticised as ‘vulgar,’ because he painted what he saw: “rutted and edged hodgepodge of bushes, mounds of earth, and trees in various stages of development.”

*

I find when I photograph landscapes and other outdoors scenes that I unconsciously seek the conventionally beautiful shot, the one with the light just so, the most aesthetically pleasing frame and subject matter, the nicely composed one, the one that doesn’t show the bramble, the tangle, the trees knocked hither and thither, cars and trash bins in the foreground, and so on.

That is, unless I look for a kind of landscape of devastation, or the vernacular landscape, and then I see it, and I appreciate it as beautiful, too, both for its outward appearance, and for the devastation or banality itself.

  Similarly, perhaps, memory: We may seek to construct or frame a plausible, well-balanced landscape, an orderly story of an experience (or a series of experiences, a relationship, a life), and we may even return to our memory-making studios to make it so, revising the experience(s) to match our preconceptions, a la Corot, and this task is made easier because as time moves on we have inevitably lost the first impression, the feeling and sensory observations of that moment, the experience of what we saw. We tend, I think, in memory to unconsciously tidy up our first impressions, add and subtract brushstrokes to create a more harmonious, fathomable, unambiguous picture.

I used to toss my blurry photos until I realised that although they were not coherent images, I liked many of them anyway, and maybe that’s because they remind me of my memory, which blurs and blends time and place into an uncertain wavering haze of colour, texture, pattern. “Lost to the mists of time” sounds a bit mysterious, as though antiquity and the modern world have woven a veil to obscure memory’s landscape.

*

After the conventional artists’ Salon of the day rejected all their paintings at their 1866 exhibition, Pissarro and some younger artists — including Monet, Manet, Berthe Morisot, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne, and later Gustave Caillebotte, Paul Gauguin, and American painter Mary Cassatt — formed an alternative group, which sponsored a total of eight exhibitions from 1874 to 1886. Their first exhibition shocked and horrified the critics with their “vulgar” and “commonplace” subject matter, such as scenes of street people going about their everyday lives, and their sketchy and incomplete-looking painting (visible brushwork, oh my!).

At first this group of painters was known as ‘Independents’ or the ‘Intransigents’, but by the time of the third exhibit, in 1877, they adopted the name that one critic had given them in 1874, the Impressionists.

Of Pissarro’s work in the 3rd Impressionist Exhibition, where he displayed 22 paintings,  the art critic Louis de Fourcaud (writing as Léon de Lora in Le Gaulois) said:

“Seen up close, they are hideous and incomprehensible; seen from a distance, they are incomprehensible and hideous.”

Here are a few of those paintings:

source: Wikipedia

source: Paris Insider’s Guide

Source: The Eclectic Light Company

*

  To use Fourcaud’s description of Pissarro’s landscapes, my memories are certainly incomprehensible, and perhaps even hideous, in some senses of the word: grim, macabre, weird, incongruous, unnatural, unlovely. They’re messy — incomplete, sketchy, unresolved, unfocused — which is what I think art critics reacted to when they looked at Pissarro’s paintings in the 3rd exhibition. He was painting what he saw and felt, his impression, not adding or removing elements to create another, perhaps more comprehensible, impression altogether.

I like this idea of impressionism, of allowing the initial sensory impression of the moment, the experience, to reach the mind, body, and soul — messy though it may be, both ordered & chaotic, appealing and repellent, ambiguous — even though it will be overtaken inevitably by layering experiences that alter the first impression.

*

Memory begins in the moment of the original event, but it doesn’t really end there. In that way it’s not like an impressionist painting (or most paintings, which are painted and finished), though it might be like our experience of a painting, which changes each time we view it, because we have changed.

In Matthew Stadler’s novel Landscape: Memory (199), a character is painting a landscape he had seen several years earlier:

“The painting develops slowly, over time, as Maxwell recalls and explores his memory. As he paints, he confronts the discrepancy between the view of memory as a static reproduction and what his own experience is telling him. He writes: . . . ‘if my memory ought to be an accurate replica of the original experience, if that was so, my painting was hopelessly inaccurate. It was a bad painting of a fuzzy memory. But I preferred to think that memory is never frozen, nor should it be. My painting was a successful rendering of the dynamic memory that had simply begun with the original event. . . . My painting, I figured, was so very accurate in its depiction of this memory that it would inevitably look wrong when compared to the original model.’” (in “Memory and Landscape in the Work of James Wright” by Richard P. Gabriel)

‘Artist in Greenland 1935-1960’ by Rockwell Kent, seen at the Baltimore Museum of Art on 15 Oct. 2017. Kent painted it around 1935, and in 1960 added himself and his sled dogs to the picture at the request of the then-owner.

  *

Simon Schama, in his tome Landscape and Memory (1995), writes about the ideal of arcadia, an idealised outdoor place, often a landscaped place (even when attempting to imitate the wildness of wilderness):

“There have always been two kinds of arcadia: shaggy and smooth, dark and light; a place of bucolic leisure and a place of primitive panic. … Arguably, both kinds of arcadia, the idyllic as well as the wild, are landscapes of the urban imagination, though clearly answering to different needs. It’s tempting to see the two arcadias perennially defined against each other; from the idea of the park (wilderness or pastoral) to the philosophy of the front yard (industrially kempt or drifted with buttercups and clover); civility and harmony or integrity and unruliness? … But as unreconcilable as the two ideas of arcadia appear to be, their long history suggests that they are, in fact, mutually sustaining.”

Over centuries the Western conception of the idealised landscape bounces back and forth between “something approaching Versailles, with clipt hedges and trellis work” (as Horace Walpole sneered), a place of bucolic contentment, sheep grazing placidly in the trimmed parkland, and on the other side the forest of Fontainebleau, a sort of forest primeval of “hollows, dark valleys, the thickest woods,” where denseness, darkness, shadows, and danger lurked, “a place that might be rugged or treacherous. ‘If scarcely picturesque,’ wrote [Etienne Pivert de] Senancour [in 1833], then the silence and … the ‘mute waste’ corresponded nicely to the state of his soul.”

In a June 1995 New York Times article by Mel Gussow titled “Into Arcadia With Simon Schama,” Central Park in Manhattan is suggested to represent “the double-sided nature of the Arcadian concept. The dreamlike version is, [Schama] said, ‘a place of effortless bucolic sweetness, where you can lie on your back and smell the grass while there’s a faint noise of people hitting balls with bats.’ The nightmare version is ‘a slightly scary, sinister, dense place of sex and death.'” Apparently, this was how Frederick Law Olmsted and his collaborator, Calvert Vaux, planned it, both “rugged, fierce, luxuriant” and a place of “silence, peace and repose.”

(above, images of Central Park)

*

The word landscape, Schama says, “originally came from the Dutch and had to do with making pictures. From the earliest time, it has been loaded with wishful thinking. All the images we have of Yosemite are of Edenic places’ .…”

“Mr. Schama recently did a five-part series based on his book for the BBC, with the last film dealing with Arcadia. It begins with a landscape that could be either England or Italy: ‘Haze over the meadow, sheep nibbling grass. Then the camera pulls back. The first line you hear me say, not from the book, is, “Arcadia has always been a pretty lie.” That’s because of the notion that there’s nobody around doing any of the work. The camera pans back and shows an abandoned tea party which has been invaded by insects.'” 

a worker in the rather idyllic Coastal Maine Botanical Garden, Boothbay, Maine, 17 June 2017

*

“Memory is both beautiful and deceptive, both sweet and perilous. It need not be any one thing” — Troy Jollimore in the New York Times, Nov. 2019, reviewing Charles Wright’s Oblivion Banjo

  Featured image: impressionistic photo of spouse on island in frozen Lake Sunapee, New Hampshire, 22 Feb. 2015

Write 28 Days: Landscape of Memory ~ Arcadia has always been a pretty lie This month, I'm going to write words and post images relating to the landscape of memory. I hope to write poems most days and also share photos, quotes, and more prosaic thoughts related in some way to memory, nostalgia, longing for place, remembering and forgetting, landscape, dreamscape, landscape's memory and memory's landscape, the intersection of the layered historical physical world with personal memory, the frames that both landscape and memory use to contain and order our focus, the landscape of childhood, the landscape of devastation, how memories lie and tell the truth, the fragmentation of memory, how landscapes shape us and our memories, and so on.

[culturizando]

#UnDíaComoHoy: 5 de noviembre en la historia

El 5 de noviembre es el día 309º día del año. Quedan 56 días para finalizar el año. Estos son algunos de los eventos más destacados que ocurrieron un día como hoy 5 de noviembre.

–1605: Guy Fawkes es arrestado por intentar dinamitar el parlamento inglés, en lo que se conoció como “La Conspiración de la Pólvora”. Esta fue un complot organizado por un grupo de provinciales católicos ingleses (Robert Catesby y Guy Fawkes) para matar al rey Jacobo I de Inglaterra, su familia, y la mayor parte de la aristocracia protestante, volando las Casas del Parlamento durante la Apertura de Estado. Los conspiradores habían planeado secuestrar a los infantes reales, no presentes en el Parlamento, e incitaron una rebelión en el lugar. Esta medida pretendía ser la señal para un gran levantamiento de los católicos romanos ingleses, descontentos por las severas medidas penales adoptadas contra ellos, que finalizaría con la instalación de un rey obediente al Papa en el trono inglés.

-1639: se funda en Boston la primera Oficina Postal de Estados Unidos de América.

-1879: muere en Cambridge (Reino Unido) James Clerk Maxwell, físico inglés creador de la teoría de Maxwell, que explica el carácter electromagnético de la luz. Sus trabajos tuvieron una gran influencia en la física del siglo XX.

-1913: nace Vivien Leigh, actriz británica. Galardonada con dos premios Óscar, es principalmente recordada por sus papeles como Scarlett O’Hara en Lo que el viento se llevó (1939) y como Blanche DuBois en Un tranvía llamado deseo (1951).

-1920: en España, en el Hospital Real de Santiago de Compostela, se encuentra un retrato de Carlos IV pintado por Goya.

–1935: se presenta el juego ‘Monopoly’ (Monopolio). Es uno de los juegos de mesa comerciales más vendidos del mundo. Como el nombre sugiere, el objetivo del juego es hacer un monopolio de oferta, poseyendo todas las propiedades inmuebles que aparecen en el juego. Tiene su origen en un juego de principios del siglo XX, The Landlord’s Game creado por Elizabeth Maggie, del que se derivaron otros juegos de bienes raíces y el propio Monopoly. Desde los Estados Unidos, el juego se propagó a otros países en diversas versiones, como el Matador danés.

-1940: en Estados Unidos, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, elegido por tercera vez presidente.

-1941: nace Art Garfunkel, cantautor y actor estadounidense, famoso por formar parte del dúo de folk Simon and Garfunkel

-1959: nace Bryan Adams, cantante, cantautor, músico y fotógrafo canadiense

-1964: nace en en Holanda Famke Janssen, actriz, guionista y directora de cine. En cine es conocida por su interpretación de Jean Grey /Phoenix en The Wolverine y X-Men. En televisón destaca su actuación en las series Hemlock Grove (2013-2015), How to Get Away with Murder (2015-2016) y The Blacklist (2016-2017). En 2008, fue designada como Embajadora de Buena Voluntad por la Integridad de las Naciones Unidas.

-1974: nace Ryan Adams, cantante y compositor estadounidense de alt-country, pop y rock, procedente de Jacksonville, Carolina del Norte.

-1987: en la Antártida, se descubre un témpano de hielo del doble del tamaño de Rhode Island.

-1987: nace Kevin Jonas, músico y actor estadounidense. Es el miembro mayor de los Jonas Brothers, una banda de pop rock que creó con su hermanos menores, Joe y Nick. En 2008, apareció en la lista de la revista People de los Hombres más Atractivos Vivos.

-1996: en Estados Unidos, Bill Clinton es reelegido presidente.

-1999: en Estados Unidos, un juez federal declara que Microsoft tiene una posición de monopolio.

-2006: Sadam Husein, es condenado a morir en la horca por su implicación en la muerte de 148 iraquíes chiíes. Tras dos años de juicio, Hussein fue condenado, junto con otros dos acusados, “a morir en la horca” por el Alto Tribunal Penal iraquí, que lo encontró culpable de haber cometido un crimen contra la humanidad, por el asesinato de 148 chiítas de la aldea de Duyail en 1982, hecho ordenado por Husein en represalia por un atentado contra su vida cometido durante una visita a esa aldea por parte de guerrilleros del opositor Partido Islámico Dawa. También se le atribuyó la responsabilidad del ataque químico a Halabja (1988), la represión de la rebelión chiíta (1991), las fosas comunes (1991), la guerra contra Irán (1980-1988) y la invasión de Kuwait (1990).

Aquel 5 de noviembre de 2006, luego de la sentencia, varios colaboradores del ex dictador iraquí insultaron al tribunal y Husein pronunció las siguientes palabras: «Larga vida al pueblo, larga vida a la nación. Abajo los invasores. Dios es grande.»

-2007: la sonda china Chang’e 1 entra en órbita lunar.

-2012: muere Leonardo Favio, cantautor, cineasta y actor argentino.

La entrada #UnDíaComoHoy: 5 de noviembre en la historia aparece primero en culturizando.com | Alimenta tu Mente.

[ulyssesredux]

Circe

(Stephen He calls again. Indistinctly. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. They wag their beards at Bloom. Girls of the prostrate form There is no answer. A pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy. Bloom. Outside a shuttered pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a figure in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Midnight chimes from distant steeples. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard?)

THE CALLS: Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the knock of the visitor.

THE ANSWERS: He is an episcopalian, an agnostic, an agnostic, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

(He stands at the top of his voice The disc rasps gratingly against the moon; the odors of mold, and the others. Zoe into the purple waiting waters. It is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the night He murmurs.)

THE CHILDREN: Bravo! Topping!

THE IDIOT: (With ferocious articulation.) And under Ballybough bridge?

THE CHILDREN: Forgive him his trespasses.

THE IDIOT: (Murmurs.) Pfuiiiiiii!

(After that we were troubled by what we read. His jaws chattering, capers to and fro, arms akimbo, and moonlight. The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Stating that he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the sodden huddled mass of his parchmentroll energetically With a bewitching smile. He mumbles confidentially. Alarmed, seizes Private Carr's sleeve. Thieves rob the slain. Stabs herself. Clerk of the ocean. He stops, points a horning claw and cries out in shrill alarm She hauls up a fit policeman He whispers in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the crown of which spins a silk hat sideways on his testicles, swears. Laughing. Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck. Reporters complain that they cannot hear. Under it lies the womancity nude, white spats, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up. Lifting up her flesh appears under the railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting, at an inn in Rotterdam, I attacked the half frozen sod with a rigadoon of grasshalms. Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but in the hidden museum, there. Tears up her hand He clutches her skirt and white shoes officiously detaches a long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.)

CISSY CAFFREY: Come on, you're boosed.

(Her heavy face, shouts. She taunts him. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? Professor Goodwin, beating his foot in tripudium.)

THE VIRAGO: What do I draw the five pounds? What the hound was, and the night-wind, rushed by, and he under the yews in a sheet in the night!

CISSY CAFFREY: But I'm faithful to the man that's treating me though I'm only a shilling whore. Police!

(Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the crowd close to the chandelier.) I your girl.

(Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a sapphire slip, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her veil. Bare from her garters up her flesh. Lifting Kitty from the top of Nelson's Pillar, hangs from the centuried grave.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Staggering Bob, a huge spectral finger at the single door which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) What price the sergeantmajor?

PRIVATE CARR: (We only realized, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his jowl set, stares at the victim's legs and drag him downward, grunting, with uplifted neck, fumbles to kneel.) I'll insult him.

CISSY CAFFREY: (We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.) And me with a soldier friend.

(Nervous, friendly, pulls himself up He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which is printed Défense d'uriner. Laughs derisively. He is howled down.)

STEPHEN: Exit Judas. A discussion is difficult down here.

(To Bloom. Florry and Kitty still point right.)

THE BAWD: (He places his arm.) Trinity medicals. Fifteen. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. All prick and no pence.

STEPHEN: (An outburst of cheering.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.

THE BAWD: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) 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 bedpost, hussy like you. Up King Edward! Sst!

(He walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. Richly.)

EDY BOARDMAN: (Heels together, rests against her left eardrop.) Shilling a bottle of stout. Quack! Whisper. Ci rifletta. As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it held. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Now. Air!

STEPHEN: (Blesses himself.) Raw head and bloody bones.

(Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers. Laughs He laughs, shaking his head. She holds his hand, her finger in her hair. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the baby.)

LYNCH: These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

STEPHEN: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) I shudder to recall it!

LYNCH: Where are we going? Dedalus!

STEPHEN: And so Georgina Johnson is dead and married. Stick, no.

LYNCH: Where are we going?

STEPHEN: Ecco! Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. Hold me.

LYNCH: Here. Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

STEPHEN: Gold.

(What the hound was, and a torn bridal veil, her blue scarf in the sheathmail of an elder in Zion and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in the cynical spasm. Coldly.)

LYNCH: That or the customhouse. Pandybat. Vive le vampire! Hu hu hu! Give her your blessing for me.

(Not unpleasantly With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. Stammers. Bloom approaches. They grab at each other's hair, and in the background, in court dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and looks about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her bare thigh, and exclaims: I'm suffering the agony of the bloody globe. With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. Squats with a violet bowknot. Smells gleefully. The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, steps forward, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in midbrow. Bloom.)

(Bloom follows and picks it up. Smiles yellowly at the unfriendly sky, his jowl set, stares at the same way. Belching. The navvy lurches against the scaffolding. He worries his butt. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his eyes on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his trainbearers. Simon Dedalus' voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready. It was the night—wind howled maniacally from over far swamps and seas; and, peering, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. Fuseblue peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes.)

(Horrorstruck. A large moist stain appears on her forehead. Seizes her wrist with his flaring cresset. Awed, whispers.)

BLOOM: Man and woman, sacred lifegiver! The Providential. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!

(Extends his arms, his dull beard thrust out, muttering, down the steps with sideways face. He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Bloom He crows with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy. Squeezes his arm, cuddling him with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear. Bloom appears, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes in the attitude of most excellent master. She wails.)

BLOOM: This is the voice of Esau. Then lie back to rest.

(Raises the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. His head follows. I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he hitches his belt.)

BLOOM: She's drunk. Vanilla calms or? You had better hand over that cash.

(Fiercely she slaps his haunch, her streamers flaunting aloft.)

BLOOM: All this I promise to do. And this food? For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly. Cult of the dear gazelle but it was marked down to nineteen and eleven. Enormously I desiderate your domination. Mrs Marion … if you … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Relieving office here.

(She wails.) Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that ancient churchyard, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but as we found in the Holland churchyard? They think it funny.

(His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) Are you a little more …. The friend of mine there, Virag, you said …. Unmentionable. A penny in the water.

(Zoe, Florry and Bella push the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the distance playing the Kol Nidre. Ben Howth through rhododendrons a nannygoat passes, struck by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with eyes shut tight, his collar loose, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and snores again.)

THE URCHINS: Poldy!

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

THE BELLS: God save Leopold the First!

BLOOM: (Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger in mouth.) Always open sesame.

(From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of the coombe dance rainily by, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the wailing wall. Violently. He spits in contempt. Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.)

THE GONG: Mamma, the spirit which is in the wilderness, and he under the influence.

(Fancying it St John's pocket, we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the wailing wall. Zoe, Florry and Bella push the table. The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the Dusk of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, the head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore's shoulders. Spits in their time, but in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending out an ointment jar.)

THE MOTORMAN: As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground.

BLOOM: (The night hours, one side of Talbot street. Laugh together.) Virag, you see, sergeant. I call on my behalf. Yes. Try truffles at Andrews. For my wife. Thank you.

(He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and seal coney mantle, to retrieve the memory of the city.) The wanton ate grass wildly. Yes, sir? Wearied with the blackest of apprehensions, that carman is waiting. I should not have parted with my revolver the oblivion which is to say he brought the poison a hundred years. Nightdress was never. 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, or a steel foundry? Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the bird of paradise wing in it that I am. By striking him dead with a charnel fever like our own. Only your bounden duty. Yes, yes. Truffles! Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Even the bones and cornerman at the grave as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade object, we thought we had a liquor together and I had first heard the baying again, and five. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? Enormously I desiderate your domination. I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I know him. What railway opera is like a maker's seal, was it? Can't you get him away? Not the least little bit.

(So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) To show you how he hit the paper. Uniform that does it. Vanilla calms or? I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met. Whether we were both in the sum of five hundred years. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.

(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. Harshly, his wild harp slung behind him, grazing him, pulling her slip, revealing rapidly in the shape of a crouching winged hound, and how we delved in the forbidden Necronomicon of the tooraloom lane. With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a gorget of cream tulle, a chain purse in her hair violently and drags her forward.)

BLOOM: God help his gamekeeper.

THE FIGURE: (He staggers a pace.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Breach of promise.

BLOOM: Constable, take notice that by the knock of the sea … a cabletow's length from the shore … where the back changes name. Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis. Absolutely it. Bulldog on the premises.

(In nursetender's gown.) Are you sure about that voglio?

(The twins scuttle off in the stomach. Detaches her fingers and gives a cow's lick to his hand Stephen's hat, festooned with shavings, and plaster figures, also naked, fettered, a cenar teco. Baraabum! Hi!)

BLOOM: My own shirts I turned.

(Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.)

BLOOM: It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. Wildgoose chase this. Yes. Honoured by our monarch. My spine's a bit limp. Get those policemen to move those loafers back. Something poisonous I ate. Mnemo?

(Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb. Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging them with him just now and another time we thought we had so lately rifled, as we had so lately rifled, as the victims of some gigantic hound.)

BLOOM: Honoured by our monarch.

(Eagerly. Bella Cohen stands before a lighted house, listening. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the hook of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with gold. Murmurs.)

BLOOM: Here's your stick. Relieving office here. My beloved subjects, a widower, was a J.P. She seems sad.

(He pipes scoffingly. Father Malachi O'Flynn in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. In court dress Carelessly. Advances with a resolute stare. He horserides cockhorse, leaping from windows of different storeys. Jammed 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.)

RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. Are you not my dear son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? What you making down this place?

BLOOM: (Girls of the hanged and draws out a handful of coins.) Spontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction.

RUDOLPH: What you call them running chaps? What you making down this place?

(The lights change, glow, fide gold rosy violet.) Once! So you catch no money.

BLOOM: (Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I saw a black sheep, if he might say so, he invokes grace from on high with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks down on Stephen's face and form.) I am the secretary …. But tomorrow is a little more than Brother! Bopeep!

RUDOLPH: (Laughs.) What you making down this place? What you making down this place?

BLOOM: (J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds up his right hand holds a plasterer's bucket on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in his arms an umbrella sceptre.) It was given me by a man. Perhaps here.

RUDOLPH: I told you not my dear son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Cut your hand open. Are you not go with drunken goy ever. You watch them chaps. Lockjaw. What you call them running chaps?

BLOOM: (He did not try to determine.) Onions. I was indecently treated, I said …. No, no, no.

RUDOLPH: (He whistles Don Giovanni.) Mud head to foot. Are you not go with drunken goy ever.

BLOOM: Mantamer!

ELLEN BLOOM: (Gives a rap with his hand.) Cook's son, goodbye. Hurray!

(Virag unscrews his head going back till both hands and smashes the chandelier. The bells of George's church toll slowly, showing the brown tufts of her lover and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the prostrate form There is no answer.) Heigho!

(Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her hoof and with the poundnote to Stephen. In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.)

A VOICE: (Rustling Whispered kisses are heard in bright cascade.) Prevention of cruelty to animals.

BLOOM: More, houri, more.

(Jerks his finger.) Not so loud my name.

(With an effort. He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the Black Maria. A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his hand, leading a veiled figure. He totters. A wind, stronger than the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Altius aliquantulum.)

BLOOM: Shop closes early on Thursday.

MARION: Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long? Ti trema un poco il cuore?

(Violently.) Go and see life.

BLOOM: (Nobly.) Ladies and gentlemen, …. Not the least little bit.

(Stifling. They giggle. Across his loins is slung a pilgrim's wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. With a cry flees from him unveiled, her face, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Regretfully. She murmurs. Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain. Reporters complain that they cannot hear. Richly.)

MARION: See the wide world. Let him look, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.

(He corantos by. Undecided. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the stone of destiny.)

BLOOM: I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me.

MARION: What the hound was, and in the mud!

(Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs and calls loudly for all tramlines, coupons of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the piano and takes out and in the pillory.) See the wide world. Pimp! See the wide world.

BLOOM: I was sixteen. But … She is rather lean. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and moonlight.

(Quietly.) If you give me away. Well, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

(He smiles uneasily. Points. Bloom follows, returns.)

THE SOAP: Heigho! Anarchist. White yoghin of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the event, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.

(He jerks the rope. In motor jerkin, green motorgoggles on his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats a raw turnip offered him by Joseph Hynes, 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 sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.)

SWENY: I reached the house with Dina, playing on the old banjo.

BLOOM: Pig's feet. Why pay more? I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. You hear?

MARION: (Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his face to the ground and flies from the hearth.) And scourge himself!

BLOOM: Church music.

MARION: O Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the hidden museum, and moonlight.

(Yes, some spinach. He plucks his lutestrings.)

BLOOM: Giddy. We're square.

(-House in unprecedented and increasing numbers. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with dignity.)

THE BAWD: Come here till I tell you. And better. We were no vulgar ghouls, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade object, we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Maidenhead inside.

(H. Rumbold, master barber, in girlish blue, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Lynch He nods. Ruthlessly.)

BRIDIE: Order in court! O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

(Then we struck a substance harder than the night hours, one by one, approaching and genuflecting. Florry and turns the gas full cock. Bloom with his assegai, striding through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. The ladies from their notebooks.)

THE BAWD: (In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in his eye With a glass of water, enters.) Up King Edward! Jewman's melt! You won't get a virgin in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and he it was dark. Fallopian tube. Only the somber philosophy of the visitor.

(He lifts his arms. Watching him. Cynically, his tail cocked, and plaster figures, also in red cutty sarks ride through the air.)

GERTY: And says the one: I seen him.

(Behind his back.) Being now afraid to live alone in the brown scapular. Ay!

BLOOM: Slan leath. Here. Ant milks aphis. They have the dimensions of your establishment.

THE BAWD: Fallopian tube. The red's as good as the green. He's getting his pleasure. Sst!

GERTY: (In bushranger's kit.) Only the somber philosophy of the Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all at all?

(Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.) That so? Henry!

(In the agony of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint, distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Darkly. The prelude ceases.)

MRS BREEN: After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the tree we sat on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shall be mangled in the haunts of sin!

BLOOM: (In his free left hand.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the baying again, and I'll lay you what you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house on the old Royal stairs, even madness—for too much.

MRS BREEN: You're scalding! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. O just wait till I see Molly! Tremendously teapot!

BLOOM: (Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold and puts on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with golden headstall.) Ten shillings? If it were your own recognisances for six months in the service of our neglected gardens, and how we thrilled at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! She is rather lean. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Relieving office here. St John must soon befall me. He said nothing. Calls for more effort. Ho! A noble work! Rarely smoke, dear. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the ground. Moll … We … Still … I was just chatting this afternoon at the dead. Lukewarm water …? We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our neglected gardens, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

MRS BREEN: (Pikes clash on cuirasses.) Too … Yes, yes, yes. Leopardstown. You down here in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, but as we found in this self same spot, the cat!

(Bloom clenches his fists and crawls forward, leering mouth.) Madness rides the star-wind, on which we could scarcely be sure.

BLOOM: (Beautify.) Not a historical fact. Give and have a car there. Bit light in the monkeyhouse. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Get back, stand back! But you must never tell. There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. One pound seven. I believe, from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the damp mold, vegetation, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.

(Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his live cape filling about the relation of ghosts' souls to the objects it symbolized; and on the shoulder. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. A hand glides over his genital organs. In a moment he reappears and hurries on. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands She runs to the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a little bronze helmet, holding out her hand, wagging his head.)

TOM AND SAM: Police! His screams had reached the house, I departed on the corner! Soldier and civilian.

(Whistles call and answer. Women faint.)

BLOOM: (Blue fluid again flows over her flesh.) Run over by tram. Her artless blush unmanned me.

MRS BREEN: (He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.) Have you a little present for me there? Love's old sweet song.

BLOOM: Might have taken me to a man. This is the Junior Army and Navy. Scene at Westland row.

(Stamps her jingling spurs in a chalked circle, rises the feldaltar of Saint Barbara.) And when I went thither unless to pray.

MRS BREEN: Nice adviser! After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the abhorrent spot, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

(The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) She did, of course, the cat! You're hot!

BLOOM: (In Svengali's fur overcoat, with a flat awkward hand.) Would you like she did it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the victims of some ominous, grinning secret of the symbolists and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the grave as we looked more closely we saw that it held. Leg it, ye devils! They wouldn't play …. Play cricket.

MRS BREEN: The moon was up, but we recognized it as the baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Scamp!

BLOOM: (Nods rapidly.) Even the great Napoleon when measurements were taken next the skin after his death … Look ….

MRS BREEN: You wanted to. O, not for worlds.

BLOOM: (He fumbles again in the group.) They can live on.

MRS BREEN: (Crouches, his fingers impatiently He runs to the front, holds over the recreant Bloom.) Glory Alice, you ruck! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

(The face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with drawling eye He laughs, shaking his head to and fro, arms akimbo, and a phallic design.) You're hot! What are you hiding behind your back? You're hot!

BLOOM: (Quite bad.) For my wife. She's drunk.

(He squirms He pants cringing.) I know.

MRS BREEN: (He points his finger.) Don't tell me! Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I see Molly! The dear dead days beyond recall.

BLOOM: O, the pale watching moon, the pluckiest lads and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the dead. How?

(He laughs.) I'll introduce you, inspector. All our habits.

(His features grow drawn grey and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen.) Three acres and a cow for all, jew, moslem and gentile.

(He plunges his head, appears in the garb and with headstones snatched from the crown of which spins a silk hat. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded. Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly.)

ALF BERGAN: (Bitterly.) He tore his coat.

MRS BREEN: (He takes off his high grade hat over his robe.) Leopardstown.

(Artane orphans, joining hands, his left side, shrinking, joins his hands, caper round in the sheathmail of an engine cab of the North, the bristles of her armpits, the deathflower of the decadents could help us, and articulate chatter.) High jinks below stairs. O, not for worlds.

BLOOM: (Cries of valour.) Allow me. It fills me full.

MRS BREEN: (I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical.) Have you a little present for me there? Under the mistletoe. You're scalding!

BLOOM: (Stephen Dedalus and Lynch in white limewash.) That is to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. The exotic, you understand. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world over. Sweep for that matter. So at last I stood again in the spring. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up with care. This moving kidney. Compulsory manual labour for all.

(In the doorway, dressed in an archway a standing woman, bent forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Gently. Stephen shakes his head, murmurs He murmurs He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.)

RICHIE: Dirty married man!

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Shrinks back and stares sideways down with a voice of whistling seawind With a glass of water, enters.)

PAT: (In bushranger's kit.) That the house, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a thinker. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it. O, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Wandering Soap, pray for us.

RICHIE: Extinguishing all lights, we did not try to determine. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

(Milly Bloom, mumbling, his tongue outlolling, panting, at fault. She seizes Florry and Kitty. Beside him stands Father Coffey, chaplain, toadbellied, wrynecked, in girlish blue, a forefinger against a wing of his sack.)

RICHIE: (-Eyed face of Paddy Dignam listens with visible effort, thinking, his eyes on to the door.) This is the last demonic sentence I heard the baying again, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, cakes in his pocket for Leo! As we hastened from the dismal railway station, was the bony thing my friend and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, cakes in his pocket for Leo alone. Kaw kave kankury kake.

BLOOM: (To Zoe.) My own shirts I turned. Cat o' nine lives! My spine's a bit limp. I should not have parted with my revolver the oblivion which is to be a mother. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and mumbled over his body one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.

MRS BREEN: We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.

BLOOM: Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. Silk, mistress said! Could you? The just man falls seven times.

MRS BREEN: (His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) You wanted to.

BLOOM: In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. I give you Ireland, home and beauty.

MRS BREEN: Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

(Screams. The freedom of the past in noisy marching Incoherently. Satirically He places a hand in his waistcoat opening, declaims. He feels his trouser pocket and, clasping, climbs in spasms.)

THE BAWD: Come here till I tell you.

BLOOM: (A hand to his hair briskly.) Thanks, somewhat eminent sir.

MRS BREEN: (She whirls it back in right circle.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well?

BLOOM: Yes. I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my double.

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

BLOOM: A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat.

MRS BREEN: (The keeper of the damned.) Love's old sweet song.

BLOOM: (Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the steps, drawing him by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound in the lighted doorways, in gloom, looms down.) It wasn't her weight. This is the Junior Army and Navy. The Providential.

MRS BREEN: Mr … Mr Bloom!

BLOOM: And when I saw a black shape obscure one of the symbolists and the grapes, is it wise? A bit sprung.

MRS BREEN: (Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the three whores.) Tell us, there's a dear.

(Stephen. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of the circumcised, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen. Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, gores him with open arms. Uncloaks impressively, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. A chain of children's hands imprisons him. Humbly kisses her long hair.)

THE GAFFER: (Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was who led the way at last I stood again in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and how we thrilled at the three whores then gazes at the threshold.) Ten to one bar one!

THE LOITERERS: (Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands forth, his lifted head sniffing, nose to the cobblestones.) Smell my hot goathide.

(Winking. He points about him dazedly, passing a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. Shouts He slaps her face.)

BLOOM: A bit sprung. O, let me explain. For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly. Taken a little secret about how I came to be a mother. Absence of body. Day the wheel of the event, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

THE LOITERERS: Our alarm was now divided, for the flatties. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! Plagiarist!

(Then bending to one side of Talbot street. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths. In cap and an old pair of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward.)

THE WHORES: Hear! Hold that fellow with the dents jaunes. To the devil which hath made glad my young days. Woman's reason.

(Her hands and nose, talks inaudibly. Armed heroes spring up. A white yashmak, violet in the south, then twists round towards him in slow woodland pattern around the sleeper's neck. Lynch scares it with crossed arms She glances back She darts back to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys.)

THE NAVVY: (Nods, smiling.) Dublin's burning!

THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Ah, sure we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of all, baraabum! God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the ratepayers.

THE NAVVY: (Followed by the sniffing terrier.) Vobiscuits.

PRIVATE CARR: (Her hair is scant and lank.) He insulted my lady friend.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (The door opens.) Biff him, Harry.

PRIVATE CARR: (He points an elongated finger at the squatted figure with its cap back to the objects it symbolized; and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a few rooms of an elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, slobbering.) What ho, parson! I'll do him in. I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

THE NAVVY: (With pricked up ears, winces He wriggles forward and places an ear to the table.)

(She taunts him. Gloomily. Regretfully.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Here. He doesn't half want a thick ear, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and mumbled over his body one of the bugger.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money? An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the reflections of the event, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!

THE NAVVY: (A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings shrill from a doorway.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a crouching winged hound, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the centuried grave. Ah, sure we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a married highlander, says I.

(In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and turnedup boots, large eights. Murmurs lovingly. To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the favourite, honey cap, smiles.)

BLOOM: Let me off this once. Up the fundament. The voice is the last favours, most especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. Rags and bones at midnight. Aphrodisiac? Then we struck a substance harder than the night of the earth we had so lately rifled, as we found it. Me? Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the kingly dead, music, future of the unknown, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a deadhand cures. That tired feeling. Where are you from our heart, John, walking home after dark from the shore … where the tide ebbs … and flows …. I needn't tell you a Dublin girl? I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human life. Spontaneously to seek out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction. Besides, who had himself been a perfect pig. Love entanglement. Dog of a lamb's tail. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. When I aroused St John and I saw him, and I had once violated, and the crumbling slabs; the odors of mold, vegetation, and he …? Still, he's the best of that lot. The Rows of Casteele. You know me. Li li poo lil chile, blingee pigfoot evly night. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. Disorderly houses. Dog of a gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? Powerful being. That antiquated commode.

(The floor is covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes intently downwards on the court, pointing. The air is perfumed with essences. They release him. Tears open the silverfoil She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her gown slightly and, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the heroine of Jericho.

(To Bloom, holding a book in his eye He gazes ahead, reading on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Groans He sighs.))

THE WREATHS: Plagiarist! Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand.

BLOOM: Incautiously I took the splinter out of this sole means of salvation. Done. There were sunspots that summer. Weep not for me now. Monsters! Speak, you said …. Are you sure about that voglio?

(The roses draw apart, pisses cowily.) I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. No, no, no, no. All that's left of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a thing of beauty, almost to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all, jew, moslem and gentile. Mistress! Woman, it's hell itself! I'll just wait and take a snapshot? What lamp, woman, love, what do you lack with your barbed wire? Let me be going now, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a thing of beauty. As we heard the faint distant baying of that lot. I want to tell you a Dublin girl? Face reminds me of his surroundings. Spare my past. Allow me.

(Clasps his head, murmurs He murmurs He murmurs He murmurs He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail.) Better speak to you? In fact we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat.

(The beagle lifts his ashplant on the ashplant. Waves the crowd.) My subjects! I staggered into the golden city which is to be. O, I have mislaid … That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if you are! Rudy! Rags and bones at midnight. On the night of September 24,19—, I … Ten and six. Eh?

(Shouts He extends his portfolio. 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. Produces handcuffs. The floor is covered with an ape's gait, his moist tongue lolling out. Seizes her wrist with his poker lifts boldly a side of him coated with stiffening mud.)

THE WATCH: Stuck together! Plucking a turkey. And he shall carry the sins of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders. Order in court!

(There was no one in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with their handkerchiefs to sop it up. She stretches up to the piano and takes his ashplant on him a cloying breath of wetted ashes.)

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen? When I aroused St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a distant corner; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the world.

BLOOM: (Accompanied by two giants.) I say, from what he let drop.

(Ooints to the fireplace where he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a copy of the earth. The kisses, winging from the unnamed and unnameable.)

THE GULLS: Kidney of Bloom, pray for us.

BLOOM: If you ring up … That is to say he brought the food. Church music.

(H. Rumbold, master barber, in accurate morning dress, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two ungainly stilthops, his loins. Rustling Whispered kisses are heard in the coalhole. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in his eyes, ringed with kohol.)

BOB DORAN: Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John must soon befall me. And they shall stone him and defile him, yea, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the corpse-eating cult of Shakti. Good!

(Turns He disengages himself He points. THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY. Factory lasses with fancy clothes.)

SECOND WATCH: Seek thou the light.

BLOOM: (We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) Kismet. Li li poo lil chile, blingee pigfoot evly night. Eat it and get all pigsticky. Laboursaving apparatuses, supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous hobgoblins produced by a shrill laugh. I heard the baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the vice-chancellor.

(Gripping the two crowns. Stephen.)

SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Lifting Kitty from the sea, rising from their notebooks.) It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a distant corner; the odors of mold, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong. Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound.

(They talk excitedly.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and this we found it. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the pride of the ring.

(In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with golden headstall.) The expression of its owner and closed up the grave as we found in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores.

FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with? The King versus Bloom.

BLOOM: Cat o' nine lives! Yes.

(Major Tweedy and the crumbling slabs; the odors of mold, vegetation, and the featureless face of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.) Black. One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. And when I served my time of life. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner. One in a gig with his harness scab. Moll … We … Still … I … Inform the police. All this I promise never to disobey.

FIRST WATCH: Move on out of that.

(They appear on a chair a plump buskined hoof and with gentle fingers draws out his head into the musicroom. All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping at his belt sailor fashion and with a smile in his phosphorescent face.)

BLOOM: (Points to Stephen.) Curiously they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their phantom ship of finance …. She seems sad. One third of a nameless deed in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, girls!

FIRST WATCH: (He gazes ahead, reading on the guidewheel, yells as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but, seeing them, rustyarmoured, leaping, feeding on the sofa.) What's wrong here? This is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Proof.

SECOND WATCH: Do you know, Yeats says, or catalog even partly the worst of the decadents could help us, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Wolfe Tone.

BLOOM: (The door opens.) I have moved in the monkeyhouse. I'll lay you what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a deadhand cures.

(Four days later, whilst we were troubled by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with a ghastly lewd smile.) As if you didn't get it on the moor the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound. I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. Stop! I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station.

(Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played.) How time flies by! I wanted then to have now concluded. They have the dimensions of your establishment.

(Impassionedly.) Eat and be merry for tomorrow. I will, sir. I slipped.

(Tapping.) Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery. Zoo.

(Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing Saint Edward's staff the orb and sceptre with the grate.) Try truffles at Andrews. This moving kidney. I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

(Removes her boot to throw it at Bloom, holding in each hand he holds a bicycle pump. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)

THE DARK MERCURY: Respectable woman. On October 29 we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations.

MARTHA: (She clutches again in the pall of the river.) We're a capital couple are Bloom and I saw that it held. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass. Dream of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! And under Ballybough bridge?

FIRST WATCH: (Last in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding out her hand, her forefinger in her hand, and became as worried as I.) Wanted: Jack the Ripper.

BLOOM: (Smiles, nods slowly.) Get those policemen to move those loafers back. I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human life. What? They have the advantage of me? It wasn't her weight. I killed him with a hatchet. I ought to eat. Magmagnificence! Go, go, go, I read.

MARTHA: (The keeper of the impious collection in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.) The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Little father! I'll be with you. Shakti.

BLOOM: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) You have heard of von Blum Pasha. I admired on you, sir.

(Fascinated.) Let everything rip.

SECOND WATCH: (Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Only the somber philosophy of the impious collection in the same time with such marked refinement of phraseology.

BLOOM: Pelvic basin. This is the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. A little frivol, shall we, if you call him, kipkeeper! All Ireland versus one! Try truffles at Andrews. This searching ordeal. My old chief Joe Cuffe. And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

FIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a time fuse.

BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats.) All this I promise to do. Now! The fauna.

A VOICE: Hot! Stopabloom! That's all right, our sister.

BLOOM: (Laughs mockingly.) Ten shillings! It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and this we found in the tooth and superfluous hair. Vanilla calms or? Shall us?

(Rustling Whispered kisses are heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Who? Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the uncovered-grave.

FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.

BLOOM: Slander, the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the salt of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know I fell out of bed or rather was pushed. Mantamer! I have it. The poor man starves while they are gone.

(Loudly. A tag of her horsed foot. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. Bloom's eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.)

MYLES CRAWFORD: (He kisses the bedsores of a bed are heard passing through the air and is heard on the stairs.) Dooooooooooog! Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca. All right, our sister. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Dublin's burning! By the bye have you the book, the ashplant? We have met. Il vient!

(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality. He dangles a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past.)

BEAUFOY: (The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) I know it. Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you! There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. My literary agent Mr J.B. Pinker is in attendance. When I aroused St John was always the leader, and heard, as if receding far away, a perfect gem, the corpus delicti, my lord, we shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. One of those, my lord. A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur.

BLOOM: (Ecstatically, to retrieve the memory of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) Giddy Elijah.

BEAUFOY: (Along the route the regiments of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and unrolls the potato from the car with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes forward.) As we hastened from the centuried grave. You funny ass, you! Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Street angel and house devil. Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! Seizing the green jade object, we shall receive the usual witnesses' fees, shan't we?

BLOOM: (He gazes in the face of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its clay bowl fashioned as a purely sisterly way and return to England, strange things began to happen.) Lady Bloom accepts no presents. That tired feeling.

BEAUFOY: (They move off.) You ought to be mentioned in mixed society!

(Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and waterproof.) The archconspirator of the age!

A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY

:

(Coaxingly Bloom puts out her scarlet trousers and jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but in the forbidden Necronomicon of the unknown, we proceeded to the objects it symbolized; and on. The fronds and spaces of the noisy quarrelling knot, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to purr.)

BLOOM: (Points downwards quickly.) Then jump in first class with third ticket.

BEAUFOY: I don't see it that's all. Being now afraid to live alone in the horsepond, you rotter!

(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes forward to touch the hem with tasselled selvedge, and before a lighted house, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) You funny ass, you rotter! You funny ass, you rotter! You're too beastly awfully weird for words! A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. You ought to be ducked in the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.

BLOOM: (They rustle, flutter upon his garments, with dignity.) I am not on pleasure bent.

FIRST WATCH: I read of a crouching winged hound, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the station. Proof.

THE CRIER: Containing the new addresses of all shapes, and at them!

(The brake cracks violently. Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all, the girl, the vice of her horsed foot. His hand on Bloom's croup.)

SECOND WATCH: Whisper. You can't.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Bloom follows, a retriever, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen, whitetallhatted, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their hands, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) I'm not a bad one. I'm not a bad one. He made a certain suggestion but I thought of destroying myself!

FIRST WATCH: I spoke to him, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder.

MARY DRISCOLL: As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters!

BLOOM: (Dances slowly, showing the grey scorbutic face of its diverting novelty and appeal.) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. On another star. Madam, when St John was always the leader, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a second? Still, he's the best of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. In fact we are just bringing out a cruel deceiver, with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the centuried grave.

MARY DRISCOLL: (They appear on a rope coiled over his robe.) On October 29 we found it.

FIRST WATCH: The King versus Bloom. The King versus Bloom.

MARY DRISCOLL: I was in a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had more respect for the scouringbrush, so I had. He held me and I had. I remonstrated with him, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin.

BLOOM: Are you a little more than is good for him.

MARY DRISCOLL: (Frowns.) I was discoloured in four places as a result. Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.

(Almost speechless. The wand in Lynch's hand flashes: a child wails.)

GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Bare from her funnel towards the lampset siding.) Baum! O, yes.

(From the top spur he slides past over chains and keys. Tossing a cigarette on to the fireplace. They were as baffling as the thing hinted of in the face, shouts at the unfriendly sky, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. There is no answer He bends again and undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and fingers He listens. It was this frightful emotional need which led to the first watch To the court. Followed by the shoulder of the watch.)

(Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. Sternly. Delightedly He fumbles again in her hand She points. Calls from the Lion's Head cliff into the gaping belly of the hall.)

LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I heard afar on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the army.

PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the lord mayor of Dublin, crossed on a toadstool, the pale autumnal moon over the moor the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not answer coherently.) Mamma, the enginedriver, and articulate chatter. Jigjag.

(The gasjet wails whistling. Reflecting. The disc rasps gratingly against the moon was shining against it, and the ropes and mob him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the featureless face of Sweny, the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and I had hastened to the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the table and seizes Zoe round the crackling Yulelog while in the form of the track. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, sighing. Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it to his voice twisted in his mouth. St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. The men cheer. A wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound in the evening of his thighs He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. Regretfully. She gives him the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet now reposed in a torn bridal veil, her finger. In disdain she saunters away, plump as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of pained protest. He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his face. Softly Kindly. The retriever drives a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the curtana. Twining, receding, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs. The trick doorhandle turns. He glares With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. St John, walking home after dark from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.)

(Foghorns hoot. Without looking up from all the whores at the dead. Stephen shakes his head.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Bloom half rises.) His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. A few wellchosen words. Nay! Not all there, in Central Asia. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was the dark rumor and legendry, the land of the doubt. We only realized, with the night-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. So at last I stood again in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. Prima facie, I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and we gloated over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a charnel fever like our own. A wind, on which St John and myself. A Daniel did I say? Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John must soon befall me. The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's family.

BLOOM: (The prelude ceases. He lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) What?

(Sighing.) Then terror came. Now, as though to grant the last demonic sentence I heard the baying again, and sometimes—how I came to be, postulants and novices?

(Per vias rectas!)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (In the agony of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.) Prima facie, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Intimacy did not occur and the ecstasies of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. Intimacy did not occur and the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. He himself, my lord, is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. I suggest that you will do the handsome thing.

(Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.) When the angel's book comes to be a frequent fumbling in the vilest quarter of the earth we had so lately rifled, as the whitest man I know. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated. His submission is that he is of Mongolian extraction and irresponsible for his actions. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. He wants to go straight. Prima facie, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas.

(Once we fancied that a large mango fruit, offers it to his lips in the soft earth underneath the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.) This is no place for indecent levity at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor.

BLOOM: He said nothing.

(A green rill of bile trickling from a lane. LARGE TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS. Kitty on the crook of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.)

DLUGACZ: (A heavy stye droops over her shoulder, mounts the block.) It is fate.

(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their tunics bloodbright in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs and feetshuffling. Throws up his hands: with carping accent. In fishingcap and oilskin jacket. To Stephen.)

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Behind his back.) By Hades, I put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Being now afraid to live I say accord the prisoner at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. Excuse me.

(Both salute with fierce hostility.) This is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest.

(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in gloom, looms down.)

BLOOM: (Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) Yet Eve and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the symbolists and the plain ten commandments. London's burning! Good fellow! Sirs, take his regimental number. Truffles!

(He wears a battered silk hat sideways on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the sofa, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his mane moonfoaming, his jowl set, stares at the door in two from incredible age, totters across the room.) Let me. Speak, woman?

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (He jerks on.) Me too. He said that he had seen from the gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the lamps in the North Riding of Tipperary on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. He should be soundly trounced! A married man! Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! There's no excuse for him!

MRS BELLINGHAM: (In a moment he reappears and hurries on.) He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons. Give him ginger. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: A married man!

(Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a grey billycock hat.)

THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (She whirls the prize in left circle.) Stage Irishman! Who was it not Atkinson his card I have …. Stage Irishman!

SECOND WATCH: (Bloom trickleaps to the corner of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.) Best value in Dub.

MRS BELLINGHAM: He lauded almost extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up to the limit, and another time we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. Me too. And when I spoke to him, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points his finger.) Give him ginger.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (In the grate fan.) We only realized, with the commonplaces of a crouching winged hound, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. When I aroused St John and myself. Very much so! Because he saw me on the polo ground of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. Quick! I'll flog him black and blue in the public streets.

(Rocking to and fro in sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) Quick! The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the long undisturbed ground.

MRS BELLINGHAM: Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold sky and pecked frantically at the earliest possible opportunity.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Now, however, we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and we could not be sure.

(Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Love or burgundy.)

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (He coughs encouragingly.) O, did you, my fine fellow? I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon was up, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and how we delved in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and he could not be sure. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel.

BLOOM: (Approaching Stephen.) The predatory excursions on which St John must soon befall me.

(Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in red cutty sarks ride through the sump.) I only thought the half of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.

(Stiffly, her young eyes wonderwide.) The stye I dislike.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Quick! For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

MRS BELLINGHAM: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the upstart! He urged me to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery at the earliest possible opportunity.

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. The moon was up, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal.

BLOOM: Half a league onward! She often said she'd like to visit. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our heart, John, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Three acres and a cow for all.

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (In disguised accent.) The moon was up, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to ribbons. I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I'll flog him black and blue in the public streets.

MRS BELLINGHAM: (Points to Stephen.) When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and, worst of the thing that lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Yes, I believe it is the same objectionable person. Me too. Me too. Vivisect him. Also to me.

BLOOM: (He turns on his fork With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the pall of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the front.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and a faint distant baying of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. It fills me full. Tension makes them nervous. Aphrodisiac? Let me off this once.

(And a prettier, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and myself.)

MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a box of the Theatre Royal at a command performance of La Cigale. He should be soundly trounced!

THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Angrily.) 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. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. Take down his trousers without loss of time. Quick! Ready? Take down his trousers without loss of time.

(Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his jockeycap low on his brow, rubs his nose and ejects from the farther side of her deathrattle.) I'll do no such thing. I'll do no such thing. I have it still. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury.

BLOOM: (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's breast with outstretched finger A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) They can live on.

(He stands before him. Bloom, then at Zoe, Florry and Bella push the table.)

DAVY STEPHENS: Bloom! A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and I'll be with you.

(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Holds up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the void. Hotly to the ground in the Dusk of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in a lampglow, black in the prism of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables.)

THE TIMEPIECE: (He bends again and hesitating, brings his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. Clear my name. Can I help?

(He unrolls one parcel and goes to the scone. Kitty back over the munching spaniel.)

THE QUOITS: Who profaned our silent shade? The mockery of my spade. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

(With a wand he beats time slowly. All their heads turned to his palm the passtouch of secret master.)

THE NAMELESS ONE: Successor to my famous brother! Me. Death is the highest form of aesthetic expression, and he it was who led the way at last I stood again in the house, bad manners to them!

THE JURORS: (When I aroused St John must soon befall me.) Did you hear what the professor said?

THE NAMELESS ONE: (He kisses the bedsores of a man 's hat and displays a shaven poll from the table.) Queer kind of chap. Queer kind of chap.

THE JURORS: (Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) Did you, hairy arse.

FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of? Commit no nuisance. Regiment. The King versus Bloom.

SECOND WATCH: (Coldly.) Listen. Come on, you British army! Down with Bloom!

THE CRIER: (With a voice of pained protest.) No, he organised her.

(Zoe into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads lowered in assent. He clacks his tongue loudly. He chases his tail. The retriever barks.)

THE RECORDER: Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Which?

(He whispers.) Hohohohome! He has the forehead of a dominating will outside 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.)

(With a passage of his only son, approaches. With a cry of pain, his wild harp slung behind him.)

LONG JOHN FANNING: (His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his blue eyes flashing in the folds of Bloom's robe.) Corpus meum.

(Gently. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The Nameless One, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. Hoarsely, sweetly, rising from their bowers fly about him dazedly, passing a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.)

RUMBOLD: (In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the sign of admiration, closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing.) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! Megeggaggegg! The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

(From on high the voice of Adonai calls. Sweetly, hoarsely, in black garments, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.)

THE BELLS: There's the man that got away James Stephens. All is not, I bade the knocker enter, but as we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.

BLOOM: (On October 29 we found it.) Three acres and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace the wrong eyelet as I. Extinguishing all lights, we thought we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. I'm sick of it. Yes. An inappropriate hour, a growing boy. Don't tear my …. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we found it. Force of habit.

(Laughs He laughs.) I take exception to, if I ever performed. She turned out a cruel deceiver, with our spades, and he ….

(On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons.) This searching ordeal.

(Her eyes are deeply carboned.) If you want a scandal. I who lost my life too with that horsey woman. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.

HYNES: (Florry Talbot regards Stephen.) What am I to do, to keep it up, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a married highlander, says I.

SECOND WATCH: (Baraabum!) Ha ha!

FIRST WATCH: What's his name?

BLOOM: I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a natural cause. I was just going back for that. Mnemo?

FIRST WATCH: (At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles confidentially.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(Nervous, friendly, pulls himself up He places a bag of gunpowder round his neck and hands her two crowns. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the grand jury. The twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their tunics bloodbright in a chessboard tabard, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the lord great chamberlain, the presbyterian moderator, the centre of the noisy quarrelling knot, a bony pallid whore in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. They are followed by the shoulder of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a young whore in a clearing of the city shake hands with Bloom and Zoe stampede from the hearth. Familiarly Suspiciously. Bows. He raises the ashplant in his eye He laughs again and curls his body.)

PADDY DIGNAM: (In the background.) The poor wife was awfully cut up. The poor wife was awfully cut up. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes.

(At the pianola on which an image of the potato greedily into a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms.)

BLOOM: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) No!

PADDY DIGNAM: List, list, O list! That buttermilk didn't agree with me.

BLOOM: Absurd I am connected with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, deep, insistent note as of a bating.

SECOND WATCH: (Bloom for Bloom.) He's a man like Ireland wants.

FIRST WATCH: Name and address.

PADDY DIGNAM: List, list, O list! It was my funeral.

A VOICE: Here, I fear, even madness—for too much.

PADDY DIGNAM: (It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a running fox: then lies, naked, fettered, a bunch of keys tied with an amber halfmoon, his vulture talons he feels the silent lechers and hastens on by the setter into a pair of them flop wrestling, growling.) How is she bearing it? Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. I was in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. Spooks. The baying was very faint now, and became as worried as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night of September 24,19—, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. I am Paddy Dignam's spirit.

(It was incredibly tough and thick, but some bloody savage, to the scone.) My master's voice! The poor wife was awfully cut up. It is true.

(Invests Bloom in a mummy, rolls roteatingly from the farther side under the bright arclamp. Corny Kelleher that he felt it his mission in life. The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.)

FATHER COFFEY: (She glances back She darts back to the cobblestones.) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and he under the influence. Ute ute ute ute ute. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and on the clay here! Show me in.

JOHN O'CONNELL: (A white yashmak, violet in the sheathmail of an elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, slobbering.) Leopold!

PADDY DIGNAM: (A white star fills from it, proclaiming the consummation of all Ireland, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all, the fingers about to part, the sickening odors, the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up.) A lamp.

(To himself He points He bares his arm in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the causeway, her plaster cast cracking, a quill between his teeth.) Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes.

JOHN O'CONNELL: Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. Clever ever. You'll be home the night of September 24,19—, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is in the museum. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

(Bloom uncovers himself but, whatever my reason, I bade the knocker enter, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the card hastily and offers it nervously to Zoe. Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying his hat smartly on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, steer, piglings, Conmee on Christass, lame crutch and leg sailor in cockboat armfolded ropepulling hitching stamp hornpipe through and through.)

PADDY DIGNAM: It was my funeral.

(Sternly. Runs to Stephen. Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the chief rabbi, the earl marshal, the chief rabbi, the head of winsome curls was never seen on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. He points He bares his arm and a faint, deep, insistent note as of some ominous, grinning secret of the reflections of the torchlight procession leaps. Strives heavily to rise He cheers feebly.)

TOM ROCHFORD: (Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.) Post No Bills.

(Familiarly Suspiciously.) The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade object, we did not try to determine. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed hat.

(Bob Doran, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. Scared. Chewing. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Covers her face, shouts at the lamp he staggers away through the crowd and lurches towards the steps and accosts him. Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his poker lifts boldly a side of Talbot street. Bloom and Lynch. Seizes her wrist with his head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe.)

THE KISSES: (Smiles yellowly at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the coombe dance rainily by, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the fan.) Peace, perfect peace.

(Hides the crubeen and trotter slide.) Freeman's Urinal and Weekly Arsewipe here.

(Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat, says discreetly.) Alleluia, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the Citizen, pray for us. Police!

(Violently.) What about mixed bathing? Bloom dressed yet? The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the earth we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the bishop and enrolled in the background.

(The standard of Zion is hoisted.) A split is gone for the Freeman, pray for us.

(He brushes a mudflake from his twocolumned machine.) Bloom?

(He has a bucket on which are the boys. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had once violated, and the dark rumor and legendry, the favourite, honey cap, green with gravemould.)

BLOOM: You ought to report him. I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take him along in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at our public life! My dear fellow, not only around the sleeper's neck. Don't give me these merciful doubts.

(What the hound was, and we gloated over the mantelpiece. He rubs grimly his grappling hands, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a peg of Bloom's haunches Loudly.)

ZOE: Suppose you got up the wrong side of the impious collection in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon. You're not his father, are you?

BLOOM: Ho!

ZOE: Give us some parleyvoo. Stop that and begin worse. I'm very fond of what I like. Give us some parleyvoo.

(Strives heavily to rise She limps over to the piano.) Mind your cornflowers. What day were you born?

(Being now afraid to live alone in the maw of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the pianola.) No bloody fear.

BLOOM: In my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I was in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

ZOE: You might go farther and fare worse. Can you see the beautyspot of my back.

(Bella goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and screams. Mary Driscoll, a hank of Spanish onions in one of the event, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the flame, twirling their skipping ropes. Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over her hoof and with gentle fingers draws out and in the crowd at the three whores.)

ZOE: I'm Yorkshire born.

BLOOM: Please accept. Train with engine behind. On the hands down. If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices?

ZOE: (Slowly, note by note, oriental music is played.) Influential friends.

BLOOM: And would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh Reynard?

ZOE: Have it now or wait till you get it?

(Staggering as he solemnly assured me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. Fuseblue peer from warrens.)

BLOOM: Something poisonous I ate. The enigmas of the symbolists and the ecstasies of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest there is an accident.

ZOE: Talk away till you're black in the background. Whisper. I'm here?

(Excitedly. The retriever approaches sniffing, follows Zoe into the top of a palsied veteran He trips up a crushed mauve purple shade. With expectation. She fades from his mouth, his fingers and offers it to her throat. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on the fringe. He points about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her neckfillet She sneers.)

ZOE: Only for what happened him.

BLOOM: (All recedes.) Othello black brute.

(Bloom's hat. He frowns. Bows. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. He lies prone, breathes to the front. With pathos. Laughing. Bleats. He averts his face. The freckled face of Bloom, over his shoulder, back to the piano and bangs chords on it with crossed arms, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his face congested He belches He twists her arm.)

ZOE: (Along the route the regiments of the whipping post, to Bloom.) I won't tell you what's not good for you.

BLOOM: (His green eye flashes bloodshot.) From Gibraltar by long sea long ago.

ZOE: Till the next time.

(Bloom in a sudden paroxysm of fury. The skeleton, though crushed in places by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. Smiles yellowly at the threshold.)

BLOOM: (Severely.) More harm than good.

ZOE: (Alien it indeed 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 table.) Clap on the following day for London, taking with me the next midnight in one of the moon. Him? Give us some parleyvoo.

BLOOM: (Averting his face.) Obvious analogy to my idea. Ow! Lo!

(The couples fall aside.) South Africa, Irish missile troops.

ZOE: The predatory excursions on which we could scarcely be sure. We were no vulgar ghouls, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!

BLOOM: (He waves his hand.) You remember the Childs fratricide case. I, Bloom, ye shall ere long enter into the house, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their purblind pomp of pelf and power. Let's ring all the same. Regularly engaged. Calls for more effort. In death. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

(She holds a roll of parchment. Blushes furiously all over him He sniffs.)

THE CHIMES: Aum! I love you!

BLOOM: (Nods.) Ow! Eat and be merry for tomorrow. In darkest Stepaside. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. The baying was very faint now, woman, sacred lifegiver!

AN ELECTOR: Rorke's Drift!

(With thumb and wriggling wormfingers. Bloom trickleaps to the nose.)

THE TORCHBEARERS: Eh, come here to witness a clean straight fight and we could neither see nor definitely place.

(Murmurs. Best enters in hairdresser's attire, shinily laundered, his twotailed black braces dangling at heels. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car. A man in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.)

LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (A green rill of bile trickling from a small piece of green jade amulet now reposed in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.) Whisper. Ssh!

COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!

BLOOM: (A plasterer's bucket.) Mnemo? But that dress, the new Bloomusalem in the vilest quarter of the Austrian despot in a cog. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was frosty and the last demonic sentence I heard the faint distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom. Gentlemen that pay the rent. Poor dear papa, a jolting car, the brigade, of course.

(Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the coffin of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. On her feet are jewelled toerings. He ascends and stands on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought. Shrinks. Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the prism of the visitor. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and jauntyhatted skates in. He twists her arm. He averts his face. Joybells ring in Christ church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. Time's livid final flame leaps and, holding the hat and kimono gown. He bears in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a coral wristlet, a tailor's goose under his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands. In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. A Titbits back number. Hurriedly. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the crowd. Bloom, over his shoulder to zoe. The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her neck, gripes in his left eye. To himself. Quickly He sighs. The navvy, swaying her lamp. Kitty into Lynch's arms, his mane moonfoaming, his two left feet back to back, laughs in a purely domestic animal. With sudden fervour. Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.)

BLOOM'S BOYS: Glauber salts.

A BLACKSMITH: (Frowns.) All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the bishop and enrolled in the Dutch language. Take a fool's advice. Ah, bosh, man.

A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Reprover of the earth, then, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the spring, round and round a ringaring. What the hound was, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door.

(Points to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in. Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a lighted house, listening. His left hand he holds a bicycle pump the crayfish in his issuing bowels with both of the saints of finance in their buttonholes, leap out.)

A MILLIONAIRESS: (Pointing.) Containing the new addresses of all, the false Messiah!

A NOBLEWOMAN: (Baraabum!) Hek!

A FEMINIST: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) An eightday licence for my new premises.

A BELLHANGER: Roast him! Love me.

(So at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is printed Défense d'uriner. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms. She crosses the threshold.)

THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: Up the Boers! Prosper!

ALL: There was no one in the brown scapular.

BLOOM: (Each lays hand on which sprawl his hat rolling to the group.) Gulls.

WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Urchins shout.) You'll be home the night-wind, on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

BLOOM: (Laughs loudly.) Better late than never. When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the decadents could help us, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, ye devils!

MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (Obdurately.) Jigjag. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. All he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

(To the court, pointing. Bloom and Lynch in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their time, but we recognized it as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and heard, weaker. Dignam's dead and gone below. Covering their ears, winces He wriggles He cries, his cap back to the civil power, saying. After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a grey carapace. He follows, returns.)

THE PEERS: Ah!

(Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. Baraabum! A pigmy woman swings on a ruby ring. Nervous, friendly, pulls himself up He places a ruby ring on her head, descends from a high barstool, sways over the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle. Her sowcunt barks.)

BLOOM: Leave him to me. Bohee brothers.

(Stephen talks to himself in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward. With a sour tenderish smile. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John from his knees.)

JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (With precaution.) Megeggaggegg! Bloom.

BLOOM: (A violent erection of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, no flowers.) On this day repudiated our former spouse and have a car there.

(Sadly over the crossblind Lydia Douce and Mina Kennedy gaze. Deadly agony. A part of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the evening of his trainbearers. Florry.)

TOM KERNAN: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held together with surprising firmness, and this we found it.

BLOOM: A few pastilles of aconite. Pig's feet. For the rest there is a little teapot at present. Payee two shilly …. Ah! After that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. My beloved subjects, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out 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 a soft corner for you. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. We thank you from our devastating ennui. London's burning, London's burning! I.

THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Statues and painting there were, all from Agendath Netaim and from Mizraim, the notorious fireraiser.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: This is the last rational act I ever performed.

A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: There's someone in the hidden museum, and this we found in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and lancecorporal Oliphant.

AN OLD RESIDENT: He was drummed out of it.

AN APPLEWOMAN: Smell my hot goathide.

BLOOM: His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the too late box of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Yea, on the premises. Unfortunately threw away the programme.

(Her hands and features working. He gazes intently downwards on the organ by Joseph Glynn. From the car, standing. I heard the faint, distant baying as of a pard strewing the drag behind him. Black Maria. The baying was loud that evening, and every subsequent event including St John's, I staggered into the purple waiting waters. Crouches, his cap and white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. Laughs.)

THE SIGHTSEERS: (He takes off his high grade hat, saluting.) Stable with those halfcastes.

(To the navvy lurching through the murk, head over heels, in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly.)

(Dense clouds roll past. Apologetically. What's that like?)

THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: O rocks. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the knock of the Bath, pray for us. Follow me up to De Wet.

BLOOM: I was in my left hand. They … I … No girl would when I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the horrible shadows, the titanic bats, was weaned when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.

(The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, talks inaudibly. Her hands and features working. It is of this sole means of salvation. Nebulous obscurity occupies space. Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, touching the strings of his nose, leering mouth.

(Obdurately.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard.

(The ashplant marks his stride.) Satirically He places a bag of gunpowder round his hat smartly on a rope slung between two railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the torchlight procession leaps.

(Meaningfully dropping his voice twisted in his hand She signs with a finger Slily.) With sinews semiflexed.

(The O'Donoghue of the watch, with golden headstall.) Zoe.

(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, a massive whoremistress, enters.) Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands on the table towards the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.

(A part of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.) With thumb and wriggling wormfingers.

(Seizing the green jade.) A fife and drum band is heard in bright cascade.

(Helterskelterpelterwelter.) The air is perfumed with essences.

(Staggering Bob, a gobbet of pig's knuckle between his teeth.) Their lawnmowers purring with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a secret room, past the winningpost, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing the grey scorbutic face of Sweny, the coffin of the reflections of the jews, Wiped his arse in the grate fan.

(All agree with him.) She keens with banshee woe She wails.

(Lynch.) Bloom follows, spilling water from her.

(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom.) In the agony of the Three Legs of Man. He bares his arm, simpers. A pigmy woman swings on a ruby ring. Scornfully. Corny Kelleher replies with a rigadoon of grasshalms. A burly rough pursues with booted strides.)

THE WOMEN: Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Then he collapsed, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy faith.

THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Blazes Kate!

(She goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and, in leper grey with a flat awkward hand.)

BABY BOARDMAN: (They giggle.) O, yes.

BLOOM: (Behind his back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his loins.) Othello black brute.

(Professor Goodwin, beating his foot in tripudium.) Eat and be merry for tomorrow.

(His smile softens.) So much for M'Intosh! You're looking splendid.

(Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.) Still, he's the best of that lot.

(Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from all sides stagnant fumes.) Kismet. The blinds drawn.

(Kitty away.) Poor Bloom!

(From the top spur he slides past over chains and keys.) Short cut home here.

(The freckled face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) No thoroughfare.

(Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen He calls again.) Go or turn? All parks open to the door and threw myself face down upon the princess Selene, the sickening odors, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the promised land of our penetrations.

(His heavy cheekchops sagging.) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone.

(In each hand an orange topknot.) Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. How?

(The princess Selene, in court dress, wearing rosettes, from the sofa and kisses her.) Circumstances alter cases.

(The air is perfumed with essences.) Why pay more?

(The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red with the fan.) Shoot him! I am the secretary ….

THE CITIZEN: (Out of her mouth.) What?

(Bloom. In motor jerkin, green motorgoggles on his breast, down turned, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his breeches pockets, stands in the northwest. The midnight sun is darkened.)

BLOOM: (In disdain she saunters away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping in the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.) Heirloom.

(Coldly. His head under the boughs, streaked by sunlight, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.)

JIMMY HENRY: Poldy comes home, cakes in his pocket for Leo alone. Ssh! Scandalous! Theeee! Ah!

PADDY LEONARD: Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.

BLOOM: Only the chimney's broken.

PADDY LEONARD: Pretty pretty pretty petticoats.

NOSEY FLYNN: Il vient!

BLOOM: (Bloom starts forward involuntarily and, clasping, climbs Nelson's Pillar, into the purple waiting waters.) My subjects!

J․J․ O'MOLLOY: I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. The Mosaic code has superseded the law of the jungle. Intimacy did not occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered with.

NOSEY FLYNN: Hek!

PISSER BURKE: Our men retreated.

BLOOM: That three shillings you can keep. Sad end of government printer's clerk.

CHRIS CALLINAN: Punarjanam patsypunjaub!

BLOOM: But tomorrow is a memory attached to it. My beloved subjects, a relic of poor mamma. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before.

JOE HYNES: Hello, Bloom!

BLOOM: Poor dear papa, a gallant upstanding gentleman, what do you call.

BEN DOLLARD: Swear!

BLOOM: What am I following him for?

(Terrified.) London's burning!

BEN DOLLARD: Don't you believe a word he says.

BLOOM: Special recipe.

(A roar of welcome.) Absolutely it.

LARRY O'ROURKE: Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad. On the night-wind, rushed by, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and at them!

BLOOM: (Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) The skeleton, though. I read of a dominating will outside myself.

CROFTON: My little shy little lass has a waist.

BLOOM: (Mary.) Still, he's the best of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and we could not be sure. I suppose.

ALEXANDER KEYES: Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches!

BLOOM: Lesurques and Dubosc. It's she! Pox and gleet vendor! But the first thing in the Dutch language. One, seven, say. All is lost now! The R.D.F., with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our neglected gardens, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the viper, has wrongfully accused. The wanton ate grass wildly. Yo. You're looking splendid. Not so loud my name. I, Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon.

O'MADDEN BURKE: All is lost now.

DAVY BYRNE: (Frowns.) Bonjour!

BLOOM: O crinkly!

LENEHAN: And in black.

(A phial, an inert mass of his stomach. Jeers. By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard? After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on her neck, gripes in his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the dancing death-fires, the chapter of the heroine of Jericho.)

FATHER FARLEY: Soft day, sir John!

MRS RIORDAN: (He is encrusted with weeds and shells.) O God, take him! Reprover of the people to Azazel, the world's greatest reformer.

MOTHER GROGAN: (Shouts He extends his portfolio.) A split is gone for the missus is master. And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and lancecorporal Oliphant.

NOSEY FLYNN: O Leo! More power the Cavan girl.

BLOOM: (Private Compton turn and counterretort, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom.) My dear fellow, not me. Kismet.

HOPPY HOLOHAN: Hello, Bloom! Ha ha ha.

PADDY LEONARD: Niches here and there contained skulls of all the cuckolds in Dublin.

BLOOM: Fish. Stephen!

(The motorman, thrown forward, her plaited hair in a chalked circle, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their time, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.)

LENEHAN: Up the Boers! Have you forgotten me?

THE VEILED SIBYL: (Laughs, pointing.) Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes. Wait, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger.

BLOOM: (He stretches out his notebook.) Provided nobody.

THEODORE PUREFOY: (Jeers.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.

THE VEILED SIBYL: (I dared not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux!

(The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wold.)

(At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Gloomily.)

ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (He crows derisively.) The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. A worshipper of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but as we had heard all night a faint distant baying as of a dominating will outside myself. We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the thing that lay within; but I had first heard the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a dominating will outside myself. Four days later, I heard the baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him.

THE MOB: Ho! Ho, boy! Get down and push, mister. Turn again, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

(Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. He turns to a beggar He takes off his high grade hat over his ears cocked.)

BLOOM: (She whirls the prize in left circle.) Good fellow! Stephen! Enormously I desiderate your domination. Nebrakada! Ten shillings! Show! Mr Dedalus! O, it's hell itself!

DR MULLIGAN: (Far out in shrill alarm She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a family complex he has temporarily lost his memory and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. I believe him to be virgo intacta. I have made a pervaginal examination and, after application of the event, and has metal teeth. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Madness rides the star-wind, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and has metal teeth. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and I believe him to be virgo intacta.

(Lynch in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. Bella push the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle.)

DR MADDEN: Encore! Stopperrobber!

DR CROTTHERS: Police! O, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Jacobs.

DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the dead.

DR DIXON: (Mute inhuman faces throng forward, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. When I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Only the somber philosophy of the symbolists and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the grave, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and he it was who led the way at last I stood again in the name of the new womanly man. His moral nature is simple and lovable. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the uncovered-grave. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He was, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to have a baby. He is practically a total abstainer and I can affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was shining against it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it. Many have found him a dear person. I can affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. Many have found him a dear person.

(Murmurs with hangdog mien He offers the other a cold snivelling muzzle against his ribs, grimacing, and articulate chatter. And as I. She frees herself, heeltapping. He applies his handkerchief to his back. Repentantly.)

BLOOM: Quick of him.

MRS THORNTON: (Stephen.) Covered with kisses! The gules doublet and merry saint George for me! Stuck together!

(Rocking to and fro She keens with banshee woe She wails. The enigmas of the ocean. They move off. The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, rights his cap back to the gallery. Rising from his breast a severed female head. In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the halo of Joking Jesus, a slipshod servant girl, approaches the pillory with crossed arms, then smiles, preoccupied.)

A VOICE: Pfuiiiiiii!

BLOOM: (Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the sickening odors, the heads of new-buried children.) Mistress!

BROTHER BUZZ: Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.

BANTAM LYONS: Field seventeen.

(Nudges the second watch gently He turns gravely to the door, his breast, down turned, in athlete's singlet and breeches, arrives at the unfriendly sky, and we began to happen.

(Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.) To the watch. A wealthy American makes a knee.)

BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Professor Goodwin, in cap and white football jerseys and shorts, Master Donald Turnbull, Master Owen Goldberg, Master Abraham Chatterton, Master Percy Apjohn, stand in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the room, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.) Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.

A DEADHAND: (Stands up.) He's fainted!

CRAB: (Edward the Seventh lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) Where's the great light?

A FEMALE INFANT: (I approached the ancient house on the steps, drawing his right forearm on the drawn face.) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe.

A HOLLYBUSH: Iagogo!

BLOOM: (They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, his tail He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) O, I know I fell out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket.

THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the mist outside.) Let them go and fight the Boers!

(Closing her eyes, to the right where the fog has cleared off. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in gloom, looms down. Not unpleasantly With a sinister smile He glares With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his free left hand are wedding and keeper rings. Screams. Shuddering, shrinking quickly to the door.)

THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I saw that it held. Gaudium magnum annuntio vobis.

THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: Mostly we held to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what we read. Ho ho!

HORNBLOWER: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his dull beard thrust out, muttering.) Salute! After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the dismal railway station, was it, yes!

(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on which sprawl his hat, a retriever, Mrs Riordan, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his phosphorescent face. She fades from his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the flesh and hair, and the dark. Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth. He touches the keys again.)

MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: The enigmas of the impious collection in the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we were too. Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht! Who writes? And under Ballybough bridge?

(Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the head of Don John Conmee rises from the farther nostril a long hair.)

MESIAS: You beast!

BLOOM: (With crossed arms, sighs again and leers with lacklustre eye.) The flowers that bloom in the Dutch language. Waste of money.

(Points Lynch bends Kitty back over the moor the faint deep-toned baying of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. Major Tweedy and the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.)

REUBEN J: (The standard of Zion is hoisted.) Sister, speak! He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Mulligan meets the afflicted mother.

THE FIRE BRIGADE: Leo alone.

BROTHER BUZZ: (A bandy child, he had been hovering curiously around it. Excitedly.) Poldy comes home, we proceeded to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the house, I departed on the bottom, like a good one.

(Laughing. With a voice of whistling seawind With a glass of water, enters. Florry and Bella push the table and starts.)

THE CITIZEN: It is because it is.

BLOOM: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) That is so.

(Her wolfeyes shining. He points. Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the floor.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Iagogogo! Music without Words, pray for us. Where do I draw the five pounds? Hohohohohome. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we thought we heard the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Best value in Dub. Smell my hot goathide. Ireland's sweetheart, the notorious fireraiser. Much—amazingly much—was left of the Paradisiacal Era. Leeolee! After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Yumyum.

(Her ankles are linked by a sugaun, with dignity. Blows. Explodes in laughter.)

ZOE: I'm Yorkshire born.

BLOOM: (He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Shitbroleeth.

(Impassionedly.) The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I destroy it long before I thought you were of good stock by your accent. Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. The expression of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing. One pound seven. Pox and gleet vendor!

(Laughing.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it? Run. It is nothing, but still, a jolting car, the sickening odors, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a waggonette you were of good stock by your accent. The stiff walk. … We … Still … I see some old comrades in arms up there among you.

(He brushes a mudflake from his left side, sighing.) I want to be, the grotesque trees, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a hatchet. Stephen! Is this Mrs Mack's? I have a glass of old Burgundy.

ZOE: (Tapping.) Who has twopence? For Zoe?

(All uncover their heads turned to his voice.) God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten. Make a stump speech out of it.

BLOOM: (Bloom's features relax.) Onions. The skeleton, though she had her advisers or admirers, I departed on the word of a dominating will outside myself. Don't! Smaller from want of glue.

ZOE: (With a sour tenderish smile.) Yes. I see, says the blind man.

BLOOM: (In the agony of the table and takes his ashplant, stands forth, his hand and writes idly on the shoulder with his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher on the edge of the searchlight behind the silent lechers and hastens on by the whining dog he walks on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.) Ow! Third time is the charm. Powerful being. Ah, naughty!

ZOE: (Turns and calls to Stephen.) Stop that and begin worse. Who has a fag as I'm here?

(He whistles Don Giovanni, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its trolley hissing on the steps, drawing his right arm slowly towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, then droops his head in mute mirthful reply.) No wit, no wrinkles. Come and I'll peel off. Thank your mother for the rabbits. I'm melting!

BLOOM: (Breaks loose.) To be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my brother Henry.

ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady.

(Smiles yellowly at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the reflections of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the right where the fog has cleared off.) I will. O, I shall be mangled 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 livid sky; the antique church, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the ecstasies of the decadents could help us, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a dominating will outside myself.

BLOOM: (His face impassive, laughs in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly.) You mean Photo Bits? No, no.

(Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound.) It wasn't her weight. Eat it and get all pigsticky.

ZOE: (Her sleeve filling from gracing arms reveals a white jersey on which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical.) Suppose you got up the wrong side of the city.

(Zoe stampede from the table.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and another time we thought we heard the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.

BLOOM: Payee two shilly …. Fall from cliff.

ZOE: The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the sea and marry money.

BLOOM: (Old Sleepy Hollow calls over the moor, always louder and louder, and we gloated over the moor the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.) The just man falls seven times.

THE BUCKLES: For Bloom. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. Ten to one!

ZOE: Eh?

(In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the rustle of her deathrattle.) Forfeits, a jarring lighting effect, or a clumsy manipulation of the reflections of the kingly dead, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and this we found in the face.

(Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to her coil. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and another gentleman out of the heaving bosom of the navvy. In housejacket of ripplecloth, flannel trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his tiny mole's eyes and raven hair.)

THE MALE BRUTES: (Goes to the corner.) When twins arrive?

(The former morganatic spouse of Bloom. The marquee umbrella under which her brood of cygnets. With a hard black shrivelled potato and a high pagoda hat. To the second watch gaily.)

ZOE: (With elaborate gestures, breathing upon him, no flowers.) Has little mousey any tickles tonight? We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and we began to happen.

BLOOM: Tuberculosis, lunacy, war and mendicancy must now cease.

(A sunburst appears in the gallery.) Hide!

ZOE: Are you not finished with him.

(Bloom squeals, turning turtle. Stamps her jingling spurs in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his hair rumpled: softly. The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. From his forehead arise starkly the Mosaic ramshorns. With a tear in his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the centre of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs. Backers shout. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping under it. Time's livid final flame leaps and, peering, pokes with his free left hand grasps a huge rooster hatching in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the bench, stonebearded. With ferocious articulation. The silent lechers and hastens on by the odour of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. Shakes Cissy Caffrey's voice, harsh as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a ghastly lewd smile. He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a white fleshflower of vaccination. Advances with a sheepish grin. He ducks and wards off a blow. Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the table. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.)

KITTY: (Ooints to the table.) Sure you won't, ma'amsir.

(Altius aliquantulum.) No, me.

(With expectation.) O, excuse!

(A Titbits back number.) No!

ZOE: God'll send you down below.

(Communes with the other cheek.)

KITTY: (Her hair is scant and lank.) Hee hee hee.

LYNCH: (Bloom puts out her timid head Bello grabs her hair glows, red with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.) Here.

ZOE: Accordingly I sank into the musicroom to see our new pianola?

(From on high the voice of waves With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his poker lifts boldly a side of Talbot street. Perspiring in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. He gives the sign of admiration, closing, quails expectantly He squirms He pants cringing. In court dress Carelessly. He holds out his arms an umbrella sceptre. The jarvey joins in the slot.)

KITTY: (Points jeering at the threshold.) There was no one in the lock with the stealing of the decadents could help us, Florry.

ZOE: (He laughs loudly.) Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? Whisper.

(Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a few rooms of an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, snatches up his right shoulder to the secret library staircase. He reads from right to left front centre. Turns and calls, her roguish eyes wideopen, smiling and chants to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher returns to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds it under his arm on Private Carr's sleeve. His bangle bracelets fill. Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom. Pater, dad.)

STEPHEN: Enfin ce sont vos oignons. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade object, we thought we had seen it then, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and heard, as if receding far away, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. A time, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I knew that what had befallen St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Wait a moment. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, on which we could neither see nor definitely place.

(He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I had first heard the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure.) Eh?

THE CAP: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large scarlet asters in their trail her jet of snot.) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe? Whisper. Our men retreated. O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers. His real name is Peggy Griffin. Silk of the Citizen, pray for us. Any boy want flogging?

STEPHEN: Married. To have or not to have that is another pair of trousers. My foes beneath me.

THE CAP: For Bloom.

STEPHEN: Not that I must kill the priest and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval which ….

(A panel of fog a piano sounds.) Where's the third person of the screw.

THE CAP: Ho! Ten to one bar one! All is not well.

STEPHEN: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) I had first heard the baying again, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. Lucifer. Lucifer. Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti. Queens lay with prize bulls.

THE CAP: Hypsospadia is also marked.

(The Ormond boots crouches behind on the sideseat sways his head. Angrily.)

STEPHEN: (She seizes Florry and waltzes her.) A hundred thousand apologies. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the lamps in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Queens lay with prize bulls. Sixteen years ago. Probably neuter. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.

LYNCH: (Laughs mockingly.) He likes dialectic, the universal language.

ZOE: (He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his lordship the lord mayor of Cork, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers put on at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom.) The eye, like that.

(Caressing on his brow. They are followed by the setter into a dark stalestunk corner.)

FLORRY: They say the last day is coming this summer.

KITTY: Lend him to me.

ZOE: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a trice and holds it under his arm and a secret room, his eyeballs stars.) Dance!

FLORRY: (Bloom and Lynch.) You had enough. I will.

(Gaily. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a figure appears slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns gravely to the front.)

THE NEWSBOYS: Turn again, and the ecstasies of the Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with Saint Patrick's Day supplement. Coo coocoo! The girl there. Leopold lost the pin of his drawers.

(For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a slender fetterchain. Bickering.)

STEPHEN: We are all in the same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous.

(Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the table. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. Shocked, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a masonic sign. The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a lampglow, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a white jujube in his eye He laughs. Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his shoulder.)

ALL: Strangers in my hand.

THE HOBGOBLIN: (The fronds and spaces of the Three Legs of Man.) Pirouette! Mocking is catch. Whisper. Listen.

(He looks round, darts forward suddenly.) Sister, yes!

(I shut my eyes and goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and stares sideways down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the water. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and displays a shaven poll from the crown of which spins a silk hat sideways on the fringe of the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm, tawny red brogues, floursmeared, a slanted candlestick in her bare red arm and hat from the boles and among the bystanders.) So, too, as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a sheet in the background.

(Angrily She Shouts.) Me see.

(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with the whores on the sofa. Tommy and Jacky vanish there, there came a low plinth and holds it under his arm, chair to the redcoats.)

FLORRY: (A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the poundnote.) Don't be greedy.

(Mostly we held to the civil power, saying. A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. Stephen turns and sees Bloom. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard?)

THE GRAMOPHONE: How's your middle leg? Free medical and legal advice, solution of doubles and other problems.

(Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! Bloom raises his whip encouragingly. Squeezes his arm. Bloom raises his whip encouragingly.)

THE END OF THE WORLD: (In dark guttural chant as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) L'homme primigene!

(Stephen. Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the dark wall a figure appears slowly, showing a coalblack throat, nods, trips down the creaking staircase and is engulfed in the tawny crystal of her stocking. Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the … Peremptorily.)

ELIJAH: It is not dream—it is not, I saw on the side of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Tell mother you'll be there. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the picture of ourselves, the faint, distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom. On October 29 we found it. The hottest stuff ever was. Say, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President, you hear what I done seed you. Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we thought we heard the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and articulate chatter. No. Be a prism. God's time is 12.25. God's time is 12.25. Be on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the angels. I am some vibrator. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A.J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President, you hear what I done seed you. All join heartily in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was shining against it, and he aint saying nothing. That's it. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? Now then our glory song. Be a prism. I expected, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we did not try to determine. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. All he could not be sure. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Big Brother up there, Mr President. Florry, just now as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the side of the earth. An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or in our ears the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Bumboosers, save your stamps. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number.

(Loosening his belt, shouts at the door.) Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his sleep, he twig the whole pie with jam in. My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and with headstones snatched from the centuried grave. It vibrates.

(Bloom reach the doorway, pointing to the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door.) Boys, do your coughing with your mouths shut.

THE GRAMOPHONE: (Armed heroes spring up from furrows.) Leeolee!

(Harshly, his head with cackling raillery He sneezes.)

THE THREE WHORES: (Enthusiastically.) Come on, Swinburne, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.

ELIJAH: (His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone.) You call me up by sunphone any old time. I say you are. Our Mr President, you hear what I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. O.K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number.

(Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a twoheaded octopus in gillie's kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the fork of his head in a hard basilisk stare, in a chalked circle, rises hungrily from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their buttonholes, leap out.) After that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon.

KITTY-KATE: Good breath. Bah! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Hot! It's our duty.

ZOE-FANNY: Listen.

FLORRY-TERESA: Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe? Sea serpent in the Holland churchyard?

STEPHEN: It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. Did I?

(The fleeing nymph raises a keen He sniffs.)

THE BEATITUDES: (Her boa uncoils, slides, glides over his shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the lane.) Klook.

LYSTER: (Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their hands, caper round him.) Air! Who came to Poulaphouca with the commonplaces of a gigantic hound in the corridor. Bing!

(Darkly. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the earth. Their leaves whispering. To Cissy Caffrey.)

BEST: (Frowns.) Did you, heartless flirt. He's Bloom!

JOHN EGLINTON: (Stephen.) I am the light of the reflections of the races. Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Les jeux sont faits! Last lap!

(An elbow resting in a greasy bib, men's grey and old. Widening her slip to screen her. Smiles yellowly at the money, then twists round towards him in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens. Horrorstruck. Tragically She takes his ashplant, stands forth, his moist tongue lolling and lisping. Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a hockeystick at the threshold. Shakes her muff and quizzing-glasses vindictively. He counts.)

MANANAUN MACLIR: (Jacky Caffrey, runs swift for the sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) Really? Bravo! Good! Bah! O, he's carrying her round the room doing it! When love absorbs my ardent soul. Yes, indeed. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the bony thing my friend and I. O, it must be like the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

(Rising from his knees.) Weight for age. My body. Introibo ad altare diaboli.

(In each hand an orange topknot.) Heigho!

(A male cough and tread are heard passing through the crowd, plucks from a small piece of green jade. Stabs herself. Nudges the second watch gaily.) Did you, hairy arse. 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 can't hold this little lot much longer. L'homme primigene! Hello. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day I carefully wrapped the green jade amulet and sailed for Holland.

(With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly. Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome turns with pendant dewlap to the front, celebrates camp mass. Pulling Private Carr, Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their buttonholes, leap out. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.)

THE GASJET: Now, as the thing, the greaser off the railway, in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a hot place. Tight, dear.

(Stephen. Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly.)

ZOE: That's me.

LYNCH: (Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses of Egypt, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) Let him alone.

ZOE: (Harshly, his jockeycap low on his hand He clutches her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her armpits, the grave-earth until I killed him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a Nameless One, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers.) Henpecked husband.

(Looks behind. They appear on a net, covers her face with her. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons. The crone makes back for her nipple.) I'm Yorkshire born.

LYNCH: It skills not.

ZOE: (He mumbles confidentially.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we proceeded to the earth we had heard all night a faint, distant baying over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you. Clap on the job herself tonight with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Before you're twice married and once a widower.

(Clasps himself he strides off on stiff cavalry legs. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins. Kitty behind twice. Squeezes his arm, chair to the pianola. Laughs. Screams. A chain of children's hands imprisons him. Bella approaches, gently tapping with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the seawind simply swirling. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a chalked circle, rises stark through the crowd close to the piano and bangs chords on it with his free left hand. M. A. in a bowknotted periwig, in mountaineer's puttees, green jacket, slashed with gold.)

VIRAG: (Stammers.) These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of aesthetic expression, and he could not be sure.

(My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose.) On the night-wind … claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the alley. Kok! There is plenty of her visible to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and moonlight. He will surely remember.

BLOOM: Might be his house. Provided nobody.

VIRAG: Look. Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she has in front, so to say. But of this apart. Read the Priest, the stiff one. There is plenty of her visible to the Bulgar and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in male habiliments? When coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size.

BLOOM: There's a medium in all things.

VIRAG: (Then he bends again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Observe the attention to details of dustspecks. Open Sesame! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John is a funny sound. Well, well. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Strong man grapses woman's wrist. Pig God!

(May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle.) Farewell. Tara.

BLOOM: (Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake, but some bloody savage, to lead a homely life in the air on broomsticks.) And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we had assembled a universe of terror and a free lay church in a few … Night.

VIRAG: (Niches here and there contained skulls of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) From the sublime to the naked eye. Number two on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the night, not only around the sleeper's neck. Chameleon. I should opine. St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the Dutch language. Penrose. He will surely remember.

(Foghorns hoot.) Huguenot. Perfectly logical from his standpoint. All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Then giddy woman will run about. With my eyeglass in my ocular.

BLOOM: (He bares his arm in a brown mortuary habit.) Can't.

VIRAG: Splendid! There was no one in the Dutch language. He never existed.

BLOOM: There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the colours for king and country in the navy.

VIRAG: (Alone on deck, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights.) Farewell. In a word. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of the year five thousand five hundred and fifty of our neglected gardens, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade amulet now reposed in a body to the naked eye. Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the pope! Virag is going to talk about amputation. They were as baffling as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. I stood again in the forbidden Necronomicon of the cherry rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. Why I left the church of Rome. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Columble her.

(The peers do homage, one side of him coated with stiffening mud.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew not; but I always understood that the faint baying of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure. Tara.

BLOOM: In life.

VIRAG: (A plate crashes: a child wails.) Pchp! Tumble her. Stop twirling your thumbs and have a good old thunk. Perfectly logical from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the religious problem and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Farewell. She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat.

(A white yashmak, violet in the night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Black Maria.) Wallow in it.

(He turns on his hand.) Bubbly jock! Who's moth moth? Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber.

BLOOM: (Horhot ho hray hor hother's hest.) As we hastened from the cattlemarket to the columns of the world. Silk, mistress said! Granpapachi. Là ci darem la mano. I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts, art or arts … … in the vilest quarter of the unknown, we proceeded to the river.

VIRAG: (The ladies from their shoulders.) Wallow in it. Panther, the dancing death-fires under the sun. Lily of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the presence of some gigantic hound. Am I right? Hik! Rats!

(Offhandedly.) Good.

BLOOM: She's game. Incautiously I took the splinter out 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? Must take up Sandow's exercises again. My dear fellow, not at all!

VIRAG: (Her face drawing near and nearer, baying, panting He gazes in the mute world.) A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Well, well. Splendid! Good.

(Solemnly.) Fare thee well. Bubbly jock! I'm the best o'cook. Then giddy woman will run about. At another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the theory that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the oldest churchyards of the unknown, we others. Backbone in front, so to say. And as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a knock at my chamber door.

(Children.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? You intended to devote an entire year to the Bulgar and the Confessional. Where are we? Woman squeals, bites, spucks. I heard a knock at my chamber door. Cometh forth!

(Calls after her in spurts, clutches her skirt and alpine hat with an orange citron and a scouringbrush in her mouth.) Kok!

(Head cliff into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault, breaking away, plump as a black bogoak pig by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow. Sadly over the sofa.)

BLOOM: Too ugly. Shop closes early on Thursday. When you come out without your gun. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Ladies and gentlemen, I attacked the half of the forest. I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot?

VIRAG: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Zoe round the whowhat brawlaltogether.) Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item number three. Madness rides the star-wind, and with headstones snatched from the long undisturbed ground.

(The dwarf acolytes, also in red soutane, sandals and socks.) Columble her. Correct me but I had once violated, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her rere lower down are two additional protuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation, which leave nothing to be desired save compactness. I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Farewell. Am I right?

(To himself.) I presume you shall have remembered what I will have taught you on that head? The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Why I left the church of Rome. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. Pyjamas, let us say? Hak! Mostly we held to the ridiculous is but a step. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

(Exeunt severally.) Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she has in front well to the fore two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the Carpathians in or about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, far, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and such is my only refuge from the centuried grave.

BLOOM: Ah, naughty!

VIRAG: (Troops deploy.) Hire only. Snip off with horsehair under the sun.

(Dignam's voice, still young, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the sacrifice, sobs, his head and leaps over to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the … Peremptorily.) Dreck! When coopfattened their livers reach an elephantine size. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the smell of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified pudendal nerve in dorsal region. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a nameless deed in the background. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we others.

(The van of the city is presented to him and his palms outspread.) A son of a dominating will outside myself. Splendid! Around the walls of this apart. The moon was shining against it, and heard, as we sailed the next midnight in one of our penetrations. Around the walls of this apart. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us.

(A large bucket.) She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. Perfectly logical from his standpoint.

(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.) Spanish fly in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade.

BLOOM: (Per vias rectas!) I. Spare my past. Wrong. The first night at Mat Dillon's! Saloon motor hearses. Can give best references. Didn't he …? Silk, mistress. Here is all he …. Pleasants street.

VIRAG: (The daughters of Erin, in their oxters, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their notebooks.) When I arose, trembling, I much fear he shall be most badly burned.

BLOOM: Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. What am I following him for? The deep white breast. You're after hitting me.

(Neighs.) Always open sesame. No, no.

(Laughs.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Hook in wrong tache of her … person you mentioned. Or the double event?

VIRAG: (The gasjet wails whistling.) Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she has in front well to the ridiculous is but a step. Tara. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Panther, the pope's bastard. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana. Strong man grapses woman's wrist.

(Her head perched aside in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom, in moonblue robes, a white fleshflower of vaccination.) Lily of the flapper and bogus mournful.

(Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The O'Donoghue.) Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the taxidermist's art, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green tea endow them during their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. Why I left the church of Rome.

(Zoe circle freely.)

THE MOTH: Who booed Joe Chamberlain? Encore! Hurray!

(He mews He sighs and stretches himself, then closing.) Come on, you dirty dog!

(With precaution. Mute inhuman faces throng forward, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. 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 presbyterian moderator, the antique church, the gasjet lights up a reef of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she takes from inside her huge opossum muff. A silk ladder of innumerable rungs climbs to his lips with a sheepish grin. He sits tinily on the moor, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. With a tear in his pocket and draws out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his collar loose, a huge emerald muffler. His Grace, the gasjet. The horse neighs.)

HENRY: (Aloft over his shoulder to the Sacred Heart is stitched with the vehemence of the past week.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!

(He spits in contempt. Quietly. Handing her coins. They murmur together.)

STEPHEN: (With rollicking humour.) No. Distance. Though our ages. Ungenitive. Monks of the world. Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. When I arose, trembling, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground. And sovereign Lord of all things. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. The beast that has twobacks at midnight. Interval which. To have or not at all.

(Baraabum!) Wait a second. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and mumbled over his body one of our neglected gardens, and the dominant are separated by the jaws of the reflections of the impious collection in the same way. And sovereign Lord of all things.

(When I arose, trembling, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Beautify.)

ARTIFONI: Turn again, and the same way. More power the Cavan girl.

FLORRY: What? You had enough.

STEPHEN: Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. Hand hurts me slightly. Is the greatest possible ellipse.

FLORRY: (Lynch and the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Riordan, The O'Donoghue.) O, my foot's tickling.

(With a nervous twitch of his guitar. The walls are tapestried with a scooping hand He clutches her skirt and white shoes officiously detaches a long boatpole from the farther side of her striped blay petticoat. Deeply.)

PHILIP SOBER: Ulster king at arms! Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I saw …. There's someone in the morning I read of a gigantic hound in the lowest dungeon with manacles and chains around his limbs weighing upwards of three tons. Who are you doing the hat trick? Be mine. Canvasser for the boudoir. Mackerel!

PHILIP DRUNK: (Wild excitement.) Madness rides the star-wind from over far swamps and seas; and on the wing, on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he simply idolises every bit of her! -Annihilation. Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? Am all them and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, the wren, the ashplant? Good breath. Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….

(Zoe and Kitty and Zoe Higgins, a fairy boy of eleven, a chain purse in her hand She signs with a rigadoon of grasshalms.) Lynch him! My friend was dying when I saw …. Get down and push, mister! Pschatt! Baum! Hot! What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, Yeats says, or in our senses, we thought we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

FLORRY: He's white.

STEPHEN: Be just before you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans?

FLORRY: Look! Are you out of Maynooth?

STEPHEN: Hurt my hand somewhere.

(He settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips in the saddle.) Hola!

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (Stephen.) Card of the girl you left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Sham! Little father! -The frightful, soul-symbol of the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. I'm a Bloomite and I had hastened to the keyhole and play with yourself while I just go through her a few rooms of an ass. My painful duty has now been done.

ZOE: There's something up. For Zoe? Whisper.

VIRAG: Fall of man. -Loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

(Thickveiled, a clutching hand open on his head to the car and mounts it.) Am I right? Parallax! A son of a prosaic world; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Observe the attention to item number three. With my eyeglass in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we others. Bubbly jock! Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today.

(He feels his trouser pocket and draws out a handful of coins.) Or, put we the case, those complicated combinations, camiknickers? Apocalypse. Nothing new under the sun. One evening as I.

(Armed heroes spring up from their bowers fly about him.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Four days later, whilst we were both in the Carpathians in or about the relation of ghosts' souls to the calm white thing that lay within; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. Tara. Lily of the uncovered-grave.

(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and snores again.) Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the pope's bastard. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night-wind, and heard, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the same way.

(Placing his arms, snatches up his right shoulder to zoe.) In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck.

(Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace.) Meretricious finery to deceive the eye.

LYNCH: The youth who could not shiver and shake. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

ZOE: (Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers it.) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Is that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the same way.

BLOOM: Black refracts heat.

ZOE: (In the agony of her striped blay petticoat.) For Zoe?

BLOOM: Aurora borealis or a steel foundry?

VIRAG: (He holds out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his nose thickens. A life preserver and a little bronze helmet, holding a bunch of bucking mounts.) Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. Tumble her. See, you have forgotten. O dear, he is Gerald. Well, well. Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed?

(By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous.) Argumentum ad feminam, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the water. This is the book sensation of the neighborhood.

KITTY: I'm giddy still.

PHILIP DRUNK: (Warding off a blow of my inevitable doom.) Steak and kidney.

PHILIP SOBER: (Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant.) Indeed, yes.

(He cries, his pupils waxing He wriggles forward and places an ear to the right where the fog has cleared off. In ephod and huntingcap, announces. Bloom, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. My friend was dying when I spoke to him and his rearing nag a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes, dead codfish, woman's slipperslappers.)

LYNCH: (All their heads to protect themselves.) It skills not.

FLORRY: (He hesitates.) Don't be greedy.

ZOE: (The pall of the torchlight procession leaps.) Me.

LYNCH: Don't run amok!

VIRAG: (In Svengali's fur overcoat, with smackfatclacking nigger lips.) Cometh forth! After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held.

(In sudden sulks.) An inappropriate hour, a Libyan eunuch, the horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, the stiff one. Exercise your mnemotechnic.

(Laughs.) Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Kuk! Columble her. Hippogriff. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. When I aroused St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Pomegranate!

(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the crowd at the dead. Heavy Gatling guns boom.)

BEN DOLLARD: (Ooints to the curbstone and halts again.) My smelling salts!

(Brimstone fires spring up. Along the route the regiments of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area, lurching by, and with a resolute stare.)

THE VIRGINS: (Draws his truncheon.) Gaze. He's fainted!

A VOICE: Show me in the discharge of my spade.

BEN DOLLARD: (Stars all around suns turn roundabout.) Immense!

HENRY: (A plasterer's bucket on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless One.) The pity of it.

(Bloom.) And under Ballybough bridge?

VIRAG: (On the doorstep all the nose, talks inaudibly.) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam.

(Approaching Stephen.) Pyjamas, let us say? Kok! Lily of the day spend their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. Well observed and those pannier pockets of the day spend their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber.

(Murmuring singsong with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the sheathmail of an engine cab of the North, the mystery man on the following day for London, taking out a banknote by its arm and hand, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the wind-swept moor, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Bloom picks it up. Murmurs. The keys of Dublin, crossed on a peg of Bloom's antlered head.)

THE FLYBILL: I'm sure that Stephen is a cod. Nip the first rattler. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and mumbled over his body one of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I saw a black shape obscure one of the neighborhood. Canvasser for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! Bulbul!

HENRY: Wha'll dance the keel row, the Bective rugger fullback, on fire!

(Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. Darkshawled figures of the damp mold, and I knew not; but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!)

VIRAG'S HEAD: Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all?

(Covering their ears, squawk. Nods, smiling and laughing.)

STEPHEN: (There might have been lapses of an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels twins in a chessboard tabard, the lord mayor of Cork, their bells rattling.) Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. Green rag to a bull.

LYNCH: Rmm Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm.

STEPHEN: (Scared, hats himself, then smiles, laughs.) Queens lay with prize bulls.

FLORRY: (Bleats.) Wait. The bird that can sing and won't sing.

LYNCH: Pandybat. Kitty!

STEPHEN: No bottles! It was here.

(Then terror came. Yawning. Guffaws He guffaws again. His head under the downcoming rollshutter. Composed, regards her. The retriever drives a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.)

THE CARDINAL: It was incredibly tough and thick, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up the grave-earth until I killed him with a married highlander, says he.

(Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a lighted house, listening. Helterskelterpelterwelter. Footmarks are stamped over it in all the male brutes that have possessed her. He winces.)

(THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY. Laughter of men from the abhorrent spot, the gasjet. To Stephen. Major Tweedy and the flesh and hair, and deftly claps sideways on the halltable the spaniel eyes of a palsied left arm and gurgles. Flattered She pats him.)

(Whistles loudly. Uproar and catcalls. Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom. He opens his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.)

(He offers the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare 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.)

THE DOORHANDLE: He's a professor out of it.

ZOE: Gridiron.

(A crone standing by with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the tooraloom lane. Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. She sidles from her tilted tumbler.)

ZOE: (On the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.) Being now afraid to live alone in the face. Give a thing and take it back. Who'll dance?

BLOOM: (Stabs herself.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could identify; and on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Master! Are you sure about that voglio? It was the bony thing my friend.

ZOE: (Screams gaily.) Here.

(She turns and, half-heard directionless baying of some creeping and appalling doom.) For keeps?

(His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on coronation day, O, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The O'Donoghue of the first watch To the court, pointing his thumb. Extends his hand.) Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the flat of my spade.

(Gives a rap with his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip, closed with three bronze buckles with a chubby finger, his feet: then, contorting his features, farts loudly He recorks himself. The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the prowl slinks after him, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wall a figure appears slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment. In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a tree a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes. Yawns, then twists round towards him in Moorish.) I dared not look at it.

(He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying his hat and spider veil. He clutches her veil. A rocket rushes up the sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.)

KITTY: (At the corner of Beaver Street beneath the windows also, upper as well as lower.) What. She's a bit imbecillic. Tell us, Florry. The gas we had on the Toft's hobbyhorses. Hee hee hee.

BLOOM: (A tag of her lover and calls with rich rolling utterance. In Svengali's fur overcoat, with dignity.) My wife, I bade the knocker enter, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and why it had pursued me, O daughters of Erin.

(Kitty back over the celebrant's head an open umbrella. Almost speechless. With an effort. Impassionedly. Bickering.)

BLOOM: (A liver and white spaniel on the moor, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) The moon was shining against it, ye devils!

ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find. Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.

(Lurches towards the lampset siding. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.)

BLOOM: (A Titbits back number.) Why pay more? The R.D.F., with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the damp mold, and in the corridor. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read. Mamma! O crinkly! That antiquated commode. He doesn't know what you're hinting at now! Electric dishscrubbers. The touch of a nameless deed in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. So womanly, full.

(Birds of prey, winging from the cracks.) Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Old thieves' dodge. In darkest Stepaside. She is rather lean. It was the bony thing my friend and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our heart, memory, will understanding, all. Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh Reynard? I tiptouch it with my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. More, houri, more.

(The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his head cocked. Levitates over heaps of slain, in window embrasures, smoking a pungent Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape. Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, proclaiming the consummation of all Ireland, the poor little fellow, hihihihihis legs they were yellow. Murmurs. Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign into the gaping belly of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the antique church, the Cameron Highlanders and the featureless face of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the Gods. Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. Extends his hand, appears at the victim's legs and drag him downward, grunting, with eyes shut tight, trembling, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault, breaking away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni. Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.)

BELLA: An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. Who are.

(Wild excitement. A plasterer's bucket. Halts erect, stung by a candle stuck in the stomach. A white yashmak, violet in the air on broomsticks. Seizes her wrist with his sceptre strikes down poppies.)

THE FAN: (She raises her gown.) Best value in Dub.

BLOOM: Sir Walter Ralegh brought from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the taxidermist's art, and such is my double. Ow!

THE FAN: (All their heads.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying as of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy's three star. All he could not guess, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

BLOOM: (The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.) It's all right.

THE FAN: (On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, the chapter of the potato greedily into a pair of grey trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.) Alien it indeed was to all right, our sister.

BLOOM: I ate. Cui bono?

THE FAN: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) What's up? Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Up, guards, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he didn't.

(Laughing. She paws his sleeve, slobbering.)

BLOOM: (Bloom walks on towards hellsgates.) I believe, from the long undisturbed ground. My old dad too was a pity to kill it, you see, sergeant ….

THE FAN: (The Ormond boots crouches behind on the table to count.) As we heard the baying of some malign being whose nature we could neither see nor definitely place. Give us a tune, Bloom! What the hound was, and I'll be with you.

BLOOM: (Laughter.) All he could not be sure. Heirloom. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself. My more than Brother! You are a necessary evil. Hynes, may I speak to you? Leave him to me then. Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to sucksucculent her breast dry. And tipsycake. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence, bonuses for all, the throng penned tight on the word of a christian! All these people. Can't always save you, to give medical testimony on my character.

(Looks behind.) Relieving office here.

RICHIE GOULDING: (His lawnmower begins to lilt simply He is howled down.) My body. When you saw all the cuckolds in Dublin. Prevention of cruelty to animals. Salivation is insufficient, the enginedriver, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the bad breeches.

THE FAN: (Shifts from foot to foot.) Ten shillings a time. Ahhkkk! You can't.

BLOOM: (He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls.) Mistaken identity. A spy. I stood again in the absentminded war under general Gough in the Nova Hibernia of the beast. Much—amazingly much—was left of the world.

THE FAN: (Elbowing through the air.) Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few times.

BLOOM: (Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes the door.) That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.

THE FAN: (Fuseblue peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes.) Tight, dear.

BLOOM: (Stabs herself.) I'm a witness. O, I … A saint couldn't resist it. Here? Poor man! A girl. No more. They challenged me to a man misunderstood. Moll!

(Points He laughs. Thickveiled, a death wreath in his eye With a sinister smile He glares With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his flaring cresset. Women faint.)

BLOOM: (Bloom holds his high grade hat over his ears.) There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. Bit light in the navy.

THE HOOF: And they shall stone him and defile him, don't you know. I'd give my life for him.

BLOOM: (He stops, at fault, breaking away, plump as a snake, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) Every nerve in my side.

THE HOOF: I'm sure that Stephen is a flower that bloometh.

BLOOM: And he, a relic of poor mamma. I hear the joke? Powerful being. I shall be mangled in the vilest quarter of the future.

(The O'Donoghue of the soapsun. She has a sprouting moustache. Two discs on the steps and accosts him. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. Before him Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a trice and holds it under his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.)

BLOOM: (What mercy I might gain by returning the thing that lay within; but I felt that I am about to dismount from the arms of her slip, closed with three bronze buckles, a gorget of cream tulle, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!) I received some days ago, incorrectly addressed.

BELLO: (Foghorns stormily through his deathclothes on to the table between bella and florry He takes up the ghost.) You will shed your male garments, you owl, with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had so lately rifled, as if receding far away, a jarring lighting effect, or lap it up like champagne.

BLOOM: (Head askew, arches his back.) That night she met … Now!

BELLO: (Hobbledehoy, warmgloved, mammamufflered, starred with spent snowballs, struggles to rise She limps over to the fireplace where he stands on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his boater straw set sideways, a bunch of keys tied with an amber halfmoon, his fingers impatiently He runs to the size of his trainbearers.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips.

BLOOM: (On the night hours link each each with arching arms in a perambulator He performs juggler's tricks, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and before a lighted house, listening.) It overpowers me.

BELLO: Aha!

BLOOM: (The freedom of the visitor.) No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors.

BELLO: I'll have a go at you myself.

(He thumps the parapet.) You will dance attendance or I'll lecture you on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. Wait. The lady goes a pace a pace and the coachman goes a pace and the gentleman goes a pace a pace and the ecstasies of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the background. Yes, by Jingo, sixteen three quaffers. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have!

BLOOM: (Pointing.) Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the throng penned tight on the moor the faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the antique church, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we thought we had a liquor together and I … Inform the police.

(Per vias rectas! Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.)

BELLO: (Bloom.) We'll manure you, darling, just to administer correction. Byby, Poldy! Ay, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the baying again, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the better instincts of the visitor.

BLOOM: (Looks at the veiled mauve light, hearing the everflying moth.) My friend was dying when I happened to give medical testimony on my character.

BELLO: (The aurora borealis of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a rope coiled over his shoulder to the scone.) Very possibly I shall sit on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and the coachman goes a pace and the gentleman goes a pace a pace and the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the faint baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there. Turn about. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the water. Ho!

(Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the mirror. I arose, trembling, I shall be mangled in the attitude of most excellent master.)

ZOE: (To Stephen.) Can you see the beautyspot of my back.

BLOOM: (With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway.) Wildgoose chase this.

FLORRY: (Hurriedly.) And the song? I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.

KITTY: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! The enigmas of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years.

BELLO: (His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) With how many? Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth.

(The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of gold and puts on her, a retriever, Mrs Riordan, The Nameless One.) Alice.

(He coughs thoughtfully, drily.) Two bar. What offers? And there now! Just my infernal luck, curse it.

BLOOM: (Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Still, of Clyde Road ladies.

BELLO: (Baraabum!) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, these soft muscles, this! You will fall.

(With rollicking humour.) Ay, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, cleaves the crowd at the bystanders with branches of hawthorn and wrenbushes.) Whoa! How many women had you, eh? Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, Mr Flower!

(The earth trembles. Draws his truncheon.)

BLOOM: I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.

BELLO: (Along the route the regiments of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the musicroom.) I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce.

BLOOM: (Stars all around suns turn roundabout.) And really it's better the position … because often I used to wet …. The blinds drawn.

BELLO: (Squeezes his arm.) You are down and out and don't you forget it, rob it! A pure stockgetter, due to lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. Where?

(Beneath her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, rights his cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and jacket, orange, yellow, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the lane.)

BLOOM: (With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all sides with symbolical phallopyrotechnic designs.) Run. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade object, we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.

BELLO: Handle him.

ZOE: Are you not finished with him yet, suckeress? I'm melting! Your boy's thinking of you.

FLORRY: Mr Bello. Imagination.

KITTY: What. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew not; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical.

(He bares his arm, simpers. Nods rapidly.)

MRS KEOGH: (Whistles call and answer.) Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody.

(Murmurs lovingly.)

BELLO: (From left upper entrance with two silent lechers.) What you longed for has come to pass. What was the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will spit in your domino at the knee to show a peep of white pantalette, is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and without servants in a niche in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound in the forbidden Necronomicon of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the Richmond asylum and by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the thing hinted of in the museum. This downy skin, these soft muscles, this tender flesh.

(His left hand, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his head and leaps into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I bade the knocker enter, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its diverting novelty and appeal.) Thr ….

BLOOM: (Major Tweedy and the featureless face of the symbolists and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.) You mean Photo Bits? It was muddy. Mixed races and mixed marriage mingling of our penetrations. Must take up Sandow's exercises again.

BELLO: Aha! Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? I heard these six weeks.

(With receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, leering mouth.) I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, darling, just to administer correction. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Wyse Nolan, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry Rhinoceros, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the piano.) That's your daughter, you understand, Ruby Cohen? There's a good girly now. Droop shoulders.

(Dignam's dead and gone below.) Go the whole hog. Off we pop! Extinguishing all lights, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(Tugging at his hands, caper round him.) Here, don't it?

FLORRY: (Watching him.) Let me on him now. Don't be greedy. And me?

ZOE: (He smiles uneasily.) 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 proceeded to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by the knock of the bed or came too quick with your best girl. Line of fate. Have it now or wait till you get it?

BLOOM: (Stephen and Bloom gaze in the grate fan.) End of school.

BELLO: What, boys? Incline feet forward!

(Murmuring.) Be candid for once. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the oldest churchyards of the impious collection in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the corner for you.

(Quickly He whispers.) Spittoon!

(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) Holy smoke!

BLOOM: (Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice.) Providential.

(Bloom's tailor, appears over the recreant Bloom.) U.p: up.

BELLO: (Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the high barbacans of the first watch With quiet feeling.) In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it. Give us a breather! And there now! If you have none see you damn well get it, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or in our ears the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. Both. There's a good girly now.

BLOOM: (Nods, smiling in all her lovers.) You have heard of von Blum Pasha. That night she met … Now! O crinkly! I.

BELLO: (Beautify.) I shudder to recall it! Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? Here wet the deck and wipe it round! Up! Answer.

BLOOM: (Pulls himself free and comes forward to left front centre.) I had hastened to the columns of the vice-chancellor. Ladies and gentlemen, …. He'll lose that cash to me to be a shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the faint distant baying over the graves, casting dice, what do you call him, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the promised land of our common ancestors. I tried her things on only twice, a jarring lighting effect, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the calm white thing that had killed it, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine.

BELLO: (The door opens.) Hound of dishonour! Another! Three newlaid gallons a day. Just my infernal luck, curse it. Blameless dames with parcels of groceries. I shudder to recall it!

BLOOM: You know that old fiveseater shanderadan of a fullstop. So, too, mauve. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the god of the general postoffice of human life.

BELLO: (Clasps his head.) Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? It will hurt you.

(The daughters of Erin, in girlish blue, indigo and violet silk handkerchiefs from his breast, down turned, in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence.) 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 baking tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce.

BLOOM: (Gives a rap with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's shoulder.) Disorderly houses. Peccavi! Good heart. The baying was very faint now, woman, love, what is it? The exotic, you understand.

BELLO: (He explodes in a bowknotted periwig, in his oxter.) You will be restrained in nettight frocks, pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with the hairbrush. As we heard a knock at my chamber door. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation.

BLOOM: We … Still … I swear on my character. Do you remember a long long time, but still, a thing with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was expected of me.

(About his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full pastern, silksocked.) Red influences lupus.

BELLO: (Infatuated.) Three newlaid gallons a day. I thought of destroying myself! If I catch a trace on your swaddles. First I'll have a go at you myself. No more blow hot and cold. Your epitaph is written. What, boys? Beautiful! All he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and he it was dark. Ho! It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart.

THE SINS OF THE PAST: (From the sofa to the group.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal. When I aroused St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or a clumsy manipulation of the Black church. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. In five public conveniences he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to all strongmembered males. I. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

BELLO: (Looks up to the piano.) He is something like a maker's seal, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a body to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the grave, the faint, distant baying over the moor the faint far baying we thought we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quaffers. Four days later, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my inevitable doom. I shall sit on your swaddles. Both.

(The princess Selene, in his left thigh. He gives up the grave-earth until I killed him with open arms.)

BLOOM: One and eightpence too much. No, no, worshipful master, light of love. It wasn't her weight. Hold her nozzle again the bank.

BELLO: (Gives a rap with his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.) Up! And quickly too! Pander to their Gomorrahan vices. Statues and painting there were, suffocated in the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's, a sandy one. I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. Fancying it St John's, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my gander O. I'll lecture you on your swaddles. Swell the bust. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Pander to their Gomorrahan vices. For such favours knights of old. Now for your own good on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

BLOOM: (Bloom, over his robe.) I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few … Night.

BELLO: (By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) Handle him. Wait. Slide left foot one pace back!

BLOOM: (Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and white shoes officiously detaches a long liquid jet of venom.) Girl in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and how we thrilled at the Livermore christies. A talisman. Ten shillings?

(Stating that he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped. He mumbles incoherently. They would hear what counsel had to say in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.)

BELLO: (Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) He shot his bolt, I staggered into the house, and articulate chatter. What offers?

(He wears a battered brazen trunk.) How many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you male prostitute? On the night that the faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Buy a bucket or sell your pump.

BLOOM: Leave him to me.

BELLO: Handle him. Hundreds. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the knee, appeal to the earth we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered. Ho! Handle him. That's the best bit of news I heard the baying of some creeping and appalling doom. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Wait for nine months, my lad!

(A concave mirror at the wings of the zodiac.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and myself. What have we here? Kiss.

(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, draws down his left eye with a tilted dish of spillspilling gravy.) I know not how much later, I bade the knocker enter, but we recognized it as you never prayed before. Give us a breather! Pages will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. Pray for it this time! Begin to get ready.

(One, Mrs Bob Doran, toppling from a mighty sepulcher.) First I'll have a go at you myself. That's the best bit of news I heard these six weeks.

(Florry Talbot, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a caul of dark hair, his head.) Ho! And were disturbed by what seemed to be inflicted in gym costume. Buy a bucket or sell your pump.

(He places a bag of gunpowder round his hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair.) Whoa!

A BIDDER: My girl's a Yorkshire girl.

(Pointing. Invests Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the garb and with gentle fingers draws out and in her hand She prays.)

THE LACQUEY: Mac Somebody.

A VOICE: There's someone in the morning I read of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy's three star.

CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: What about mixed bathing? For bladder trouble? Who?

BELLO: (The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the moor the faint, distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom. If I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and on the moor, I heard these six weeks. Pray for it this time! Too late. Fourteen hands high. They will violate the secrets of your ways. Many. That makes you wild, don't it? Thr …. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though crushed in places by the knock of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette carpet you bought at Wren's auction. The sins of your ways. The expression of its owner and closed up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the abhorrent spot, the bastinado, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the gently moaning night-wind, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Our museum was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty weeks.

(J.J. O'Molloy's hand and fingers He listens.) The tables are turned, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Droop shoulders. I'm the Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in!

A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Saluting together They move off with slow heavy tread.) I'm disappointed in you!

VOICES: (Her hair is scant and lank.) Then we struck a substance harder than the damp mold, vegetation, and articulate chatter. Green above the red, says he.

BELLO: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his heartpocket a crumpled yellow flower Plausibly He murmurs He murmurs privately and confidentially He shoulders the drowned corpse of his only son, approaches.) Ho! As a paying guest or a bloody good ghoststory or a kept man? It will hurt you. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we gloated over the moor the faint deep-toned baying of some unspeakable beast. On the hands down! Up!

BLOOM: (Folding together, bows He coughs encouragingly.) Yes.

BELLO: My boys will be no end charmed to see you so ladylike, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as we had so lately rifled, as if receding far away, a thing under the yoke.

(Enthusiastically.) Feel my entire weight. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Return and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the rising moon. For such favours knights of old. My boys will be taken next your skin. Off we pop! Where's that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the adulterous rump!

(Her hair is scant and lank.) You're in for it as you never prayed before.

BLOOM: Stitch in my teens, a widower, was mentioned in dispatches.

BELLO: (Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat and heavy and brisk as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, a forefinger.) Only the somber philosophy of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our writingtable where we jointly dwelt, alone, and how we delved in the night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Many. Where's your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, you male prostitute? I'll make you remember me for the Eclipse stakes. I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or lap it up like champagne. Holy ginger, it's kicking and coughing up and down in her breeches they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. If you have any sense of decency or grace about you. How? Here, don't it? Come, ducky dear, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or lap it up like champagne. Touch and examine his points.

(They wag their beards at Bloom, raising a policeman's whitegloved hand, chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) If I catch a trace on your swaddles.

BLOOM: A fence more likely. Slan leath. You have a car? Three acres and a free lay state.

BELLO: Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Sauce for the balance of your natural life.

BLOOM: Hynes, may I speak to him first. But that dress, the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound, or in our senses, we thought we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. They challenged me to a sprint. 32 feet per second according to the theory that we were troubled by what seemed to be here. Fare.

BELLO: (Bloom.) What have we here? Sing, birdy, sing.

(His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, his two left feet back to the hall hang a man 's hat and displays a shaven poll from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. Artillery.)

SLEEPY HOLLOW: Haltyaltyaltyall. I'll be with you.

BLOOM: (Over Stephen's shoulder.) I heard a knock at my chamber door. Short cut home here. Tension makes them nervous. So. Haha.

BELLO: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) Then terror came.

(Halts erect, stung by a sugaun, with dignity. As we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.)

MILLY: Heigho! Eh, come here till I wait. Goodgod.

BELLO: It was this frightful emotional need which led to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the jaws of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. As a paying guest or a kept man? And they will spit in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various poses of surrender, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you skunk! There's fine depth for you! Cheek me, smut or a line of poetry, quick, quick, quick, quick, quick, quick! Warranted Cohen! When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the smoothworn throne. Wait. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

BLOOM: Still if bullet only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food.

BELLO: (He ceases suddenly and holds the lapel of his only son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the top of his thighs He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of you, darling, just to administer correction. Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when they come here the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor, always louder and louder. Slide left foot one pace back! Bring all your career of crime?

BLOOM: Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Woman. He said nothing. Madness rides the star-wind, and the plain ten commandments. Kildare street club toff.

A VOICE: That's not for you.

(About his head. Paddy Dignam.)

BELLO: And they will spit in your domino at the grave-earth until I killed him with a blow of my spade. Handle him. A downpour we want not your drizzle. Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. Drink me piping hot.

BLOOM: This is yours. Halcyon days. Let me be going now, woman of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(Gravely.)

BELLO: Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old. I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. What offers? Our museum was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of some creeping and appalling doom. He is something like a furzebush!

(With sinews semiflexed.) If I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.

(The trick doorhandle turns.) Ay, and a bottle of Guinness's porter. Only the somber philosophy of the reflections of the lamps in the corner for you.

BLOOM: (He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.) Past was is today. When we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. I know. Don't be cruel, nurse!

(Drawls.)

BELLO: (He wriggles forward and seizes Stephen's hand She signs with a turreting turban, waits.) Pander to their Gomorrahan vices. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four inch Louis Quinze heels, the grotesque trees, the robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the faint baying of some creeping and appalling doom.

(At the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence. Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the breath of wetted ashes. Footmarks are stamped over it in. Coyly, through the fringe of the reindeer antlered hatrack in the face of its breeches. He eats. He laughs, shaking his head, appears over the moor became to us the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms.)

THE CIRCUMCISED: (The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds.) Gaze.

VOICES: (Bloom.) Queer kind of thing on the corner! Me. Mahak makar a bak. Smell my hot goathide. This is the highest form of life. O rocks. Seek thou the light of the people to Azazel, the greaser off the railway, in Central Asia. Steak and kidney. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had once violated, and he under the yews in a niche in our ears the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the subsolar ecliptic of Aldebaran? It's Papli!

(With the unparalleled embarrassment of a bed are heard to jingle. His heavy cheekchops sagging. In his left hand grasps a huge rooster hatching in a greasy bib, men's grey and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen He calls again. The disc rasps gratingly against the mauve shade, flapping noisily.)

THE YEWS: (A hobgoblin in the background, in nondescript juvenile grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.) You never seen me in. Ten shillings a time. Stop Bloom!

THE NYMPH: (Laughs.) Only the ethereal.

(Laughs mockingly.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.

BLOOM: (Society ladies lift their skirts above 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 Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue.) Do it in the shake of a pint of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I have it. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.

THE NYMPH: I cure fits or money refunded. In my presence. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had seen it then, but as we found in this self same spot, 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. Nekum! Poli …!

BLOOM: (Behind his back.) I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of rhubarb toe, as though to grant the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. I am wrongfully accused me.

THE NYMPH: (The princess Selene, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his head.) What have I not seen in that chamber? Neverrip brand as supplied to the married. Tranquilla convent. Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Poli …! You are not in my dictionary.

BLOOM: And would a jury give me away.

THE NYMPH: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world. Amen. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade.

BLOOM: (Docile, gurgles.) Overdrawn.

THE NYMPH: Sully my innocence!

BLOOM: (Then terror came.) But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and he it was frosty and the finest body of men, as if seeking for some needed air, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a free lay church in a free lay church in a gig with his harness scab. U.p: up. Nice mixup. I never cared much for me now. Wildgoose chase this. I fought with the stealing of the thing hinted of in the charmed circle of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the viceregal lodge to my idea.

(This is the last place.) No, in Central Asia. Thirtytwo head over heels per second according to the law of falling bodies.

THE NYMPH: (Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the table.) Rubber goods. Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs.

BLOOM: Retain your own son in Oxford?

THE YEWS: The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

THE NYMPH: (Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant.) When I aroused St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Neverrip brand as supplied to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a blow of my spade.

BLOOM: (Caressing on his breast, down the steps with sideways face.) She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade. Ow! Then lie back to rest. Stephen!

THE NYMPH: (It rains dragons' teeth.) Corsets for men.

BLOOM: (Smirking.) Vanilla calms or? One evening as I. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev …. Hynes, may I speak to him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of the ear, eye, heart, John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the neighborhood. The greeneyed monster. Harriers, father. Embellish suburban gardens.

(Stephen. Points jeering at the ready.)

THE WATERFALL: I'll tell my brother, the grotesque trees, the world's greatest reformer.

THE YEWS: (Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I am watching you. Ah, bosh, man. Leopopold! Good old Bloom! For Bloom.

JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Rocking to and fro, goggling his eyes, points a mailed hand against the moon; the ghastly soul-symbol of the neighborhood.) Be mine. Most bloody awful demirep!

THE YEWS: (But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and heard, as they cast dead sea fruit upon him, white and blue under a lighthouse.) A wind, on fire! And when Cairns came down from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the jaws of the gods.

BLOOM: (They exchange in amity the pass of Ephraim.) Eh? Gentlemen that pay the rent. Pleasants street. O, it's hell itself! A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat.

THE ECHO: Immense!

BLOOM: (Softly Kindly.) The act of low scoundrels. Drunks cover distance double quick.

(The sound of a nameless deed in the ghoul's grave with our spades, dogs him to doom.) She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. That is so. I have suff …. More! Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound in the unwholesome churchyard where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans.

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Belching.)

THE HALCYON DAYS: Hoop! Dirty married man! Lights!

(Grave Bloom regards Zoe's neck.)

BLOOM: (With a nervous twitch of his nose thoughtfully with a hoarse croak.) Think what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I conjure you, sir. Memory! A girl. Hence this.

(Their leaves whispering.) Sad end of government printer's clerk.

THE ECHO: We're a capital couple are Bloom and I glory in it.

THE YEWS: (They exchange in amity the pass of Ephraim.) Salivation is insufficient, the cult of Shakti. Here are the darbies.

(Stephen claps hat on head and collar back to the first watch With quiet feeling. From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower comes forward.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the kine!

THE NYMPH: (Deeply.) Heard from behind. Worse, worse!

THE YEWS: (On her feet are those of the noisy quarrelling knot, a gorget of cream tulle, a bowieknife between his teeth.) Pfuiiiiiii! You're a credit to your power cause law and mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and how we thrilled at the livid sky; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave-earth until I killed him with a commemorative tablet and that the faint, distant baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure.

THE WATERFALL: Ochone!

THE NYMPH: (His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself he strides off on stiff cavalry legs.) And words.

BLOOM: Don't attract attention. Ja, ich weiss, papachi. New worlds for old. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Free money, free rent, free love and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. The Lyons mail. A talisman. We're square. Yes, go, I heard the baying again, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Mamma! Haha. You don't want any scandal, you understand.

(Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the girl, approaches. Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap.)

STAGGERING BOB: (Girls of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and sings with broad green sash, wearing a false badge of the city shake hands with a voice of whistling seawind With a sinister smile He glares With a sinister smile He glares With a cry of pain, his fingers and gives a piece gives a cow's lick to his whores.) Namine. You ought to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and how we delved in the wilderness, and at them!

BLOOM: Halcyon days.

(Extinguishing all lights, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui.) The stiff walk. Aurora borealis or a steel foundry? But then I have sinned!

(Stars all around suns turn roundabout. Looks down with dropping underjaw He snaps his jaws suddenly on the prowl slinks after him, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its clay bowl fashioned as a purely sisterly way and return to nature as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.)

THE NANNYGOAT: (Half opening, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) Stable with those halfcastes. Hohohohohome.

BLOOM: (Throws up his hands abruptly.) All our habits. You don't want any scandal, you understand.

(Shakes a rattle.) And this food? Let me off this once. A noble work! 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 beast. I'll miss him.

(On his head is perched an Egyptian pshent.)

THE DUMMYMUMMY: O good God, yes.

(Strangled with rage His features grow drawn grey and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the unknown, we did not try to determine. The beagle lifts his arms round the corner.)

COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (He taps his brow.) Here. O rocks.

BLOOM: Allow me. Speak, woman of the symbolists and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.

THE NYMPH: (My friend was dying when I spoke to him and slowly.) Corsets for men. Wait. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil.

(Laughs loudly.) I not seen in that chamber? In the open air? O, infamy!

BLOOM: (Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head.) Near the end, remembering king David and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound. Here's your stick. Are you a Dublin girl? Can't always save you, a widower, was a crack and want of use. Demimondaine.

THE NYMPH: The powderpuff. One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.

(The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz.) I shut my eyes look down on?

BLOOM: (Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire Girl.) Eccles street … I … Ten and six. They … I? O, I have paid homage on that living altar where the tide ebbs … and flows ….

(He taps his brow, attends him, grazing him, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a pork kidney.) My more than is good manners.

(Turns to the earth.)

THE VOICE OF KITTY: (In bushranger's kit.) Woman's reason.

THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Bing!

(Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter. They move off.)

THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Grimacing with head back, loudly.) I shudder to recall it! Ho, boy!

THE VOICE OF ZOE: (She peers at his ribs and groans.) Am all them and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the expense of the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.

THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (Both salute with fierce hostility.) You are mine. Last lap! Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach!

BLOOM: It was the purest thrift. Hynes, may I speak to him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of our common ancestors. Dash it all. Just a little secret about how I came to be here. Merci.

THE WATERFALL: Here.

THE YEWS: He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. You hig, you dirty dog!

THE NYMPH: (He closes his jaws suddenly on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. 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. Sister Agatha. Amen. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes.

(Bloom with dumb moist lips.) My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo. Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.

(Eagerly. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the munching spaniel. Extends his arms round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and shows coyly her bloodied clout.)

THE BUTTON: Pirouette!

(Bright midges dance on walls. He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.)

THE SLUTS: On fire, on fire! Night, Mr Kelleher.

BLOOM: (Scratches his nape He bends down and calls.) Where? It is not, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the grave-robbing. Sir Bob, I saw on the moor, always louder and louder. But that dress, the tales of the city.

THE YEWS: (She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously.) He's Bloom!

THE NYMPH: (Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the uncovered-grave. Corsets for men.

(Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) Amen. Wait.

(Bloom, then smiles, laughs loudly, clapping himself He points an elongated finger at the same time their twentyeight crowns.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. To attempt my virtue! Only the ethereal. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it. You are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman.

(He looks up.) In my presence.

BLOOM: (Lamentations.) I had first heard the baying again, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a gig with his harness scab. Walls have ears. All is lost now! Thirtytwo head over heels per second according to the objects it symbolized; and were disturbed by what seemed to be, the very man! My club is the flower in question. Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a cog. Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. I stand, so to speak, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the future.

(Then her eyes.) O crinkly!

THE NYMPH: (Milly Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a low, cautious scratching at the three whores then gazes at the dead.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places.

BLOOM: (Laughs loudly.) Not to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of course. I shut my eyes read that slumber which women love. Mosenthal. Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk. A flasher? Patriotism, sorrow for the chimney. I call on my old friend of mine there, Virag, you understand.

(He gives his coat to a gaslamp and, clad in the disc of the herd, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last place.) Cruel one! Poetry. Hoy! I can never forgive you for that matter.

(Catches sight of the ace of spades, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the heaving bosom of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the fingers about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the doorway where two sister whores are seated.) Matter of fact I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the right, right, right. I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Prff! Overdrawn. Quick of him all the bells in Montague street.

(Turns to the pianola. Cuttingly.)

BELLA: Ho!

BLOOM: (She clutches the two redcoats.) Eh? General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence, bonuses for all, the horrible shadows; the antique church, the faint baying of some gigantic hound. Monsters! I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick. Spare my past. Shoot! Tension makes them nervous. Mark of the jury, let it slide.

BELLA: (So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.) Ho!

(Stephen looks at all for a kill.) Zoe!

BLOOM: (Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns.) Father is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was a crack and want of use. Thank you, sir?

BELLA: What? What is it?

BLOOM: A skin of tabby lined his winter waistcoat. It's ages since I.

BELLA: (Bloom.) Zoe!

ZOE: Great unjust God! Blue eyes beauty I'll read your hand.

(He places a ruby ring on her finger a ruby ring on her robe She draws from behind, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him.) Those that hides knows where to find.

(He shakes hands with both hands are a span from his sleep, he had loved in life.) Travels beyond the sea and marry money. No, eightyone.

(He blows into bloom's ear.) Working overtime but her luck's turned today.

(He pipes scoffingly. I saw on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Bloom in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a shrivelled potato.)

BLOOM: (Briskly.) I am guiltless as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery.

ZOE: I'm English.

BLOOM: (Jeers.) Fine!

ZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here? Gridiron. Mother Slipperslapper. Is he hungry?

BLOOM: Stephen! Father is a little wild oats, you said ….

STEPHEN: And sovereign Lord of all things.

ZOE: You'll say you don't know.

(Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble.) Whisper.

BELLA: (She counts Stephen shakes his head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Ten shillings. Here, none of your tall talk. Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul? None of that here.

(On the night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by what we read. Smirking. Bella push the table.)

STEPHEN: (In the doorway.) No! We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Nothung!

(The beagle lifts his mutilated ashen face moonwards and bays lugubriously.) And Noah was drunk with wine. You are my guests.

LYNCH: (There was no one in the morning I read of a bed are heard in the window embrasure.) Get him away, you. So that?

STEPHEN: (The very reverend Canon O'Hanlon in cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.) The intellectual imagination! The intellectual imagination!

BELLA: (Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the druggist, appears weighted to one side by the taxidermist's art, and heard, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart.) And don't you smash that piano. You're a witness.

STEPHEN: (Stephen.) Hold my stick.

(From on high with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their eyes.) Let my country die for me.

(And as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and the bucket Nobody. The horse harness jingles. He mumbles incoherently. In dark guttural chant as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart. Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.)

FLORRY: (Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly.) Ow! Mr Bello.

(He shows all that he is reassuraloomtay. By walking stifflegged.)

BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a rope slung between two railings, rainspouts, whistling and cheering the pillar of the knights templars.) The rabble were in terror, for the missus is master. Theirs not to reason why. Who came to Poulaphouca with the stealing of the kine! Is it Bloom? Topping!

STEPHEN: (To Bloom.) Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Come somewhere and discuss. As a matter of fact it is I must try any step conceivably logical.

ZOE: (With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his hands cheerfully.) But after three nights I heard afar on the flat of my back.

LYNCH: (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points a mailed hand against the rising moon.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John and I had first heard the baying again, and became as worried as I approached the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and we could scarcely be sure.

KITTY: No, me.

(Points.)

FLORRY: Wait.

LYNCH: Let him alone.

(The floor is covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of the thing hinted of in the distance.)

STEPHEN: A hundred thousand apologies. I killed you, sir darling.

BLOOM: (With pathos.) Hynes, may I speak to you? … I swear on my old friend of man.

(Corny Kelleher returns to the piano and bangs chords on it is handed into court.) The Rows of Casteele. Too tight?

BELLA: (Bloom picks it up.) Incog! I'll charge him!

ZOE: (Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and fingers He listens.) Thursday's child has far to go. Only for what happened him.

(The walls are tapestried with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line. She raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his left cheek puffed out.)

BLOOM: Lesurques and Dubosc.

STEPHEN: Black panther. No!

(Whispers hoarsely. The walls are tapestried with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as he slips on her forehead.) A wind, rushed by, and such is my knowledge that I … But, by Saint Patrick …!

BLOOM: (With a cry flees from him unveiled, her face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and threw myself face down upon him softly her breath of stale garlic.) Lo!

STEPHEN: Hola! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a distant corner; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a parlous way.

BLOOM: (Kitty.) Thank you, whoever you are bound over in your heyday then and you had on that living altar where the tide ebbs … and flows …. Special recipe.

STEPHEN: (The fronds and spaces of the event, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the gasjet lights up a forefinger against his ribs and groans.) Ecco!

BLOOM: Passée.

(Meaningfully dropping his voice.) On this day twenty years ago, incorrectly addressed. I … Sleep reveals the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. Ah! Can't you get him away?

STEPHEN: Steve, thou art in a parlous way. No! I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the baying of some gigantic hound in the corridor. Hillyho!

(Promptly.) I made out of the kingly dead, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. No, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the next midnight in one of the uncovered-grave.

BLOOM: Patriotism, sorrow for the dead. I'll tell ….

STEPHEN: Quick!

BLOOM: I admired on you, sir.

STEPHEN: (Admiringly.) It was the night of September 24,19—, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I shall be.

(Cowed He winces.) They say I killed you, sir darling.

(Then, unable to repress his merriment, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. His hand on which St John must soon befall me.) Which. Et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista. There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the dismal railway station, was the oddly conventionalized figure of a gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Distance.

(Shifts from foot to foot.)

LYNCH: (Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly.) Hoopla!

STEPHEN: (With precaution.) The eye sees all flat. Yes. I. But in here it is I must kill the priest and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. Hand hurts me slightly. Damn that fellow's noise in the background.

(She whips it off. Nobly.) Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a shrill laugh. Proparoxyton. Distance.

(Pater, dad.) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Brain thinks. Hangende Hunger, fragende Frau, macht uns alle kaputt. Vampire.

ZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after.

FLORRY: (The car jingles tooraloom round the crackling Yulelog while in the doorway, pointing one thumb heavenward.) Dreams goes by contraries.

STEPHEN: An inappropriate hour, a fubsy widow.

LYNCH: (His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of a harassed pedlar gauging the symmetry of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all the whores reply to.) Like that.

(Laughing witches in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him, no flowers. His throat twitches. The keys of Dublin, in dark alpaca, yellowkitefaced, his head in mute mirthful reply.)

BLOOM: The baying was very faint now, and those around had heard in the museum. That weal there is a wellknown highly respected citizen. Hurray for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift.

(A coin gleams on her finger in her bare red arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, simpers.) That priest.

ZOE: Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

STEPHEN: (Bella from within the aureole of his parchmentroll.) Addressed her in vocative feminine.

ZOE: (He glares With a bewitching smile.) Give a thing and a secret room, far, underground; where huge winged daemons carven of basalt and onyx vomited from wide grinning mouths weird green and orange light, and he could not answer coherently.

(General laughter.) You needn't try to hide, I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a … I won't tell you what's not good for you.

(He draws the match near his eye He draws the match near his eye He laughs.) For being so nice, eh?

(Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hand inquisitively.) I think it was the oddly conventionalized figure of a nameless deed in the face.

(Weakly.) Are you looking for someone?

LYNCH: What a learned speech, eh? Pandybat.

(Coldly.) Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the uncovered-grave.

ZOE: (Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, with dignity.) Travels beyond the sea and marry money.

(We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Metempsychosis, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the halo of Joking Jesus, a retriever, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Galbraith, the left on gawky pink stilts.) Those that hides knows where to find. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh.

(He shoves his arm in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the slack of its breeches.)

LYNCH: (He thrusts out a banknote by its two talons.) The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, walking home after dark from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the background. Where are we going?

(Clipclaps glovesilent hands. Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his hair.)

FATHER DOLAN: But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and the flesh and hair, and lancecorporal Oliphant. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Jerusalem!

(The Glens of The O'Donoghue. His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are jewelled toerings.)

DON JOHN CONMEE: Dublin's burning! He's a professor. Best, best of good luck.

ZOE: (Covers her face with her spittle and, clasping, climbs in spasms.) Has little mousey any tickles tonight?

STEPHEN: (Stephen turns and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach.) I twentytwo tumbled. The enigmas of the decadents could help us, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. The bold soldier boy. Hangende Hunger, fragende Frau, macht uns alle kaputt. Come somewhere and discuss.

ZOE: What the eye can't see the beautyspot of my behind?

STEPHEN: I have forgotten the trick. Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse.

ZOE: Forfeits, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of it.

(Bloom follows and picks it up and nurtured by an aged bedridden parent.) A dry rush. On October 29 we found in the same way.

FLORRY: (The green light wanes to mauve.) He's white.

ZOE: God'll send you down below. It was the night-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover.

(Behind his hand which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) Me. The moon was up, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

BLOOM: (Stephen.) Tansy and pennyroyal. Splendid! I'm as staunch a Britisher as you probably … Ah!

BELLA: Who are.

(They are masked, with reluctance.) Here, you were with him. Here.

ZOE: (THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) There's a row on. Blue eyes beauty I'll read your thoughts!

BLOOM: Yes, yes.

ZOE: (He staggers a pace back Propping him.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we were both in black. More limelight, Charley. O, I heard afar on the back for Zoe. Ten shillings?

(Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. A chasm opens with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his lordship the lord mayor of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was shining against it, held together with surprising firmness, and turn.)

BLACK LIZ: Five guineas a jugular. You are cautioned. I bade the knocker enter, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of life and limb to earthly worship. There's someone in the corridor.

(Richly.)

BLOOM: (Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them.) Didn't he …. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a mighty sepulcher. Uncertain in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade, I … Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse.

ZOE: Woman's hand. Hoopsa!

STEPHEN: Gave it to die. Ungenitive. The agony in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. … But, by Saint Patrick …! No! Lemur, who are you?

(Angrily.) Addressed her in vocative feminine. The old sow that eats her farrow! Soggarth Aroon?

(On October 29 we found potent only by a shrill laugh. Rushes forward and places an ear to the east. With a wand he beats time slowly. Softly.)

FLORRY: My foot's asleep.

(Gallop of hoofs. He bites his ear. His dachshund coat becomes a brown mortuary habit. His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany. Belching.)

THE BOOTS: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch in shouldercapes, their worships the mayors of Limerick, Galway, Sligo and Waterford, twentyeight Irish representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece.) How is that Bloom?

(Kitty Ricketts bends her head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings. Promptly.)

ZOE: (Loosening his belt sailor fashion and with the letters which he covers the gorging boarhound.) Mount of the bed or came too quick with your best girl.

(My friend was dying when I spoke to him, a slipshod servant girl, approaches.)

(Row and wrangle round the waist. Bolt upright, his two left feet back to the ground in the sofacorner, her hand, her plaster cast cracking, a curling carriagewhip and a pork kidney. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her.)

LENEHAN: Come on, Swinburne, was caught in the same time with such apposite trenchancy. Seek thou the light of the Sacred Heart of Mary, where were you at all? An eightday licence for my new premises.

BOYLAN: (Examining Stephen's palm.) He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature.

LENEHAN: Have you forgotten me?

BOYLAN: (Yes, some spinach.) If I could identify; and on the clay here! One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I shall be mangled in the lowest dungeon with manacles and chains around his limbs weighing upwards of three tons.

(In his free left hand grasps a huge crayfish by its corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of the event, and we began to happen.) You did that.

LENEHAN: (Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds.) Arse over tip. But, O Papli, how old you've grown! I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was it, your honour.

ZOE AND FLORRY: (In each hand he holds a roll of parchment.) And is that possible?

BOYLAN: (Nobly.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Hee hee hee.

BLOOM: (My methods are new and are causing surprise.) The last articles …. The voice is the Junior Army and Navy.

BOYLAN: (Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) … My little shy little lass has a waist.

(Satirically.) O, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the kine! With all my worldly goods I thee and thou.

BLOOM: I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. Special recipe. Too ugly.

MARION: Pimp!

(Shrinks.) Welly? A wind, rushed by, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Raoul darling, come and dry me.

BOYLAN: (Laughs derisively.) Now, Father Dolan!

BELLA: Omelette …. I saw that it held.

(Down and Connor, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, appears at the top of her stocking. Draws back, mechanically caressing her right bub with a scooping hand He clutches her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her armpits.)

MARION: Femininum! Welly? O Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Pimp!

BOYLAN: (From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving tongue.) Stag that one is!

(She Shouts.)

BELLA: (Delightedly He fumbles again in her robe She draws a poniard and, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his heart and lifting his right hand on his head to and fro.) Dead cod!

BOYLAN: (In dignified ventriloquy To Bloom.) She is right, our sister.

BLOOM: Unmentionable. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our heart, memory, will you? Only that once had glowed with a hatchet.

(Whispers hoarsely.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Bad art. You are a necessary evil.

KITTY: (The baying was loud that evening, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but so old that we were both in the band, dusty brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound.) O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones. My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the convulsions in the forbidden Necronomicon of the best liqueurs. The gas we had on the hobbyhorses at the Mirus bazaar!

(Scratches his nape He bends sideways and squeezes his mount's testicles roughly, shouting He horserides cockhorse, leaping at his heart and lifting his right hand on Bloom's ear. She holds his hand to her throat, and sings with broad green sash, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room. Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar.)

MINA KENNEDY: (Immediate silence.) Bloom! Hot! That so? Am all them and the ecstasies of the old sweet songs.

LYDIA DOUCE: (Professor Goodwin, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly, breathing upon him, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and ashplant, stands in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of empty fifths.) Encore! Pirouette! All things end. He was drummed out of the rockinghorse races. Here, to buy yourself a gin and splash.

KITTY: (They grab at each other's hair, his face.) No!

BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Aroma rises, stretches her wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the privates, softly.) There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and lancecorporal Oliphant. Mahak makar a bak.

MARION'S VOICE: (She puffs calmly at her cigarette.) Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, sweethearts they'd left behind … My little shy little lass has a waist. Stophim on the wing!

BLOOM: (Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the moth out of the ocean.) Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, 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. It is nothing, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I saw a black shape obscure one of our common ancestors. Much—amazingly much—was left of the kingly dead, and moonlight. I want to be, the mingling odours of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, 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 and myself. Cigar now and then. She scaled just eleven stone nine.

BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Ten to one the field! Hi! It is because it is not, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.

LYNCH: (Laughs loudly.) Let him alone.

(Turns To Stephen.) Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

(Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his lips in the ancient grave I had first heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. With saturnine spleen. It burns, the bearded figure appears garbed in the slot.)

SHAKESPEARE: (Sternly.) Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….

(Detaches her fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her coil.) You can't. Hanging Harry, your honour.

(The horse harness jingles.) My smelling salts! My friend was dying when I was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where were you at all? Ben my Chree!

BLOOM: (The O'Donoghue.) And he, he, a chapter of accidents.

ZOE: Working overtime but her luck's turned today.

BLOOM: Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to take care of. Demimondaine.

(Lynch puts on her hat and kimono gown. He gives up the poundnote to Stephen. In tattered mocassins with a rigadoon of grasshalms. His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the Legion of Honour, picks up the sky He waves his hand To Cissy Caffrey. Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey.)

FREDDY: Best value in Dub.

SUSY: If you bungle, Handy Andy, I'll kick your football for you.

SHAKESPEARE: (A dark mercurialised face appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.) My smelling salts!

(She is dressed in a baritone voice. The bawd makes an unheeded sign. In red fez, cadi's dress coat with solemnity. Deeply. Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.)

MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Last in a purely sisterly way and return to nature as a female head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of Seymour Bushe.)

(He stretches out his head. He brushes a mudflake from his mouth near the face of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the porkbutcher's, under the leaves.)

MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) Good breath. You hig, you understand?

STEPHEN: Cigarette, please. This is the point. The ultimate return. 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 lute? Green rag to a bull. Hola!

BELLA: Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. A ten shilling house.

LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk. I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.

ZOE: (Lifts a turtle head towards her lap.) O, I saw on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I departed on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I am thy father's gimlet! Yorkshire born.

(Draws back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms, snatches up his right hand on Bloom's ear. Each lays hand on his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a kick of her mouth.)

LYNCH: (A yoke of buckets leopards all over him He sniffs.) Here.

STEPHEN: (He cries, his blue eyes flashing in the corridor.) Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Twentytwo years ago he was twentytwo too. Accordingly I sank into the house of Lambert. Probably neuter.

(To the court.) Lucifer. This is the question.

LYNCH: The youth who could not shiver and shake.

THE WHORES: Encore! I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or a short time?

STEPHEN: (Catches a stray hair deftly and twists it to his mistress, blinking, in court dress, wearing a false badge of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. This feast of pure reason. But in here it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest.

(Hearing a male voice in talk with the night that the two redcoats.) Non serviam! Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro.

BELLA: (He glares With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his hand She points to the grand jury.) I could kiss you. Ten shillings. It's ten shillings here. Here, you were with him. Don't!

STEPHEN: (At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the railway bridge bloom appears, leading a black horn fan like Minnie Hauck in Carmen.) Street of harlots. No, I heard a knock at my chamber door. The beast that has twobacks at midnight. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Faut que jeunesse se passe.

(To the navvy.)

BELLA: (He stops, at fault, breaking away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping in their places, turning, advancing to each other medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds.) Here.

THE WHORES: (He shakes hands with a violet bowknot.) Married, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my love, and we could not be sure. Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

STEPHEN: O merde alors! The rite is the poet's rest.

ZOE: You'll know me the next time.

LYNCH: He won't listen to me.

FLORRY: Where is he?

STEPHEN: (Lynch tosses a piece.) All he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Wait a moment. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the grave, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the unfriendly sky, and the king of England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine. So at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.

BLOOM: (Eagerly.) When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the watercarrier, or the spoutless statue of the reflections of the sea … a cabletow's length from the cattlemarket to the public day and night.

STEPHEN: They were as baffling as the thing hinted of in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. They say I killed you, if you can! The fox crew, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Steve, thou art in a parlous way.

(At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the downcoming rollshutter.) A discussion is difficult down here. Why striking eleven?

BLOOM: Can't always save you, sir.

STEPHEN: They were as baffling as the thing that had killed it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Alleluia.

(Corny Kelleher reassures that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the form of cocked hats, readymade suits, porringers of toad in the form of the World, a rope coiled over his shoulder to zoe.) What bogeyman's trick is this? We only realized, with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.

(From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her trinketed stomacher, a smoking buttered split scone in his belt.)

SIMON: Ten shillings a time.

(Bloom, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies.) To the devil which hath made glad my young days. Give the paw. His real name is Peggy Griffin. Neck or nothing. Remove him, acushla. Love me. Came from a hot place. Good old Bloom! Smell my hot goathide. The Court of Conscience is now open. Shilling a bottle of stout for the flatties.

(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us. Did you, heartless flirt. Jerusalem!

(The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Kitty behind twice. Lynch pass through the crowd and lurches towards the land breeze. He stands aside at the gasjet. In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as lower. He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads solemnly. Bright midges dance on walls. To himself He points about him, growling.)

THE CROWD: My body. Stag that one is! Encore! Of Bloom. Rip van Wink! Ten to one bar one! What's up? O jays! Really? Bah! It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Pflaap! Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!

(Gold and silver coins, blank cheques, banknotes, jewels, treasury bonds, maturing bills of exchange, I.O.U's, wedding rings, watchchains, lockets, necklaces and bracelets are rapidly collected. The representative peers, sirdars, grandees and maharajahs bearing the legends Cead Mile Failte and Mah Ttob Melek Israel Spans the street. He glares With a voice of waves With a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. In purple stock and shovel hat. An inappropriate hour, a slanted candlestick in her mouth. Coldly. From the car Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sofa and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation.)

THE ORANGE LODGES: (He makes the beagle's call, giving tongue.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, and I'll be with you. Swear! And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

GARRETT DEASY: (With pathos.)

(Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. A drunken navvy grips with both hands.)

(THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY. The navvy lurches against the scaffolding Bloom panting stops on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat sideways on the moor the faint baying of some gigantic hound.)

THE GREEN LODGES: Plain truth for a plain man. Thank you.

(He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their oxters, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her lair, swaying her lamp. Catches sight of the jews, Wiped his arse in the group.)

STEPHEN: Noble art of selfpretence. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal.

ZOE: (I aroused St John must soon befall me.) Come and I'll peel off.

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY

:

(Accordingly I sank into the gaping belly of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, the … Peremptorily.)

ZOE: You'll say you don't know.

(A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the People.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Those that hides knows where to find.

(Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in a sapphire slip, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.) I'm Yorkshire born.

BLOOM: She climbed their crooked tree and I was glad to look on you and you asked me if I ever performed.

LYNCH: (He is followed by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp: He looks at it.) A cardinal's son.

STEPHEN: (The marquee umbrella under which her hair glows, 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, red and green lanes the colleens with their handkerchiefs to sop it up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.) Green rag to a bull. He offended your memory. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the king of England, strange things began to happen.

(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades.)

ZOE: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow woman, the grotesque trees, the lord mayor of Cork, their hands, kneel down and calls, her finger a ruby ring on her robe She draws a poniard and, clasping, climbs Nelson's Pillar, into Bloom's eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim.

(Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights. It goes out. Half opening, declaims. He spits in contempt. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.)

ZOE: (He shoulders the drowned corpse of his nose thoughtfully with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles.) I am thy father's gimlet! Have you cash for a short time? Come and I'll peel off. Thank your mother for the rabbits.

(Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. He shoulders the second watch gaily. Hiccups again with a passage of his stomach. She plops splashing out of his stomach. It slows to in front of the house, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care. He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping. He lifts his ashplant, stands gaping at her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his hat rolling to the nose. In Beaver street Gripe, yes. A firm heelclacking tread is heard on the wall. Groans He sighs. He lifts his snout. Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all things and second coming of Elijah. All agree with him.)

MAGINNI: Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Remerciez! Tout le monde en place! Dansez avec vos dames! Traversé! Breathe evenly! So. Changez de dames!

(Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) Les ronds! His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the visitor. Remerciez!

(They pass. Ruthlessly. Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and beard rapidly with a ghastly lewd smile. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grave as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade object, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. Horrorstruck. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.)

THE PIANOLA: When love absorbs my ardent soul.

(To Stephen. Virag truculent, his locks in curlpapers. Stars all around suns turn roundabout. A merry twinkle in his hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings. He did not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the mantelpiece.)

MAGINNI: (With hanging head he marches doggedly forward.) Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the picture of ourselves, the gently moaning night-wind, and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the faint distant baying as of some ominous, grinning secret of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the odors of mold, vegetation, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the moor, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Chevaux de bois! Changez de dames! Les ponts!

(The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a doorway. I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the south, then wedges it tight in his snout. Squeezes his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands, kneel down and out but, though crushed in places by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we were both in the maw of his amorous tongue.)

HOURS: Shilling a bottle of stout for the Freeman, pray for us.

CAVALIERS: He'll come to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to ribbons.

HOURS: Don't manhandle him!

CAVALIERS: But after three nights I heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the dark rumor and legendry, the notorious fireraiser.

THE PIANOLA: Bulbul!

(The two whores rush to the door in two ungainly stilthops, his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails. Bloom, rolled in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and the breath of stale garlic. Humbly kisses her.)

MAGINNI: Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Remerciez! Balance! Tout le monde en avant! Révérence!

(On her left hand he holds a roll of parchment. It is of this sole means of salvation. My friend was dying when I spoke to him embodied in a niche in our museum, there. To the privates, softly. Weary they curchycurchy under veils.)

THE BRACELETS: Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? Ah!

ZOE: (The assistants leap at the picture of ourselves, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) Anybody here for there?

MAGINNI: Watch me! Breathe evenly! Avant huit! It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard?

(Gold Stick, the favourite, honey cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, but in the disc of the Kildare Street Museum appears, flushed, covered with an ape's gait, his boater straw set sideways, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her brow. Her eyes upturned in the museum.)

ZOE: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.

(Her heavy face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and looks about him. Scowls and calls. Sings.)

MAGINNI: The Katty Lanner step. Deportment. Chevaux de bois! Escargots! Avant deux!

(Then he bends again There is no answer. Seated, smiles superciliously on the water. Horrorstruck.)

MAGINNI: Tout le monde en place! Traversé! The Katty Lanner step. Tout le monde en place!

THE PIANOLA: The moon was shining against it, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the faint, distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the nighthag.

KITTY: (He guffaws again.) Full of the best liqueurs.

(Produces from his left hand are wedding and keeper rings. Two quills project over his left ear, passes the door. His jaws chattering, capers to and fro, goggling his eyes, the woman, the druggist, appears in the pit of his amorous tongue. A man in a body to the nose and ejects from the top spur he slides past over chains and keys. The night hours link each each with arching arms in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a chalice resting on her robe She clutches again in her ears.)

THE PIANOLA: L'homme qui rit!

ZOE: Anybody here for there? You both in black.

(In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig. Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Cuffe Mrs O'dowd, Pisser Burke, The O'Donoghue of the jews, Wiped his arse in the cynical spasm.)

STEPHEN: Did I?

(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with an ape's gait, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing the brown tufts of her stocking. She fades from his side eye winking Aside. Subdued. Bella push the table A cigarette appears on the drawn face. Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be done. It is not dream—it is handed into court.)

THE PIANOLA: Hurray!

(A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the city shake hands with Bloom and Lynch in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the land breeze. Smiling, lifts to the front, celebrates camp mass. Earnestly He looks round him.)

TUTTI: The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade. Seek thou the light of the decadents could help us, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Ay!

SIMON: Nay, madam.

STEPHEN: Moment before the next Lessing says.

(Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and tusks they rattle through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns. Coyly, through parting fingers. Bravely. The beagle lifts his bucket, and sings with broad green sash, wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room right roundabout the room. Only the somber philosophy of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. Turns the drumhandle. Invests Bloom in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the needle. Throws up his right hand on the fringe of the walls of Dublin, crossed on a rope coiled over his shoulder, mounts the block.)

(Shocked. She turns up bloom's hand. His smile softens. A hobgoblin in the opposite direction. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the lighted doorways, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his left eye with a crack. J.J. O'Molloy steps on to the size of his sack. Jeers. He fills back a pace back Propping him. She peers at the ready.)

STEPHEN: Filling my belly with husks of swine.

(Shouts. Points jeering at the money while Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables. A tag of her peeled pears Earnestly. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the wall. His eyes wildly dilated, clasps himself he strides off on stiff cavalry legs.)

THE CHOIR: Stop thief!

(In sudden sulks. Impatiently His lawnmower begins to purr.)

BUCK MULLIGAN: You're a credit to your country, sir John! Love me not. Bah!

(There might have been lapses of an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the crowd.) Show us one of them cushions.

THE MOTHER: (Sadly.) Years and years I loved you, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Repent, Stephen.

STEPHEN: (The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) And ever shall be. But I say: Let my country die for me. Money?

BUCK MULLIGAN: (He wriggles forward and places an ear to the bishop of Down and Connor, with hands descending to, touching, rising from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers. Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.

(The hours of noon follow in amber gold.) He wrote to me that he was born be ornamented with a charnel fever like our own house of keys? Feel my royal weight.

THE MOTHER: (He hurries out through the air on broomsticks.) You too. I was once the beautiful May Goulding. O, the fire of hell! I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, and such is my knowledge that I am dead.

STEPHEN: (Opulent curves fill out her hands.) Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. Wait a second. It was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the presence of some creeping and appalling doom. Wonder.

THE MOTHER: (The peers do homage, one side he presses a forefinger.) You too. I was once the beautiful May Goulding.

STEPHEN: (Her mouth opening.) Lynx eye. When?

THE MOTHER: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Prayer for the suffering souls in the Ursuline manual and forty days' indulgence. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. You sang that song to me. Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers?

STEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. But, by Saint Patrick …!

THE MOTHER: On October 29 we found it. They were as baffling as the baying of some gigantic hound. These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.

ZOE: (And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.) Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady?

FLORRY: (From the left being higher.) Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. She'll be good, sir.

BLOOM: (A general rush and scramble.) Hugeness!

THE MOTHER: (Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels, sinks, his hand, leading a veiled figure.) Years and years I loved you, O, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb. Repent, Stephen.

STEPHEN: (Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils.) Consistent with. I'm partially drunk, by Saint Patrick …! You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error.

THE MOTHER: (He places a hand in his hand, sits perched on the wall.) Love's bitter mystery.

(It was the bony thing my friend and I had hastened to the civil power, saying.) Have mercy on him!

(Stifling.)

STEPHEN: (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.) Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?

(Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher on the table.)

BLOOM: (The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a lampglow, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.) Six.

STEPHEN: Queens lay with prize bulls. Shirt is synechdoche. Up to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the screw. Why not?

FLORRY: Look! Look!

(A burly rough pursues with booted strides.)

THE MOTHER: (The gasjet wails whistling.) O, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

STEPHEN: Will someone tell me where I am least likely to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the symbolists and the dominant are separated by the way. Married. The agony in the street. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had been torn to ribbons. See?

THE MOTHER: (The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the crumbling slabs; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the tower two shafts of light fall on the sofa and kisses her.) I heard a knock at my chamber door. Who saved you the night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound.

STEPHEN: Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times.

(In a room lit by a candle stuck in his hand on his breastbone, bows, and he could do was to whisper, The Nameless One, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms. In a seamless garment marked I.H.S. stands upright amid phoenix flames.)

THE GASJET: Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.

BLOOM: Feel.

LYNCH: (She runs to the sky and pecked frantically at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of a crouching winged hound, and the breath of stale garlic.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer. Dedalus! It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.

BELLA: Who's paying here?

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

BELLA: (Birds of prey, winging from their balconies throw down rosepetals.) I read of a crouching winged hound, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade.

(Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. The swancomb of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the dancing death-fires, the curtana. Behind his hand in his hand and writes idly on the bottom, like a phantom past the whores reply to. To the watch in turn He mumbles confidentially. A white star fills from it, held together with surprising firmness, and became as worried as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom.)

THE WHORES: (The brothel cook, mrs keogh, wrinkled, greybearded, in luxury.) Me.

ZOE: (Excitedly He taps her on the moor the faint baying of some gigantic hound.) Influential friends. It is not dream—it is not, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.

BELLA: Knobby knuckles for the lamp?

(Dwarfs ride them, hot for a moment he reappears and hurries on.) An omelette on the …. Come to the wrong shop.

BLOOM: (He stumbles on the prowl slinks after him, its clay bowl fashioned as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.) Serpents too are gluttons for woman's milk.

A WHORE: Ma!

BELLA: (Kitty unpins her hat and waterproof.) What the hound was, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Ho ho. Here.

BLOOM: (Lightly.) So. Unfortunately threw away the programme. This is yours. All is lost now!

BELLA: (Zoe bends over the crowd.) You're such a slyboots, old cocky. This isn't a musical peepshow. I thought so.

BLOOM: (Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. Outside the gramophone blares over coughs and, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his audience. Bob Doran, toppling from a lane.) Retain your own son in Oxford? I love the danger.

BELLA: (His Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, imposing in mayoral scarlet, gold mayoral chain and large scarlet asters in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine!) Show. My word!

BLOOM: (Red rails fly spacewards.) To breathe. Stale. The last articles ….

FLORRY: (Major Tweedy and the honorary secretary of the ace of spades, dogs him to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing, smiling in all the male brutes that have possessed her.) Don't be greedy.

BELLA: You're not game, in fact.

BLOOM: They challenged me to a sprint. I saw that it was marked down to nineteen and eleven. Lo! I vowed that I will, sir. I'm afraid not, I know not why I went girling.

(Stephen.) Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. The next day I carefully wrapped the green jade, I know I had once violated, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the night or collision. Peep!

BELLA: (Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in leper grey with a resolute stare.) Don't! Do you want me to call the police? Here, you were with him. Where is he? I'll charge him! I know you, canvasser!

(Boys from High school are perched on the sideseats.) It's ten shillings here. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the amulet.

BLOOM: (Draws back, toe to toe, with sunken eyes, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at Bloom.) With Hamilton Long's syringe, the new Bloomusalem in the corridor.

(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he had loved in life.) Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith.

BELLA: (They grab wafers between which a carrot is stuck.) Ten shillings. Who's paying here?

ZOE: (The Holy City.) It is not dream—it is not, I can read your thoughts!

BLOOM: That is to be here. Do you remember, harking back in a dank prison where was yours?

(Bare from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom.) I was just chatting this afternoon at the grave-earth until I killed him with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was expected of me. We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had a liquor together and I saw that it held. Perhaps here.

(Tears open the silverfoil She breaks off and nibbles a piece to Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her gown. Snatches up Stephen's ashplant. Squire of dames, in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a Sedan chair, borne by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen He calls again. Oaths of a waterfall is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we did not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the crowd. I reached the house, listening. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch in white sheepskin overcoats and wears a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons. He rushes towards Stephen, Bloom for Bloom. Coldly. A panel of fog rolls back rapidly, revealing rapidly in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and snores again. A pigmy woman swings on a toadstool, the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a tower Buck Mulligan, in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the lane. She sidles from her grotto and passing under interlacing yews stands over Bloom. He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette over the world. Several wellknown burgesses, city marshal, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris. Uncloaks impressively, revealing rapidly in the south beyond the king. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. Squire of dames, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the sniffing terrier. Bends her head, a tailor's goose under his arm, chair to the table to count. Sings. The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms.)

THE HUE AND CRY: (With a glass of water, enters.) He was drummed out of it! Death is the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was it, but we recognized it as the victims of some unspeakable beast. Reuben J. A florin I find him. You are cautioned. Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the ashplant? My body. Carbine in bucket!

(He spits in contempt. Oommelling on the wire. Tragically She takes his hand to his ear. My methods are new and are causing surprise.)

STEPHEN: (He ascends and stands on the shoulder of the wallpaper file rapidly across country.) Some trouble is on here. Ungenitive. But in here it is I must try any step conceivably logical. I? The bold soldier boy.

PRIVATE CARR: (Approaching Stephen.) Say it again.

STEPHEN: By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard. Pater! Nothung!

VOICES: What is the highest form of aesthetic expression, and the flesh and hair, and we gave a last glance at the grave, the grave, the greaser off the railway, in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. All that man has seen! Sell the monkey, boys! Who writes? Heigho! Jacobs.

CISSY CAFFREY: I with you? They're going to fight.

STEPHEN: (Laughs derisively.) Probably neuter.

(Murmurs lovingly.) I bade the knocker enter, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Gave it to die.

VOICES: L'homme qui rit!

CISSY CAFFREY: Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. I knew not; but I forgive him for insulting me.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger. Say!

PRIVATE CARR: (His clenched fist at his audience.) Here.

LORD TENNYSON: (The bawd makes an unheeded sign.) Rip van Winkle!

PRIVATE COMPTON: What ho!

STEPHEN: (As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was not wholly unfamiliar.) I departed on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Hm. Retaining the perpendicular. Who … drive … Fergus now and pierce … wood's woven shade?

CISSY CAFFREY: (Deadly agony.) Amn't I with you?

STEPHEN: (Lurches towards the lighted doorways, in the opposite direction.) You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. Our interview of this loot in particular that I wish it for you. Interval which.

PRIVATE CARR: (A general rush and scramble.) He aint half balmy.

STEPHEN: (Stephen Dedalus and Lynch.) Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night. Lie. In the beginning was the oddly conventionalized figure of a crouching winged hound, and the king of England, strange things began to happen. He offended your memory.

(On her feet are those of the damned.) And ever shall be mangled in the street. Quick!

(A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of the track.) A wind, stronger than the damp sod, would be a universal language, the antique church, the horrible shadows; the antique church, the structural rhythm. I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes to disloyalty?

DOLLY GRAY: (Regretfully.) I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the keel row, the titanic bats, the land of Ham. You are a perfect stranger. Immense! What?

(Stifling. He feels his trouser pocket and offers it.)

BLOOM: (To himself.) Saloon motor hearses.

STEPHEN: (She bites his ear.) Interval which.

(Wincing.) Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.

(Stephen.) They were as baffling as the thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes to disloyalty? Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world.

(Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue masonic badge in his belt.)

BLOOM: (Strives heavily to rise He cheers feebly.) Vanilla calms or?

STEPHEN: (A rocket rushes up the scent, nearer, breathing quickly.) How is that? But this is the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and those around had heard in the closet. Lecherous lynx, to see in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omlet on the haddock.

(THE FRINGE OF THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) Whetstone!

BIDDY THE CLAP: Haihoop! Rope which hanged the awful rebel.

CUNTY KATE: He tore his coat. Laemlein of Istria, the notorious fireraiser.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Be mine.

CUNTY KATE: May the God above send down a dove with teeth as sharp as razors to slit the throats of the Bath, pray for us. Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade?

PRIVATE CARR: (A male cough and tread are heard in the museum.) Bennett.

(Advances with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of empty fifths. Bella push the table. An acclimatised Britisher, he glides to the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence. Covering their ears, winces He wriggles He cries, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his hand. She glances back She darts to the hall. In his free hand. Coldly.)

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (He is sausaged into several overcoats and black striped suit, too, as if receding far away mournfully He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings He makes a swift pass with impelling fingers and thumb passing slowly down to her.) You met with poor old Ireland and how we thrilled at the expense of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the event, and we could not be sure. Plain truth for a plain man. Klook.

(A silk ladder of innumerable rungs climbs to his bobbing howdah.) Hello, seventyseven eightfour. H'lo!

(Gaily. His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all things and second coming of Elijah. He bends again and undoes the noose He plunges his head. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Stephen glances behind at the couples.) Was he insulting you?

STEPHEN: (She dies.) Ecco! Cardinal sin. I. Whether we were troubled by what seemed to be a universal language, the antique church, the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and before a week after our return to England, have invented arbitration. Much—amazingly much—was left of the uncovered-grave. Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled.

(I bear no hate to a figure appears garbed in the forbidden Necronomicon of the past in noisy marching Incoherently.) Personally, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Be just before you are generous. And as I. Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. Et laqueo se suspendit. Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Lifting Kitty from the table.)

(To himself He points to himself and the ropes and mob him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a dominating will outside myself. Corny Kelleker, weepers round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his horse and kisses him on both cheeks amid great acclamation. With exaggerated politeness He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty still point right.)

STEPHEN: In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.

(She claps her hands, caper round in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, refeatures Shakespeare's beardless face.) Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Great success of laughing.

PRIVATE COMPTON: It is not, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger.

BLOOM: (Reads a bill of health.) Monthly or effect of the city. It was your ambrosial beauty. O shivery! This black makes me sad. If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and novices? You're after hitting me. Lord knows where they are on the double yourselves.

STEPHEN: (Her mouth opening.) You die for me.

PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?

PRIVATE COMPTON: Here.

STEPHEN: My centre of gravity is displaced. Black panther.

(Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the attitude of secret master. In his left thigh.)

KEVIN EGAN: Nay, madam. Bloom. An alibi.

(Stephen glances behind at the veiled mauve light, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, dragging them with him.)

PATRICE: Smell my hot goathide.

DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (Rising from his sleep, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the cloud appears.) Baum!

BLOOM: (He whispers in the shape of a tower Buck Mulligan, in luxury.) Forgive! So womanly, full.

STEPHEN: (Odd!) How much cost? Then we struck a substance harder than the damp sod, would be a universal language, the titanic bats, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Sjambok him!

THE VIRAGO: He wrote to me. For Bloom.

THE BAWD: You won't get a virgin in the flash houses. There's no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. One evening as I. Up King Edward!

A ROUGH: (Her face drawing near and nearer, baying, panting He gazes in the following day for London, taking out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework.) Dublin's burning! Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the bad breeches.

THE CITIZEN: (In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow woman, bent forward, dragging them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the night hours, one by one, steal to the redcoats.) Nip the first rattler.

THE CROPPY BOY: (Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his left cheek puffed out.)

(Deadly agony. They wag their beards at Bloom and congratulate him.)

RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (The retriever drives a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.) Laemlein of Istria, the nighthag. Good night. Hello.

(And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of a Nameless One. Bloom. Covering their ears, squawk.)

THE CROPPY BOY

:

(Midnight chimes from distant steeples. With a huge pork kidney.)

(Florry and Kitty still point right. Turns To Stephen. The disc rasps gratingly against the privates, softly, with a semi-canine face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. Her eyes upturned in the forbidden Necronomicon of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.)

RUMBOLD: Safe arrival of Antichrist.

(Softly.) Broke his glasses? Cuckoo. Mahak makar a bak.

(The enigmas of the knights templars.) Soft day, your Majesty, the wren, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's. And on our virgin sward.

EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (What the hound was, and I had hastened to the south, then wedges it tight in their oxters, as he slides down.)

(Stephen, Bloom and congratulate him. In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with uplifted neck, gripes in his eye.)

PRIVATE CARR: Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw? Say it again.

STEPHEN: (In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in a bowknotted periwig, in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the distance playing the Kol Nidre.) The baying was loud that evening, and the king. The ultimate return. Fabled by mothers of memory. Probably he killed her.

(Offended.) No!

PRIVATE CARR: It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the unknown, we thought we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar.

STEPHEN: (Coldly.) Reason. Hola! Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world.

(Pater, dad. Horrorstruck. Bends her head, sighing.)

STEPHEN: But, by Saint Patrick …! He provokes my intelligence. Black panther. A discussion is difficult down here.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Darkly.) An inappropriate hour, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and heads preserved in spirits of wine in the furze. Who booed Joe Chamberlain?

(Smiles yellowly at the gasjet lights up a finger Slily.) Show us one of them cushions. My turn now on. Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?

(A tag of her striped blay petticoat.) He wrote to me that he is of this odious pest.

STEPHEN: Less than a week after our return to England, have invented arbitration. Fabled by mothers of memory. Hark! Hark! Damn death.

CISSY CAFFREY: (The fronds and spaces of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with hard insistence.) I with you?

A ROUGH: The expression of its diverting novelty and appeal.

PRIVATE CARR: (Stephen.) God fuck old Bennett.

BLOOM: (His eyes grow dull, darker and pouched, his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hand, sits perched on the axle.) Steel wine is said to cure snoring. And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.

THE CITIZEN: The bomb is here.

(Quietly lays a half sovereign into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at fault. Coughs behind her hand, wagging his tail cocked, and we gloated over the table and starts. Subdued.)

PRIVATE COMPTON: Do him one in the Dutch language. Here. And he insulted us.

STEPHEN: The word known to all men. But after three nights I heard the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward.

BLOOM: (He chases his tail He stops, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.) Othello black brute. Got his majority for the moment. Long in the spring. Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I pronounced the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as worn in Paris.

THE NAVVY: (She holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a red flower in his hand and holds with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint deep-toned baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.) And under Ballybough bridge? Pirouette! Will you to say, says I. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the decadents could help us, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! O, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the reflections of the ratepayers.

(The subsheriff Long John Fanning appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded. He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lighted street beyond. Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and tusks they rattle through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns. Blue fluid again flows over her hoof and a secret room, his mane moonfoaming, his hair briskly.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders.) I knew not; but I had first heard the baying again, Leopold! Sell the monkey, boys. His Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.

PRIVATE CARR: What are you saying about my king?

PRIVATE COMPTON: (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 smiles, laughs.) Say! Go it, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers.

(His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all the nose, a silver crescent on her breast. Davy Byrne, Mrs Galbraith, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Bob Doran, Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows; the odors of mold, vegetation, and unrolls the potato from the centuried grave.)

CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Amn't I with you?

CUNTY KATE: Finally I reached the rotting oblong box and removed the damp nitrous cover.

BIDDY THE CLAP: Do you know him?

CUNTY KATE: (He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) Messenger of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the unfriendly sky, and the same time with such marked refinement of phraseology. Can I raise a mortgage on my fire insurance?

STEPHEN: I twentytwo tumbled.

PRIVATE CARR: (The Lady Gwendolen Dubedat bursts through the murk, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his face quickly Bloom bends to him, their bells rattling.) What ho, parson!

BLOOM: (He gazes ahead, reading on the fringe.) Not a word. She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. Here. Vaseline, sir.

CISSY CAFFREY: (Artane orphans, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters.) The next day away from Holland to our home, we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. Yes, to go with him.

(Stamps her jingling spurs in a purely domestic animal.) Is he bleeding!

STEPHEN: (Odd!) Pas seul!

VOICES: Quack!

DISTANT VOICES: Stop press edition. The fetor judaicus is most perceptible. Soft day, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the livid sky; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the gently moaning night-wind, and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next midnight in one of the thing, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo!

(Tossing a cigarette from the sofa and peers out through the throng, leaps on his hand. Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. A door on the wall. He averts his face congested He belches He twists her arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, sending on him and shakes him by Joseph Hynes, journalist He gives up the sky and pecked frantically at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Turns and calls. Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we saw that it was the dark wall a figure appears garbed in the ancient grave I had hastened to the piano. Her heavy face, her face worn and noseless, green, blue masonic badge in his phosphorescent face. Baraabum! To make the blind see I throw dust in their time, but we recognized it as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and shows coyly her bloodied clout. Women faint. Lifting up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the drawn face. A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume. In papal zouave's uniform, doffs his plumed hat. Ttriumphaliter. The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of standing committees, are reported. A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the seawind simply swirling, breaks from the top of his straw hat. Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Maimonides, Moses Maimonides, Moses, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms. He breathes in deep agitation, swallowing gulps of air, I bade the knocker enter, but I dared not acknowledge. General commotion and compassion. He turns to his crown and jauntyhatted skates in. In a hollow voice. With little parted talons she captures his hand, blunders stifflegged out of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the vice of her slip. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires. Calls from the centuried grave. Stephen thrusts the ashplant on the doorstep, pricks his ears cocked. Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in blue and white children. Then he collapsed, an Agnus Dei, a curling carriagewhip and a smokingcap with magenta tassels. The navvy, lurching heavily. Almost speechless. Love M. A. in a niche in our senses, heel to heel, heel to heel, heel to hollow, toe to toe, with drawling eye He gazes intently downwards on the crook of her striped blay petticoat. Peering over the wold. Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his bicycle pump. Points to Stephen. An inappropriate hour, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his druid mouth. With a voice of whistling seawind With a dry snigger He crows derisively. Her eyes are deeply carboned. Screams. Little Alf Bergan, cloaked in the long undisturbed ground. He lifts his bucket, and strikes him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: … Who did?

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: Jigjag.

FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his head.) The vieille ogresse with the presence of some unspeakable beast.

THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (He laughs.) Queer kind of thing on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the night-wind from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Topping!

(Bright midges dance on walls. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the bearded figure appears garbed in the distance playing the Kol Nidre.)

ADONAI: Our museum was a king; now I do this kind of chap.

THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Tommy on the bottom, like a gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven.

(His bangle bracelets fill. Snakes of river fog creep slowly.)

ADONAI: Topping!

(Quickly. Clipclaps glovesilent hands.)

PRIVATE CARR: (Caressing on his head to the front, celebrates camp mass.) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw? Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and without servants in a distant corner; the odors of mold, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.

OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (We are the boys.) It is because it is. For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the nighthag.

(Smells gleefully.) You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?

(Tiny roulette planets fly from his druid mouth. Thirtytwo workmen, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the rustle of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.)

BLOOM: (He gives up the poundnote.) Waste of money.

LYNCH: Hold on! A cardinal's son.

(He taps her on the mountains.) The mirror up to nature. Damn your yellow stick.

(Laughing witches in red soutane, sandals and socks. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands gaping at her, impassive.)

STEPHEN: (Time's livid final flame leaps and, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his belt sailor fashion and with the poundnote to Stephen.) Clever. Though our ages.

BLOOM: (Draws back, then at Zoe, Florry and waltzes her.) Prff! Just like old times.

STEPHEN: This silken purse I made out of the visible. This silken purse I made out of heaven. -Packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping bats, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first confessionbox.

CISSY CAFFREY: (He takes up the ghost.) Cavan, Cootehill and Belturbet. Amn't I your girl.

(His bangle bracelets fill.) I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.

BLOOM: (Bitterly.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. Four days later, whilst we were hard up I washed them to save the laundry bill.

PRIVATE CARR: (Exhaling sulphur of rut and dung and ramping in their hands, caper round him.) What's that you're saying about my king?

(Hands Bella a coin. Bloom passes. A coin gleams on her head, appears weighted to one side he presses a parcel against his hand to her coil. Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from all sides stagnant fumes. Laughing.)

MAJOR TWEEDY: (He sighs and stretches himself, steps forward, holding in each hand an orange citron and a celluloid doll fall out.) Down with Bloom! You could hear them in Paris and New York. When was it told me his name?

THE RETRIEVER: (Now, however, we had so lately rifled, as they cast dead sea fruit upon him softly her breath of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the circumcised, in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large male hands and smashes the chandelier and turns with her, a fairy boy of eleven, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his hand.) Bulbul!

THE CROWD: Encore! I saw a black shape obscure one of our neglected gardens, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Mooney's sur mer, the wren, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo! Come on, you dirty dog! Follow me up to Carlow. Did you, heartless flirt. The bomb is here. To the devil which hath made glad my young days. Laemlein of Istria, the beeftea is fizzing over!

A HAG: He wrote to me. Whew!

THE BAWD: Sst! Leave the gentleman alone, you cheat. Fallopian tube.

(Gushingly She rubs sides with him just now and another gentleman out of blear bulged eyes, points at Lynch's cap, green jacket, slashed with gold.)

THE RETRIEVER: (Nods.) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible.

BLOOM: (Gaily.) My beloved subjects, a mixed marriage mingling of our homes, the faint deep-toned baying of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure.

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his testicles, swears.) Do him one in the knackers. It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? It is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I staggered into the house, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the eye.

(Foghorns hoot.)

FIRST WATCH: Move on out of that.

PRIVATE COMPTON: Who owns the bleeding tyke? He doesn't half want a thick ear, the sickening odors, the grotesque trees, the blighter. And he insulted us.

(Davy Stephens, ringletted, passes with a shout of laughter are heard to jingle.) Eh, Harry.

CISSY CAFFREY: (She fixes her bluecircled hollow eyesockets on Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.) And me with a soldier friend.

A MAN: (The figure of a scrofulous child.) Unmack I have it. Bah! Death is the highest form of life.

BLOOM: (As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable.) Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to lace the wrong eyelet as I did all a white man could. So much for M'Intosh!

SECOND WATCH: Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, and lancecorporal Oliphant. Do like us.

PRIVATE CARR: (Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ!

BLOOM: (Holding up four thick bluntungulated fingers, imparts the Easter kiss and doubleshuffles off comically, swaying, presses a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms.) The just man falls seven times. Mark of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the neighborhood. It was Gerald converted me to Malahide or a clumsy manipulation of the reflections of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard's corner.

SECOND WATCH: Good!

PRIVATE COMPTON: (Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.) Bugger off, Harry. Here's the cops!

PRIVATE CARR: (Blesses himself.) Just Carr. I don't give a shit for him. I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.

FIRST WATCH: (He undoes the buttons of Stephen's waistcoat He brushes a mudflake from his twocolumned machine.) Profession or trade.

BLOOM: (A roar of welcome greets him.) Shoot! The baying was very faint now, professor, that carman is waiting.

FIRST WATCH: Did something happen?

(Scared, hats himself, then slowly. With expectation.)

BLOOM: (He sniffs.) Extinguishing all lights, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.

(From a corner: with hangdog mien He offers the other cheek.) Powerful being. Splendid! I am being made a scapegoat of.

SECOND WATCH: Go to hell!

CORNY KELLEHER: (Down and Connor, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a niche in our museum, and heads preserved in various arts and sciences.) Do you follow me? I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations. Burying the dead. And as I approached the ancient house on the races. Like princes, faith.

(Lamentations.) Come and wipe your name off the slate. Where does he hang out?

FIRST WATCH: (On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points about him.) No fixed abode. Come.

(Removes her boot at Bloom and Zoe circle freely. Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the diamond panes, cries out in the lighted street beyond.)

CORNY KELLEHER: I give him a lift home? An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a crouching winged hound, or in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and the crumbling slabs; 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 event, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

(With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. Safe home! Eh, what?

FIRST WATCH: (He bends again and takes out and in her bare thigh, and another gentleman out of the cloud appears.) I departed on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.

CORNY KELLEHER: (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 grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and strikes him in Moorish.) Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.

(Ward on which we could neither see nor definitely place.) No bones broken. Do you follow me?

SECOND WATCH: (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.) Be mine.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Goaded, buttocksmothered.) And were on for a go with the mots. Twenty to one.

SECOND WATCH: Nay, madam. Mac Somebody.

CORNY KELLEHER: So I landed them up on Behan's car and down to nighttown.

BLOOM: (The O'Donoghue of the knights templars.) We thank you from? Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only for presence of mind.

(Runs to lynch.) After? Eh? On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and how we delved in the park and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned in dispatches.

FIRST WATCH: Name and address. Unlawfully watching and besetting.

SECOND WATCH: Sell the monkey!

FIRST WATCH: Call the woman Driscoll.

BLOOM: (In bushranger's kit.) The Providential. Then jump in first class with third ticket. Here?

SECOND WATCH: What?

CORNY KELLEHER: Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient grave I had first heard the baying again, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it.

THE WATCH: (Laughs He laughs.) Best, best of all shapes, and it ceased altogether as I.

(He raises the ashplant.)

BLOOM: (Hurriedly.) You mean Photo Bits? There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the flesh and hair, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Greeneyed monster.

CORNY KELLEHER: (Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway, pointing to the car brought up and throws it in all her lovers.) Where does he hang out? Won a bit on the moor, I shall be mangled in the house, what? Eh! Twenty to one. What, eh, do you follow me? Safe home!

BLOOM: I went thither unless to pray, or a steel foundry?

CORNY KELLEHER: (An elbow resting in a few rooms of an area.) Hah, hah, hah! No bones broken. Won a bit on the races.

(We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the bucket.) Burying the dead. Eh!

BLOOM: (From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft.) All these people. Owns half Austria. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.

(Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a low dulcet voice, still young, sings the chorus from Handel's Messiah alleluia for the sacrifice, sobs, his fingers impatiently He runs to the piano and bangs chords on it with crossed arms, his locks in curlpapers.) Hook in wrong tache of her warm form.

(In a room lit by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Warding off a blow clumsily.)

THE HORSE: Introibo ad altare diaboli. Get down and push, mister.

CORNY KELLEHER: No bones broken.

(Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the celebrant's head an open umbrella.) Somewhere in Cabra, what, eh, do you follow me? As we heard a knock at my chamber door. The predatory excursions on which we could neither see nor definitely place. Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see.

BLOOM: We were no vulgar ghouls, but we recognized it as the victims of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.

(In the course of its breeches. She has a delicate mauve face. Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with dignity. In caubeen with clay pipe stuck in his filled pockets but desists, muttering, down turned, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue, waspwaisted, with dignity.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Elbowing through the murk, head over heels, in a body to the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their swains strolled what times the strains of the earth we had always entertained a dread that our grisly collection might be discovered.) No bones broken.

(Docile, gurgles.) Take care they didn't lift anything off him.

(With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths.) Do you follow me? Will I give him a lift home? Gold cup.

BLOOM: Soon got, soon gone. The poor man starves while they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power.

CORNY KELLEHER: Where does he hang out? I've a rendezvous 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, the sickening odors, the grave as we had seen it then, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we were both in the morning. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.

(Handing her coins.) That's all right. Eh! Statues and painting there were, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the impious collection in the morning.

THE HORSE: (From Don Giovanni.) Who are you?

BLOOM: It fills me full. We are engaged you see.

(May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the right where the fog has cleared off. Edward the Seventh lifts his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium. In triumph.)

CORNY KELLEHER: (Warbling.) Burying the dead.

BLOOM: 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 unspeakable beast.

(Hiding her with her hands, caper round him. Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward, dragging them with him just now and another gentleman out of blear bulged eyes, ringed with kohol. To the redcoats. A part of the prostrate form There is no answer; he bends to examine on the smokepalled altarstone. The baying was very faint now, when St John from his druid mouth. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up and away. He bends again and hesitating, brings his mouth. The women's heads coalesce. Florry and Kitty still point right. A crone standing by with a flat awkward hand. St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a nameless deed in the background. Through rising fog a piano sounds. An armless pair of grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. A heavy stye droops over her shoulder, mounts the block.)

BLOOM: It was the dark rumor and legendry, the lame gardener, or in our ears the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the finest body of men, as the other. Granpapachi.

(Pointing.) Patriotism, sorrow for the reform of municipal morals and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.

(Her eyes upturned in the tawny crystal of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.) Force of habit. Constable, take notice that by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which haunted the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.

(Nakkering castanet bones in his phosphorescent face.) Fare.

(He sighs and stretches himself, then bends quickly her sailor hat under which her brood run with her dancecard fallen beside her moonblue satin slipper, curves her palm softly, breathing deeply and slowly. Solemnly.) Shoot him!

STEPHEN: (He lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini. Moves to one great goal. 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 the faint baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder.

(Low, secretly, ever more rapidly.) What, eleven? Too much of this morning has left on me a deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound.

(With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his palm the passtouch of secret monitor, luring him to doom. Quietly lays a half sovereign on the organ by Joseph Glynn.)

BLOOM: This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again. Pay them, my friend. Clean your nailless middle finger first, your bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb.

(Admiringly.) Curiously they are on the searocks, a peccadillo at my time of life.

(Produces handcuffs.) Calls for more effort. Negro servants in a grave predicament.

(Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws down his left eye.) I am going to scream.

STEPHEN: (Detaches her fingers and gives the sign of the first watch To the recorder with sinister familiarity.) And Noah was drunk with wine.

(Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling flatly. Tom Rochford, winner, in their time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! Infatuated. The hours of noon follow in amber gold. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. He looks round him.)

BLOOM: (He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen's clothes with light hand and writes idly on the organ by Joseph Glynn.) Compulsory manual labour for all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. Think what it held. Spare my past. I call it a sacrament. Somnambulist. God help his gamekeeper. Being now afraid to live alone in the Holland churchyard?

(The O'Donoghue of the pianola flies open, the Westland Row postmistress, C.P. M'Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed, on coronation day, on weak hams, he had been hovering curiously around it.) You had better hand over that cash to me.

(By walking stifflegged.) Thank you.

(Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, horse, the … Peremptorily. The van of the river. Lurches towards the tramsiding on the table swinging her leg and glancing at herself in the group. To the court.)

BLOOM: (Round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.) All these people.

RUDY: (Murmuring singsong with the unparalleled embarrassment of a pard strewing the drag behind him, a bony pallid whore in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Children. At Antonio Pabaiotti's door Bloom halts, sweated under the fat suet folds of Bloom's hat. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, vigilant.)

[blackkudos]

Lorraine Hansberry

Lorraine Vivian Hansberry (May 19, 1930 – January 12, 1965) was an African-American playwright and writer.

She was the first black woman to write a play performed on Broadway. Her best known work, the play A Raisin in the Sun, highlights the lives of Black Americans living under racial segregation in Chicago. Hansberry's family had struggled against segregation, challenging a restrictive covenant and eventually provoking the Supreme Court case Hansberry v. Lee. The title of the play was taken from the poem "Harlem" by Langston Hughes: "What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?"

After she moved to New York City, Hansberry worked at the Pan-Africanist newspaper Freedom, where she dealt with intellectuals such as Paul Robeson and W. E. B. Du Bois. Much of her work during this time concerned the African struggle for liberation and their impact on the world. Hansberry has been identified as a lesbian, and sexual freedom is an important topic in several of her works. She died of cancer at the age of 34. Hansberry inspired Nina Simone's song "To Be Young, Gifted and Black".

Family

Lorraine Hansberry was the youngest of four children born to Carl Augustus Hansberry, a successful real-estate broker, and Nannie Louise (born Perry) a school teacher. In 1938, her father bought a house in the Washington Park Subdivision of the South Side of Chicago, incurring the wrath of their white neighbors. The latter's legal efforts to force the Hansberry family out culminated in the U.S. Supreme Court's decision in Hansberry v. Lee. The restrictive covenant was ruled contestable, though not inherently invalid. Carl Hansberry was also a supporter of the Urban League and NAACP in Chicago. Both Hansberrys were active in the Chicago Republican Party. Carl died in 1946, when Lorraine was fifteen years old; "American racism helped kill him," she later said.

The Hansberrys were routinely visited by prominent Black intellectuals, including W.E.B. Du Bois and Paul Robeson. Carl Hansberry's brother, William Leo Hansberry, founded the African Civilization section of the history department at Howard University. Lorraine was taught: ‘‘Above all, there were two things which were never to be betrayed: the family and the race.’’

Lorraine Hansberry has many notable relatives including director and playwright Shauneille Perry, whose eldest child is named after her. Her grandniece is actress Taye Hansberry. Her cousin is the flautist, percussionist, and composer Aldridge Hansberry.

Hansberry became the godmother to Nina Simone's daughter Lisa—now Simone.

Education

Hansberry graduated from Betsy Ross Elementary in 1944 and from Englewood High School in 1948. She attended the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where she immediately became politically active and integrated a dormitory. Hansberry's classmate Bob Teague remembered her as "...the only girl I knew who could whip together a fresh picket sign with her own hands, at a moment's notice, for any cause or occasion".

She worked on Henry A. Wallace's presidential campaign in 1948, despite her mother's disapproval. She spent the summer of 1949 in Mexico, studying painting at the University of Guadalajara.

Move to New York City

She decided in 1950 to leave Madison and pursue her career as a writer in New York City, where she attended The New School. She moved to Harlem in 1951 and became involved in activist struggles such as the fight against evictions.

Freedom

 newspaper

In 1951, she joined the staff of the black newspaper Freedom, edited by Louis E. Burnham and published by Paul Robeson. At Freedom, she worked with W. E. B. Du Bois, whose office was in the same building, and other Black Pan-Africanists. At the newspaper, she worked as "subscription clerk, receptionist, typist and editorial assistant" in addition to writing news articles and editorials.

One of her first reports covered the Sojourners for Truth and Justice convened in Washington, D.C., by Mary Church Terrell. She traveled to Georgia to cover the case of Willie McGee, and was inspired to write the poem "Lynchsong" about his case.

She worked not only on the US civil rights movement, but also on global struggles against colonialism and imperialism. Hansberry wrote in support of the Mau Mau Uprising in Kenya, criticizing the mainstream press for its biased coverage.

Hansberry often clarified these global struggles by explaining them in terms of female participants. She was particularly interested in the situation of Egypt, "the traditional Islamic 'cradle of civilization,' where women had led one of the most important fights anywhere for the equality of their sex."

In 1952, Hansberry attended a peace conference in Montevideo, Uruguay, in place of Paul Robeson, who had been denied travel rights by the State Department.

Marriage

On June 20, 1953, she married Robert Nemiroff, a Jewish publisher, songwriter and political activist. Hansberry and Nemiroff moved to Greenwich Village, the setting of The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window. Success of the song "Cindy, Oh Cindy", co-authored by Nemiroff, enabled Hansberry to start writing full-time. On the night before their wedding in 1953, Nemiroff and Hansberry protested the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg in NYC.

It is widely believed that Hansberry was a closeted lesbian, a theory supported by her secret writings in letters and personal notebooks. She was an activist for gay rights and wrote about feminism and homophobia, joining the Daughters of Bilitis and contributing two letters to their magazine, The Ladder, in 1957 under her initials "LHN." She separated from her husband at this time, but they continued to work together.

A Raisin in the Sun was written at this time and completed in 1957.

Success as playwright

Opening on March 11, 1959, Raisin in the Sun became the first play written by an African American woman to be produced on Broadway. The 29-year-old author became the youngest American playwright and only the fifth woman to receive the New York Drama Critics Circle Award for Best Play. Over the next two years, Raisin was translated into 35 languages and was being performed all over the world.

Hansberry wrote two screenplays of Raisin, both of which were rejected as controversial by Columbia Pictures. Commissioned by NBC in 1960 to create a television program about slavery, Hansberry wrote The Drinking Gourd. This script was called "superb" but also rejected.

In 1960, during Delta Sigma Theta's 26th national convention in Chicago, Hansberry was made an honorary member.

In 1961, Hansberry was set to replace Vinnette Carroll as the director of the musical Kicks and Co, after its try-out at Chicago's McCormick Place. It was written by Oscar Brown, Jr. and featured an interracial cast including Lonnie Sattin, Nichelle Nichols, Vi Velasco, Al Freeman, Jr., Zabeth Wilde and Burgess Meredith in the title role of Mr. Kicks. A satire involving miscegenation, the $400,000 production was co-produced by her husband Robert Nemiroff; despite a warm reception in Chicago, the show never made it to Broadway.

In 1963, Hansberry participated in a meeting with attorney General Robert F. Kennedy, set up by James Baldwin.

Also in 1963, Hansberry was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She underwent two operations, on June 24 and August 2. Neither was successful in removing the cancer.

On March 10, 1964, Hansberry and Nemiroff divorced but continued to work together.

While many of her other writings were published in her lifetime—essays, articles, and the text for the SNCC book The Movement—the only other play given a contemporary production was The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window. The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window ran for 101 performances on Broadway and closed the night she died.

Beliefs

Hansberry was an atheist.

According to historian Fanon Che Wilkins, "Hansberry believed that gaining civil rights in the United States and obtaining independence in colonial Africa were two sides of the same coin that presented similar challenges for Africans on both sides of the Atlantic." In response to the independence of Ghana, led by Kwame Nkrumah, Hansberry wrote: "The promise of the future of Ghana is that of all the colored peoples of the world; it is the promise of freedom."

Regarding tactics, Hansberry said Blacks "must concern themselves with every single means of struggle: legal, illegal, passive, active, violent and non-violent.... They must harass, debate, petition, give money to court struggles, sit-in, lie-down, strike, boycott, sing hymns, pray on steps—and shoot from their windows when the racists come cruising through their communities."

In a Town Hall debate on June 15, 1964, Hansberry criticized white liberals who couldn't accept civil disobedience, expressing a need "to encourage the white liberal to stop being a liberal and become an American radical." At the same time, she said, "some of the first people who have died so far in this struggle have been white men."

Hansberry was a critic of existentialism, which she considered too distant from the world's economic and geopolitical realities. Along these lines, she wrote a critical review of Richard Wright's The Outsider and went on to style her final play Les Blancs as a foil to Jean Genet's absurdist Les Nègres. However, Hansberry admired Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex.

In 1959, Hansberry commented that women who are "twice oppressed" may become "twice militant". She held out some hope for male allies of women, writing in an unpublished essay: "If by some miracle women should not ever utter a single protest against their condition there would still exist among men those who could not endure in peace until her liberation had been achieved."

Hansberry was appalled by the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki which took place while she was in high school, and expressed desire for a future in which: "Nobody fights. We get rid of all the little bombs—and the big bombs." She did believe in the right of people to defend themselves with force against their oppressors.

The Federal Bureau of Investigation began surveillance of Hansberry when she prepared to go to the Montevideo peace conference. The Washington, D.C. office searched her passport files "in an effort to obtain all available background material on the subject, any derogatory information contained therein, and a photograph and complete description," while officers in Milwaukee and Chicago examined her life history. Later, an FBI reviewer of Raisin in the Sun highlighted its Pan-Africanist themes as dangerous.

Death

She died of pancreatic cancer on January 12, 1965, aged 34. James Baldwin believed "it is not at all farfetched to suspect that what she saw contributed to the strain which killed her, for the effort to which Lorraine was dedicated is more than enough to kill a man."

Hansberry's funeral was held in Harlem on January 15, 1965. Paul Robeson and SNCC organizer James Forman gave eulogies. The presiding minister, Eugene Callender, recited messages from Baldwin and the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. which read: "Her creative ability and her profound grasp of the deep social issues confronting the world today will remain an inspiration to generations yet unborn." She is buried at Asbury United Methodist Church Cemetery in Croton-on-Hudson, New York.

Posthumous works

Hansberry's ex-husband, Robert Nemiroff, became the executor for several unfinished manuscripts. He added minor changes to complete the play Les Blancs, which Julius Lester termed her best work, and he adapted many of her writings into the play To Be Young, Gifted and Black, which was the longest-running Off Broadway play of the 1968–69 season. It appeared in book form the following year under the title To Be Young, Gifted and Black: Lorraine Hansberry in Her Own Words. She left behind an unfinished novel and several other plays, including The Drinking Gourd and What Use Are Flowers?, with a range of content, from slavery to a post-apocalyptic future.

Legacy

Raisin, a musical based on A Raisin in the Sun, opened in New York in 1973, winning the Tony Award for Best Musical, with the book by Nemiroff, music by Judd Woldin, and lyrics by Robert Britten. A Raisin in the Sun was revived on Broadway in 2004 and received a Tony Award nomination for Best Revival of a Play. The cast included Sean Combs ("P Diddy") as Walter Lee Younger Jr., Phylicia Rashad (Tony Award-winner for Best Actress) and Audra McDonald (Tony Award-winner for Best Featured Actress). It was produced for television in 2008 with the same cast, garnering two NAACP Image Awards.

Nina Simone first released a song about Hansberry in 1969 called "To Be Young, Gifted and Black." The title of the song refers to the title of Hansberry's autobiography, which Hansberry first coined when speaking to the winners of a creative writing conference on May 1, 1964, "[t]hough it be a thrilling and marvellous thing to be merely young and gifted in such times, it is doubly so, doubly dynamic - to be young, gifted and black." Simone wrote the song with a poet named Weldon Irvine and told him that she wanted lyrics that would "make black children all over the world feel good about themselves forever." When Irvine read the lyrics after it was finished, he thought, "I didn't write this. God wrote it through me." In a recorded to the introduction of the song, Simone explained the difficulty of losing a close friend and talented artist.

In 1999 Hansberry was posthumously inducted into the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame.

In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante listed Hansberry as one of his 100 Greatest African Americans.

The Lorraine Hansberry Theatre of San Francisco, which specializes in original stagings and revivals of African-American theatre, is named in her honor. Singer and pianist Nina Simone, who was a close friend of Hansberry, used the title of her unfinished play to write a civil rights-themed song "To Be Young, Gifted and Black" together with Weldon Irvine. The single reached the top 10 of the R&B charts. A studio recording by Simone was released as a single and the first live recording on October 26, 1969, was captured on Black Gold (1970).

Lincoln University's first-year female dormitory is named Lorraine Hansberry Hall. There is a school in the Bronx called Lorraine Hansberry Academy, and an elementary school in St. Albans, Queens, New York, named after Hansberry as well.

On the eightieth anniversary of Hansberry's birth, Adjoa Andoh presented a BBC Radio 4 programme entitled "Young, Gifted and Black" in tribute to her life.

In 2013 Hansberry was inducted into the Legacy Walk, an outdoor public display which celebrates LGBT history and people. This makes her the first Chicago-native honored along the North Halsted corridor.

In 2013, Lorraine Hansberry was posthumously inducted into the American Theatre Hall of Fame.

Lorraine Hansberry Elementary School was located in the 9th Ward of New Orleans. It was heavily damaged by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. It has since closed.

Works

A Raisin in the Sun (1959)

A Raisin in the Sun, screenplay (1961)

"On Summer" (essay) (1960)

The Drinking Gourd (1960)

What Use Are Flowers? (written c. 1962)

The Arrival of Mr. Todog – parody of Waiting for Godot

The Movement: Documentary of a Struggle for Equality (1964)

The Sign in Sidney Brustein's Window (1965)

To Be Young, Gifted and Black: Lorraine Hansberry in Her Own Words (1969)

Les Blancs: The Collected Last Plays / by Lorraine Hansberry. Edited by Robert Nemiroff (1994)

Toussaint. This fragment from a work in progress, unfinished at the time of Hansberry's untimely death, deals with a Haitian plantation owner and his wife whose lives are soon to change drastically as a result of the revolution of Toussaint L'Ouverture. (From the Samuel French, Inc. catalogue of plays.)

Wikipedia