#damn jesters back eating my brain again
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I feel like I go back to DCA every few months despite saying I left it long ago these damn jesters have this death grasp on me
#bearz rambling tag#anyway#I’m working on both AP chapter 3 and a smal witch story au#but#hw2 happened#gitm happened#damn jesters back eating my brain again
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Dressed Up To The Eyes - Chapter 4
This is still salvageable, Dusa did say she likes her.
Full Series
"Quit fucking avoiding me, Dusa."
Jester had cornered her in the hangar after a mission. She had to hide in a fucking crate because Medusa wouldn't leave her goddamn mech until she thought she was gone.
"Jester."
"Don't you fucking 'Jester' me. I like you."
"You like a girl that you imagined when you saw a mask." Medusa said, emotionless.
"She can sit and spin, I like you."
"Jester. You know nothing about me. Pretending was fun, move on."
Medusa looked weary. Pained. And that was absolute horseshit in Jester's opinion.
"Why are you so fucking sure I can't like you, huh?" She asked, pissed that anyone, even Dusa herself, thought that she was unlovable.
"Jester."
"Tell me!"
"This whole thing started because you thought I might be pretty under the mask."
"No, this whole thing started because I know your eyes are pretty. You planning on fucking getting rid of them?"
"No."
"So what's the issue here?"
Medusa folded her arms, frustrated.
"I cannot give you what you want. Lack the parts. Brain in a fucking jar, Jester."
"I'll manage, Dusa. Let me try." Jester pleaded.
"Why."
"Because I want to!"
"You pity me." Medusa said, and tried to walk away.
"Hey! I'm not done talking to you! Don't fucking give me that!"
Jester cut her off again, furious.
"Do you think I'm that fucking shallow? Is that it?"
"No."
"You think I think less of you now?"
"No."
"Do you, do you not like me?"
"I like you fine. Already told you that." Medusa said, averting her eyes.
"Cool. We're going on a date."
"Jester."
"Give me one good fucking reason we shouldn't. And don't try telling me it's because I don't want to."
Medusa fidgeted, refused to look at her.
"Liked this better when I was in charge."
"Hey, play your cards right and I'll beg you to do more weird robo-domme shit. Now c'mon, I have a movie and popcorn at my place."
~
Medusa sat on the edge of Jester's bunk, eyes on a laptop paused on the title screen of the newest godawful military blockbuster.
"Um, okay it just occurred to me to ask, can you eat popcorn? Or anything?" Asked Jester, fiddling with her shitty microwave.
"No. Thought that counts."
"Okay. Drink? I've seen you making tea, you must be able to drink."
"Can drink."
"Beer?"
"Cannot become intoxicated."
"…Don't suppose you like the taste?"
"I do not."
"I could make coffee?"
"Sure."
She filled up the coffee machine and flicked it on. Watched it bubble in silence for a minute.
"I'm- I'm gonna put my foot in my mouth here, but I just want to understand. What exactly is uh. Your whole, situation? You don't have to answer."
"Extremely classified."
"Okay, yeah, that's cool-"
"Tell you anyway."
"Coool. Cool cool cool." Jester said, internally freaking the fuck out.
"Direct pneumatic hammer blow to the cockpit. Most of body pulverized. Died almost instantly."
"Died?"
"Extremely classified. Very good pilot. Brain intact. Wake up few months later in government black site, new body. Good enough to ship back out, lacking human elements."
"Holy shit, Dusa."
Medusa nodded. "Talk normally in my mind. Gets sent through second rate neural interface, sound like robot caveman." She closed her eyes. "I can manage just robot if I focus, but it takes effort."
"Damn."
She nodded again. "Minimum viable product. Enough to pilot."
"And you still need to drink? And what, eat nutrient paste? You don't just have batteries?"
Medusa shook her head. "Have batteries. Brain still thinks it needs food and sleep, freaks out."
"That sucks."
"Yeah."
The coffee was done. She poured two mugs and brought them over, handed one to Medusa. Watched as she removed her face, grabbed the edge of her throat tube and pulled it out, unspooling it until it dangled out of her head like a straw.
"…Huh."
"Do not have to watch." Medusa said, looking away out of embarrassment.
"It's fine, just wasn't really sure what to expect."
Medusa dipped the straw into her mug.
"Needs sugar."
"I might have a few packets around?"
Medusa waved her off. "Not important."
"So you can still taste things?"
"Tube has sensors."
"Any particular preferences I should stock up on?"
"Getting ahead of yourself. First date."
"I'm hopeful." Jester shrugged. "Dusaaa. You say I know nothing about you, tell me shit about you."
Medusa shrugged.
"Sweet things. Tea with sugar. Juice. Not orange. Taste is fine, pulp clogs filter."
"You know, people tell me I'm sweet. Would you like a taste?" Jester said suggestively.
"Jester." Medusa said, looking at her warily.
Jester tenderly took the tube in her hand, pressed her mouth to the end in an approximation of a kiss. She gently pressed the tip of her tongue into the opening, wiggled it around.
Medusa looked at her like she had two heads.
"Jester. What the fuck."
"Yeah, I, uh-" Jester said, letting go and turning away. "That- In my head that was, sexy? I guess?"
"Never again."
"Yeah that was so weird I'm sorry. Movie time?"
"Movie time."
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hulu & woohoo
summary: But there’s more important matters to attend to than Jungkook’s Jersey Shore boner. warnings: slight feelings of insecurity, smut; fingering, cunnilingus, cum eating, squirting, handjobs, unprotected, riding, slight praise kink misc: if you’re not a Jersey shore fan honestly GET OUT, mentions of capitalism😡, more kind/understanding kook, basically a “what are we?” fic but silly, irresponsible emailing habits, its so dumb just read wc: 6.3k
[ this is a sequel to netflix & chill !! ]
started off silly then I was like 😳what if we sprinkled in a dilemma™️😳 anyway here’s the kook i imagined for this fic <3
Contrary to popular belief, Jungkook does in fact have his own paid subscription to Netflix. He doesn’t ride on his family account anymore, nor does he swindle his friends into sharing their passwords ‘just once.’ Just like everything else about his mature persona, Jungkook is adamant on paying those ten and something dollars for the streaming platform.
However, his fall into capitalism doesn’t end there.
Among other things, Jungkook also pays for Hulu, Amazon Prime, Disney Plus, HBO, as well as a couple indie stuff you’ve never heard of in all your years. He’s a bigger nerd than you originally thought, with an incessant need to watch every single piece of media available.
Frankly, you don’t see the need to own so many different streaming services, especially not when pirating websites exist and you could so easily watch Jersey Shore for free, if you’re not too concerned with infecting your laptop with every software virus known to humankind. Luckily for you, your app developer boo with his—admittedly tiny—knowledge in computers can iron out those issues for you.
It’s moments like these, Jungkook fiddling with the internal system settings of your laptop to the best of his abilities, that you find yourself grateful for having met Jungkook, and even if it’s been a little over two months now and he still hasn’t popped the question (“Will you be my girlfriend?”), you’d still kiss him silly.
He sighs for the umpteenth time, rubbing his eyes as he stares at the same system warning on the screen. “Babe, just pay the six bucks for Hulu and you can watch all the Jersey Shore episodes you want,” he says, leaning back in his chair as he stares at you from across the dining table.
You scoff, almost scandalized by his suggestion. “You think I have the resources to hand over six bucks every month?” You abandon your homework in front of you, the one you had so dutifully been working on before your computer was flooded with about a thousand Hot Moms in YOUR Area! notifications before abruptly shutting down. “Buddy, that's lunch at Starbucks.”
Jungkook clicks around a few more times, round glasses sliding down his nose which he will occasionally scrunch up to save from falling. “First of all, lunch at Starbucks sounds sad,” he retorts, and you kick his shin from beneath the table. He doesn’t even flinch, the damn muscle bunny, instead leveling you with an unimpressed glare. “Second of all, I told you I’d give you my passwords but you said—“
“No!” You exclaim.
Call it what you want, but that rose-tinted image of Jungkook being a saint in this world, too sweet and naive for his own good, never faded. Your brain saw it that night of your first date and ran with it, never mind the fact he was quite the devious scoundrel, gentlemanly perception be damned the way he’d tug at your skirts and your hair in public like you were on the playground, always teasing, always playing with you, so discreetly no one would ever see it coming from him, of all people. Your brain saw all that too, the little childish streak he’d get sometimes, but your heart stomped it out, wrapped up in the image of Jungkook being your golden boy, and you couldn’t possibly take advantage of such an angel’s kindness to mooch off his streaming services.
From across the table, Jungkook gives you a pointed look, as if he knows you’re trapped in that brain of yours again. Unlike you, Jungkook was easily able to pick apart your true personality, and the way the devil on your shoulder spoke more often than not. He knew you were prone to outrageous schemes and evil villain monologues, and he still kept you around. Let you linger around his home in his big shirts and eat his healthy breakfasts with him. Jungkook liked you, as silly and mean as you were, and he was very obvious about it.
“The password—“
“Is none of my business,” you halt him with a tone of finality in your voice, gesturing for him to slide the beat up laptop back over. Jungkook sighs, runs a hand over his face like you’ve worn him out, but relents.
Taking it with a triumphant grin, you settle back into your seat, nudge his foot with yours beneath the table. Jungkook nudges you back, the adorable fuzzy socks he was wearing making you giggle, a sound that finally brings a smile to his face. “Y’know…” he says, “if you’re gonna be the Disney villain you claim to be, you might as well just take all my passwords.”
Rolling your eyes, you focus your attention back on copying some notes for class, falling back into the rhythm of glancing at the screen and back at your notebook. “You’re cute,” you mindlessly hum, taking great pleasure in the rosy hue that rises to his cheeks, one he tries to hide by coughing into his elbow. You set your pencil down, watch him squirm under your gaze like he always does, blushy and shy like he hadn’t had you twisted like a pretzel beneath him an hour ago. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching over to place your hand over his, where it’s idly tapping over some textbook he’s got out. Immediately, he turns it over, squeezes your palm in his. “I don’t mind getting thirty two viruses an hour.”
The reluctant worry in his gaze remains, sweet puppy eyes flickering over you as if trying to catch a hint of a lie. He was so adorable, you could kiss him silly. Finally, Jungkook gives in, though he does so with a lot of effort; letting you fool around on pirating websites truly was the bane of his existence. “Just bring it to me if it breaks down again, okay?” He settles, and you nod.
To your surprise, he brings your hand up and presses a kiss to the back of your knuckles, holds your gaze like he absolutely adores you.
He was so handsome, so caring, and so blatantly not yours.
—
“Not heading to your boyfriend's house today?” Doyeon asks the second she steps into your shared dorm, fighting with the boots on her feet. In the last two months of knowing Jungkook (everybody say thank you, Kim Namjoon), it’s become rare to see you home for more than two nights in a row. Jungkook was irresistible in more ways than you could count. If you weren’t falling into bed with him, you were smothering his cute face on the couch, or hovering behind him in the kitchen.
“Not my boyfriend,” you deny, huffy, and she knows how you feel about the subject, which is why she only prods more.
“Wow,” Doyeon drawls, glancing over your shoulder where you’ve got Jersey Shore playing on one half of the screen, an essay document on the other. “The man you see every other night, who looks and fucks like a god, who buys you a shit ton of presents, and treats you like you’re his world… is not your boyfriend?”
On screen, the toxic couple of the century is engaged in another screaming match, the reality tv show quickly spiraling as dramatic music takes over the speakers.
You scratch the back of your head. “Yeah. Well.”
Doyeon almost combusts at your response, flinging herself onto her twin bed in disgust. “He is a fool, a court jester if you will,” she seethes. “You're the hottest babe in a fifteen mile radius chasing after him and he still hasn’t asked you?”
Deciding you can’t comfortably watch the toxicity on screen with Doyeon talking so loudly, you slam down on the spacebar to pause the show. The fickity website, set out to ruin you since you first discovered it a few weeks ago, crashes. It takes your half-assed essay with it as the whole computer suddenly blacks out. You sigh.
“And on top of that,” she’s still going, “you’re hot and evil. Like bro. Come on.”
“Yes, I’m sure every man dreams of getting with an evil seductress,” you sarcastically reply, reaching for your phone to text Jungkook for help, when you suddenly remember why exactly you’re not with him right now. He’d gone to Busan to visit his family this weekend, a quick trip, he’d told you with his tongue down your throat. You shiver at the memory.
You still really want to watch Jersey Shore, though. Almost desperately. It’d been a long time since you watched it, and you honestly forgot the pivotal role that and a bunch of other reality shows had played in shaping you into the conniving woman you were today.
Doyeon seems about done with her tirade against Jeon Jungkook, dramatically storming into the en-suite bathroom you share with your neighbors.
Tapping your phone against your lip, you carefully consider your options. You could just boot your laptop back up, pray for the best and move on. But the 240p episodes were doing a number on your eyes, and for a moment you considered handing over those six bucks to pay for a Hulu membership.
It’s short-lived, and eventually you settle on calling Jungkook.
He answers on the fourth ring, and wherever he is is insanely loud. There’s voices shouting, lots of bustling, until eventually a door closes and Jungkook’s silky voice oozes through the speaker. “Baby? What’s up?”
“Hi,” you respond, feel something disgustingly sweet settle in your chest. “Is this a bad time?” You ask tentatively.
Jungkook laughs, low and raspy. “No,” he tells you, and you hear the smile in his voice. “Never a bad time for you.”
You could lunge through the screen right now, rain kisses down on his face until he’s giggling, telling you it’s too much. The feeling in your chest tightens, and you almost blurt out something embarrassingly cheesy, but a voice in the background calls for him, and Jungkook’s voice responds, “In a sec, mom. I’m talking to a friend right now.”
The glass roof shatters.
Even though you’d just told Doyeon you two weren’t a thing, despite all the coupley things you did, something about Jungkook telling his mom you’re just a friend isn't right. You frown, listen as his mother, a voice just as delicate as his, asks him to grab something from inside. With each second that ticks by, the discomfort you feel grows tenfold, until you’re barely holding yourself together.
Eventually, Jungkook returns. “So what’s up?” He asks again, and you remember what you initially called for. Putting on your big girl pants, you brush your uncalled for insecurities to the side, making sure he can’t detect anything in your tone.
“Your Hulu password. Can I have it?” You say, realize how robotical your voice sounds and belatedly throw in a, “please.”
Jungkook laughs, loud and boyish. The sound almost makes you melt, makes you fall for him even more. The niggling doubt in the back of your head still rings, but it’s temporarily washed away by the man on the phone. “Finally giving in?” He chuckles, doesn’t give you time to respond. “Sure, babe. I’ll text you the login stuff.” You hum, twirl your pencil idly as Jungkook announces he has to go, something about his family waiting on him. You bid him adieu, send him a halfhearted kiss over the phone, and only hope he feels half as content as you do when he does the same for you.
You don’t want to be dramatic about it. In your heart of hearts, you know Jungkook is just more reserved when it comes to dating. He wants to be one hundred percent sure your heart is in the same game as his, tied to the same rules, and putting in the same effort. But there’s a seed of insecurity that plants itself in the back of your head, tells you the reason Jungkook hasn’t asked you out is simply because you’re not good enough.
Jungkook was as rich as they come—not in money, but in personality. (Well, with the way he was advancing through his career, you get the sense he’ll be rich rich in the next few years too.) He had a huge heart, so caring and supportive of those around him, and an even bigger moral compass—hence the ridiculous amounts of streaming services he paid for—and you strongly believed no one was worthy of standing beside someone as wonderful as him.
Sadly, that meant you too.
Jungkook was your dream lover, and with every passing day, you were beginning to think you weren’t his. It had been two months since your first date, and realistically speaking, you know it’s not weird for people to casually date for such a time. It hadn’t been that long, truthfully, but the way you and Jungkook had clicked made it seem so.
He treated you like a queen, pleased your heart and body like no other. None of what Doyeon said earlier was a fib—he picked you up from school in that classy Benz, let you stay the night and sleep in his clothes, ate you out in the morning like you were his breakfast. You acted like you were in a relationship, but what exactly were the two of you?
Were Jungkook’s feelings even at the same level as yours?
Some days, you couldn’t fathom the idea of being so far away from him, texting him incessantly to feel a semblance of his presence. There was always a metaphorical elephant sitting on your chest, the weight of your unlabeled relationship, your insecurities, waiting for him to finally cut you off, decide you’re not what he wants. You wonder sometimes if he sees you out of convenience, but you always remind yourself Jungkook was too emotional and soft to drag someone around like that. (Or was he?)
Realizing how deep you’ve fallen into your spiraling pit of uncertainty, you shake yourself of those thoughts, mindlessly typing in the Hulu login credentials Jungkook texts you.
—
You’re in the student center when Jungkook comes home, laptop and books spread out over a circle table to stop anyone else from coming up to you. You’ve got your headphones in, the background sounds of late 2000’s club music from a Jersey Shore episode drifting through your ears.
A hand suddenly grabs onto your shoulder, and you send nearly half the table’s contents onto the floor when you screech, leg blindly kicking the table. “Woah, woah,” Jungkook calms, pulling out an earbud for you, and the sight of his face makes you relax again, before you’re striking his chest.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” you warn, shooting daggers at him as he pulls a chair close to you, plopping down beside you. Jungkook laughs, kisses your temple.
“You doing okay, beautiful?” He inquires, and your heartbeat, which had only just begun to settle from your fright, lurches at the hooded gaze he sends you.
You nod, unconsciously lean closer to him. Jungkook smiles, cheeks pulled tight when you plant a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Glad to hear it,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to keep you close.
You never thought you’d be one of those people. Y’know, the couple shoving PDA down everyone’s throats in a very crowded place. But you can’t help it with Jungkook, gaze honed in on the mole beneath his lip as he recounts his trip to his family’s place. His hair is fluffy again, parted a little to the side to show his forehead. He’s got that big dark hoodie on, the one you love. Your love-addled brain thinks, I could give you a family, but you quickly shut that thought down.
There was no need to think as much for a man who wasn’t even your boyfriend.
Before you can spiral, there’s a set of fingers brushing over your neck, almost casually. You return your attention to Jungkook, watch him leisurely gaze over the bustling students around you. “Missed you,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear. Hell, if your eyes hadn’t been trained on his face, you don’t think you would’ve.
Finally, he glances back at you. He says nothing, his eyes dipping down to your mouth. He leans forward, presses a smooch to your lips, only to smile at you afterward. “Come over?”
The difference between you and Jungkook is that you were very obviously, outwardly evil. You were not embarrassed to admit you were scheming, or that you had ulterior motives behind doing something. You used what you had to your advantage, mastered all types of expressions to get what you wanted.
Jungkook, on the other hand, was a subtle schemer. In fact, he was so goddamn subtle, you doubt he even knew he was a schemer.
But he definitely was one, and your experiences with him were enough to convince you so. There were times he’d stare at you longingly, like a puppy, until you’d do something for him. Times he’d use his demure face to lure you into going to the hardware store for him, into watching some boring documentary with him. Times, like now, where his voice was a little too smooth and low to be considered his normal pitch, clouded gaze sweeping over your features until you understood what he meant by come over.
Numbly, you nod, watch the quirk of his lips as he kisses you once more before gathering your things for you.
The car ride passes by in a flash, Jungkook’s hand on your knee, your head in the clouds. You imagine how easy it would be to just lean over right here, tug him out of his sweats and get that super suck 5000 on him. But Jungkook’s shy, the devil on your shoulder croons, he’d like it better in the backseat, where no one can see.
Your bag hasn’t even touched the floor yet when he pushes you against the door of his house, shoes and coats half off as he envelopes your lips with his.
His hands are warm, cupping your neck to guide you through the kiss, blindly pulling you down the hall. You feel him falter by the stairs, torn between just throwing you on the couch and ravishing you there or making the trip upstairs to the comfort of his bed. You reach up, run your fingers through his hair. “Wherever you want, baby,” you reassure him, and become consumed with glee when his hands grab into the backs of your thighs, hitch you into his arms as he rushes the two of you up the stairs.
The bed is as fluffy as you remember it, and you bounce up towards the pillows after he drops you on the end. He tugs his shirt over his head, chocolate strands coming out a mess afterwards, before crawling up your body. Jungkook’s hands are incessant, grabbing onto every inch of you he possibly can. He kisses up your tummy, pushing your shirt up as he goes, hikes it over the swell of your breasts to gently fondle them in his palms.
When he’s just about suffocated himself between them, he pops back out, catches your gaze with a twinkle in his. “Hi,” you squeak, and Jungkook grins, leaning up to kiss you.
“Hi, pretty girl,” he returns, let’s your tongue slide into his mouth, sucks on the appendage teasingly. You whimper, and Jungkook releases. “You miss me?” He asks, and if you hadn’t been well-versed in the art of Jungkook’s sexy talk, you wouldn’t have noticed the tingle of nervousness that curls around the question.
You placate him, “always.”
It’s all Jungkook needs as he wiggles you out of your clothes, shucks them off somewhere to the side. His hands trail over your body, massage your breasts and pinch the nipples. You sigh, melt into the sheets as he runs his palms over you. He rolls you over, pulls your hips up and carefully pushes your face into the mattress, pushing your hair to the side to peck your neck when he leans over.
“So soft for me, sweetheart,” he purrs, hands slithering around your waist, down your abdomen until the tip of his pointer finger is idly swirling over your clit.
You whine, clutch the comforter beneath you at the touch. “Oh, fuck,” you groan, push your hips back against him. He’s still got his sweats on, and you want desperately to turn around and rip them off of him, feel the press of his cock against your ass.
As if sensing your urgency, Jungkook calms you with kisses trailing over your spine, hot breath fanning over your neck. His fingers slow, just barely grazing over your clit. “Did you touch yourself while I was gone?” He asks, and you struggle to choke out a response when he presses his finger down against you.
“No,” you eventually gasp, jolt when his hand reaches down, glides through the swollen folds of your cunt.
As if content with your response, Jungkook lets his fingers caress you for a few beats, laps against the side of your neck as you whimper, beg him to continue. When he does, it’s with no ounce of his usual gentle attitude, two fingers shoving forcefully past the tight clench of your pussy lips, deep into your cunt. You shudder, gasping into the sheets.
“Good girl,” Jungkook praises, flutters a kiss right below your ear. Your neurons are working overtime, unsure of what to do as he explores your cunt, fingers dragging against your walls. You want to close your eyes, bask in his touches, but every brush of his fingers has them rolling back, fluttering open. “This pussy is mine, isn’t it?”
His fingers curl, briefly brushing over your soft spot. But it’s enough to make you cry out, pant against the sheets. “Yours,” you choke, push back against him like he’ll do it again.
A thumb circles your clit, and the tight feeling in your belly snaps, has you crying out his name as your first orgasm in a few days washes over you. “Jungkook,” you whimper, nearly sob when his hands pull away, letting you flop down onto the mattress in a boneless heap. Your thighs feel sticky, and you watch blearily as Jungkook hovers behind you.
“So quickly?” He chuckles, turning you back over. He spreads your legs, exposing your pussy to the cool air of the room, and you shiver. A lone finger drags over your cunt, collecting the glossy substance on the tip, before Jungkook is sucking it into his mouth.
He had an affinity for this kind of stuff, you’ve learned. Like he genuinely thought your cum was the most delicious thing in the entire world. That being said, you’re not surprised when he ducks down, pushes your legs to your chest as he begins devouring your pussy.
“Slow down,” you gasp, hand curling in his hair as he spares you not, sensitivity be damned. He was gonna lick you clean. He groans, tongue shoved into your cunt, cute nose brushing against your clit. “Kook,” you warn, though it’s more of a shuddered cry. “I-I’ll come again.”
He pulls off with a wet smack, licks over his tongue as he narrows you with a daring glare. Gone was your sweet Jungkook, replaced with this cum-eating heathen who only purrs, “in my mouth” at your warning.
You scream when the second orgasm hits you, pushing his face against your cunt as his tongue continues, lapping at your folds and your hole as a gush of wetness spurts out of you. For a second, your vision pales, soundless cries caught in your throat as you come all over his face. When you touch down on earth again, your body feels featherlight.
Jungkook is watching you from between your thighs, his face, hair, and chest glistening. “Oh fuck,” he gasps, shit-eating grin slowly consuming his features. “Did you just.”
You groan, cover your face with your palms as Jungkook settles over you, beaming excitedly at your newest ability. “No,” you whine, pushing him away from where he’s basically glued to your cheek. “That’s so weird.”
He laughs, cute and airy. “Fuck, sweetheart, you squirted all over me,” he sighs, cuddles against you, and you wrap your arms around him only to hide your face in his shoulder, also glistening with your pleasure. He shifts closer, and the hard press of his cock rubs along the inside of your thigh.
“Can we take a break?” You murmur quietly, hesitantly. “I can’t feel my legs.” Jungkook nods, presses a kiss to your temple as he gets off the bed, tossing his t-shirt over to you. He stumbles towards the en-suite, comes back with a dry face and chest; his hair is still damp. He tugs the sheets out from under you, cuddles close. He’s got the two of you wrapped up in no time, your head cradled against his shoulder as he reaches out blindly for the tablet he keeps on the side of his bed, the Hulu app already open.
“Any requests?” He hums, scrolling through the multitude of movies and shows. You wiggle closer, stop his finger when he returns to the home page, and Jersey Shore is the first thing to appear. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s a good show!” You defend, click on it before he can argue. You press closer, throw a leg over his waist where you can feel his still rock hard member hiding beneath his sweats. Poor guy, you think, he must be suffering. But you have to rest for a moment if you wanna ride the shit out of him and knock him breathless like you’d planned.
Jungkook doesn’t comment on the erection he’s sporting, instead choosing to criticize everything wrong with Jersey Shore. You’re not surprised. He’s an avid film nerd, obsessed with ‘real’ storylines, not whatever reality tv shows were.
You’ve seen this episode about a hundred times, so you don’t really mind that he completely ruins it for you with his nitpicking. It’s cute, listening to him ramble about television integrity while you listen to the subtle thudding of his heart beneath your ear.
He’s on his fifth slandering of DJ Pauly D when you decide you’ve had enough, muscles in your legs feeling rejuvenated as you wiggle into his lap, toss the tablet off to the side as you straddle him. “That show makes you hard?” You tease, let your sensitive folds settle over the bulge in his pants.
Jungkook combusts, cheeks flushing at your jab. “No,” he huffs, “my pretty girlfriend’s boobs pressed up against me does.”
You short circuit.
“Huh?” You blurt dumbly. Jungkook rolls his eyes, too concerned with guiding your hips over his crotch to realize you’re having a complete meltdown in your head. An airy moan leaves his mouth, head lolling back against the pillows, when he moves you just right, grinds against you perfectly. But there’s more important matters to attend to than Jungkook’s Jersey Shore boner. “Kook,” you say, cup his face in your palms to force him to look you in the eye.
Jungkook huffs, pointedly looking down at where you sit on him, “babe, gonna need you to—“
“What did you say?” You interrogate, press your foreheads together until he has no choice but to look at you.
Annoyed with your act, he groans. “Babe, your hips,” he urges, almost desperately.
“No,” you retort, “not until you say it again.”
“Say what again?” He cries, lips twitching in irritation, and you’re about two seconds from behind shoved into the mattress, pounded into from behind like he’d done the last time you teased him a little too much.
“That I’m your girlfriend!” You exclaim, heart hammering in your ears.
Jungkook seems to finally halt at that. “Oh,” he responds, leaning back to scan over your expression. “You are?” He says, unsure of what point you’re trying to make.
Your brain fizzes at the news. “Since when?” You cry, suddenly feeling dumb for all the time you spent moping over this perfect boy you thought didn’t want you. “You never asked!”
Jungkook levels you with an unimpressed stare, reaches over for the iPad you tossed to the side, some dramatic fight scene on a boardwalk taking place on screen. You wanna scream. Why is he so concerned with Jersey Shore now of all times?
Before you can rain down your displeasure on him, he’s turning it around and showing you a bookmarked email.
It’s from you, apparently, sent a few weeks back at exactly two in the morning. You glance at the date received. It’s from Doyeon’s half birthday, when the two of you had drunk yourselves silly on wine. The title is some mix of dashes and exclamation points, but that’s irrelevant when the contents of the email come to view, some stupid slur of beeee myyy boyfrienderdd????? ;))((;;; that has your jaw dropping in mortification.
You glance back at Jungkook, who seems just as confused as you. “What the hell?” You shriek, snatch the tablet from his hand to see that not only was it a single email, but a thread of emails all asking the same question—there’s even a three stanza sonnet detailing your love for the mole on the side of his neck. You could die. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?! I was so drunk— how could you even take me seriously?”
Jungkook shrugs, almost amused now as he watches you scroll through the twenty emails you sent him. “The next day you told me you really liked me over lunch, so I didn’t mind. Besides, drunk words are sober thoughts, y’know.”
You stare in disbelief. “You told your mom I was your friend,” you whisper.
The blood rises to his cheeks quickly. “Babe,” he sputters. “I’m not exactly introducing her to every girl I date after three weeks.”
It makes sense, and you hate how much it does so. Pursing your lips, you look away, focus on the bedside table and hope he doesn’t see the tears that threaten to spew out of your eyes. He does, he always does. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He hums, sits up to pull you into his arms. One hand brushes over the back of your head, gently. Softly. “Did that upset you?”
You shake your head no, can’t help the ugly Kim Kardashian sob that rips itself from your throat. “I thought you didn’t like me,” you sniffle, covering your face with the iPad when he tries to duck closer and get a look at you. “Because it’s been two months.”
Jungkook shushes you, hugs you close to his chest as you cry like a baby over some apparently unjustifiable doubts. “That big brain of yours,” he sighs, kisses the frown of your head. “Too busy being evil to be logical.” You whine in protest, and Jungkook chuckles, carefully laying back with you clinging to his chest.
He lets you cry it out, palms rubbing over your back, listens to the annoying Jersey Shore opening song playing when the episode ends. When you’re done, you sit up, try to pretend your eyes aren’t swollen and puffy. Jungkook smiles. “All good?”
You might love him.
“I’m gonna ride you,” you announce, and he chokes in surprise, and before he can try to convince you it’s okay, you’re wrestling his sweats and boxers off, taking his half hard cock into your hand. Jungkook flounders, tries to calm you down, but you’re on a mission, working your hand over him until he’s fattening in your hold, melting into the pillows.
“Baby,” he grunts, rolling his hips into your palm. You lean over, pucker your lips and let a thick drop of saliva fall onto the tip of his cock. It trickles over your fingers, makes it easier to run your hands over him. Jungkook groans, reaches down to cup his hand over yours, urging you to squeeze tighter.
When he’s finally as hard as you want him, tip engorged and angry, you sit up, place your palms on his chest as you scoot over him. Jungkook watches you with dark eyes, skin flushed as you line him up. His hands reach for your hips to steady you, tiny gasps falling from his lips at the first prod against your folds. You’re wet from watching him squirm beneath you, from feeling the heavy weight of his cock in your hand, and you hope he feels how much he excites you.
“That’s it,” he croons as you slowly sink down on him, whimpers catching in your throat from the stretch. “That’s my girl.”
Jungkook is purposeful with his words, smiles at you when the muscles in your thighs jolt at the term. When you’re seated to the hilt, folds brushing against his pelvis, Jungkook ruts experimentally. “Fuck,” he chokes breathlessly.
You let your body adjust, spine tingling with every subtle shift from the man beneath you, still so sensitive from your two orgasms from before. Jungkook waits, even though you know all he wants to do right now is fuck up into you like a madman.
When you’re relaxed enough, you begin to move, pushing yourself on your knees slowly, hissing at the drag of his cock against your folds. “F-Fuck,” you whimper, fingernails scratching against where you’ve got them on his chest still. Jungkook grips your hips tightly, and you unconsciously reach for his forearms to steady yourself instead.
“There you go,” he purrs as you slowly pick up the pace, cock sliding inside of you rougher, faster. You know it’s mostly him, muscles in his arms flexing as he moves you up and down, but you don’t care—it feels so good, the upward curve of his cock brushing against your soft spot with each drop of your hips.
He holds you down on one thrust, grinds you over his cock until your clit is rubbing against him roughly, and you cry out his name. You want to kiss him, so very badly, but your position makes it hard. Besides, the sweat beginning to pool in the deep of his collarbones hinted at his oncoming orgasm.
Still, you can’t help the way your eyes instinctively go to trace over his mouth, pouty lips pushed out even more in exertion, teeth grinding together every time your pussy swallows him anew. “Kook,” you mewl, hips bucking forward.
He hums, plants his feet firmly on the mattress as he begins fucking into you. “What is it?” He grunts, pistons into your dripping cunt as you whimper, pleasure crawling up and down your spine. “My pretty girl needs something?”
You wail, nod your head as he continues fucking, ramming his cock into your quivering hole, precum dripping over him. “Yours,” you gasp, mind stuck on what he’d said earlier. “‘M all yours,” you sob, body finally giving out, and you barely catch yourself from falling into him with a palm pressed flatly against his chest.
Jungkook smirks, bucks into you brutally, like he wants you to fall into a boneless heap on top of him. “Yeah, you are,” he groans, as you finally give in, lips brushing against his ear when you flop down on him. “My pretty girl,” he huffs, and you nod, muscles pulled taut as your orgasm begins looming over you. “So cute and mean,” he rambles, lips pressed to your temple. His hips are beginning to lose their rhythm, thrusts growing stilted as he chases his high. “But you know what?” He murmurs, and you whimper. “I like her just like that.”
If his words don’t knock the air out of your lungs, your orgasm surely does. It makes you shudder, the way his hands run over your body, cock ruts into your heat, and you almost cry when the pleasure gets a hold of you. Your muscles tighten, and then loosen, melting into his chest. You’re trembling in his arms, like a leaf holding onto a branch for dear life, choked gasps of his name muffled against his neck.
Jungkook pistons into you, rounds the final corner in his race to orgasm, and eventually spurts his hot cum into you, coats your walls as another reminder that you’re his. He’s a silent orgasmer, sounds catching in his throat as his body twitches beneath you, silent even afterwards as he regains his senses.
A few moments later, you’re shifting out of his hold, pushing yourself onto your elbows to glance down at him. Jungkook’s eyes are shut, but, as if sensing you’re looking at him, he flutters them open, chocolate irises softening at the sight of you.
“Holy shit,” he groans, rolls you off of him carefully. His hand brushes over your thigh, like he’s contemplating licking you clean again, but you stop him with a pointed raise of your brows. “Fine. Pass me the tablet.”
You do, and it’s almost unnerving how easily the two of you slip back into comfort, Jungkook changing into some shorts and handing you your discarded panties, before climbing into bed to watch Jersey Shore. You’ve missed about an entire hour-long episode, so you end up rewinding until the point you last saw.
“You and your Netflix and chilling,” Jungkook snorts, head nestled against your breasts. You roll your eyes.
“This is Hulu,” you point out.
“Oh yeah,” he hums, snuggles closer. His body feels so nice and warm over yours, hands wrapped around you like a lifeline. You end up positioning the tablet off by your hip, supported by a pillow so the two of you can watch properly.
You’re still processing your new title, your new boyfriend, when he perks his head up suddenly, solemn gaze catching yours.
“Hulu and Woohoo,” he says, ever so seriously, and you understand why Doyeon thinks he’s a fool.
[ part three ; imax & climax ]
#goldenclosetnet#ksmutclub#networkbangtan#jungkook smut#jeon jungkook smut#jjk smut#jungkook fic#jeon jungkook fic#mine
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hi everyone this is my first fic be nice to me <3
in which y/n gets to bully mark tuan for free - somewhere over 1k words
It’s getting a little late, isn’t it ? You check your watch— just kidding, you don’t have one. What year is it, 2006 ? Don’t make me laugh. Rather than a clock bracelet conveniently placed around your wrist you lower your eyes to the bottom right corner of your laptop to confirm your suspicions… Ah, yes, the passage of time. You spent the entire damn afternoon scrolling through social media like some kind of zoomer-millennial-loser, again. (Chances are you’re one.) Still that doesn’t negate the fact that it is assuredly late now ; shouldn’t that passive aggressive twink-passing dude be back by now ?
Okay, it’s not that late. Just about time for dinner, the good ol’ almost-nine in the evening. Realistically you shouldn’t be complaining, you never actually have dinner with your problematic roommate nor do you eat dinner at an appropriate time yourself, but you open your notes app nonetheless and add another bullet point to your list: “Things I Get To Throw In His Face When We Have An Argument”. Build up your arsenal and release it all when the time is right, that’ll show him. An exaggerated sigh escapes your lips. Is it so hard to be punctual, after all ? He told you he’d be back by eight ! You’d planned to watch a movie together ! Not that it ever amounted to anything since an argument always broke out mid-film, but plans were nice every once in a while. You bite your bottom lip in annoyance, zoning out for a brief few seconds ( minutes ? Are you aware of time ? I’m not) as your eyes lose focus over the screen emitting all that nasty blue light, before deciding to just brush it off – at the very least, until he gets there. Once the door opens, it’s on. Some more scrolling and it gets you thinking, since your brain doesn’t have much better to do while he’s not here to get his ass jumped by you. You think. You think about how you referred to him as a “twink-passing” dude just a few paragraphs earlier. (You are currently in the mind of the narrator. I get to be y/n.) Why so ? Well, very simply, a twink would refer to a man who engages in romantic relationships with other men, or would at least be willing to. You’re unsure whether he would consider it. He sure looks like you could snap him like a twig though, so you call him a twink anyway. What’s he going to do ? Punch your kneecaps ? (Even if you are short, I, the writer, am shorter than you. I am offering you the ability to be taller than Mark Tuan. Use it wisely.) You think a little further, and think of how ‘twink’ has been used so many times as a joke, like it’s a funny insult. Is it right ? Are we not taking the term seriously enough ? You drop that train of thought soon enough. It doesn’t matter: twinks should be bullied. What convinced you of this is that twink from that NCT group, the one with the monosyllabic name. You nod to yourself. Yes, twinks should undeniably be bullied. (Note that I am a twink too, it’s okay, relax, I’m not calling for twink oppression. I mean I kinda am actually tho.) Within a few more seconds, your eyelids start to slip shut. Ah… What was that about the zoomer-millennial-loser thing ? You know it’s not easy these days to be productive, to find things you enjoy when you’re not in the right headspace, and being in the right headspace is not easy itself either. Work is tiring. You need those bucks, though. You struggle to work and then on your day off you scroll through social media. It doesn’t actually make you a loser, does it ? That’s what the bitter older generations will try to feed you, but it’s all wrong. You’re just living. Yes, you are. I’m proud of you. You made it this far ! Keep scrolling. Maybe get off Twitter though, that’s not how you’re going to make yourself feel any better in any capacity, unless your thing is pissing off ARMYs and getting terminated within the hour… The door unlocks. Your mind snaps back in. Wow, gee, at least you managed to pass time ! And it’s… yikes, you probably dozed off too during that time, because it’s past ten. An offended frown graces your features as you turn to look at that little bastard, that short fucking stick, that— “ Wha ! ” You get hit in the face with a purse… Damn, gay ass, he’s carrying a purse around now ? Wait, hold on. Why the fuck— “ Why the fuck did you do that ? ” you exclaim as you throw the purse aside. The devil’s looking at you with that passive aggressive smile of his on his face. Sickening. “ I heard what you said about Virgo men the other day, ” he responds, his voice barely hiding the pent up anger, “ and that wasn’t really nice, (y/n). We actually shower, you know ? ” “ Yeah, well, you’re gonna need to prove that, bitch boy. ” He grabs his keys and throws them in your face. Ouch, hey ! “ Stop that ! I wasn’t even lying, I�� " His hand goes through his pocket while you speak and this time his phone hits your head. It’s enough. Quickly you stand, pushing your laptop aside and throwing the phone right back in his face… but it’s too late. He’s seen it. Your laptop. He gets a flash from the past ; years ago, when he was just a young Virgo man navigating this cruel world, although the world was at his fingertips by virtue of being a FUCKING Virgo man (tells you a lot about why the world is cruel), back when he met that so, so young Taurus boy, and he grabbed his laptop… You notice his glare. Your eyes narrow, and before you can yell out “No” he’s leaping for your laptop, grabbing it and holding onto it tight as you try to pry it from his hands. “ Let it go or I’m calling Jaybee ! “ the words shoot right out of your mouth. “ You think I’m scared of that catboy ? He showers even less than me ! ” “ Did you just admit to not showering ? Fucking nasty ! Go shower, stinky ! ” He roars in response, but it’s really embarrassing because he’s not a lion in any way, shape or form. He is, fortunately, very much human. You move your foot to rest it on his back (picture it: he’s on his stomach, across the couch, holding onto your laptop. So it is possible for you to rest your foot on his back). You put a little pressure on it, and his back cracks a little ; he goes “Ouch, fuck !”, and releases his grip. Yes, good, the laptop is yours (you knew that but I mean it’s in your hands again, don’t be annoying). Once again you put it aside – he uses that time to straighten himself up a little – but you have no mercy. You rush to the fridge as he follows suit, grab the bottle of milk, open it and throw it in his face. “ Jesus Christ, dude ! ” he yells out, completely inconsiderate of whether or not you’d like to be addressed as such. Don’t forget: as hot as he may be, he is a Virgo man. He does not care about you. Stop loving him right now. “ Guess you’re gonna have to shower for real this time, ” you comment, the satisfaction of this battle you just won seeping through your words. “ Fucking loser, lmao. ” “ Fuck you, (y/n). ” “ You look stupid as hell right now. Boo! Take a shower, you and your crusty musty ass ! That’s what you get for making me wait two hours ! You can’t even find the beat though, I guess you couldn’t find where to read the time on your phone. ” The court jester known as Mark Tuan proceeds to exit the scene under these humiliating claims, wiping some of the milk off his face with his milk-drenched shirt. “ Ew, ” is what you have to say to that. “ I beg you to shut your mouth right now, ” he responds from the bathroom.
But you don’t shut up. You’ve got your list, after all. You come closer to the bathroom door and lean against it, opening your handy dandy notes app – it's actually a Drive file so you can open it both on your laptop and your phone, handy dandy ! – and beginning to go through it all. " You remember when we moved in together and you stubbed your toe ? You thought I wouldn't notice how you blamed me for stubbing your toe on YOUR table that I hadn't even touched, and just casually didn't do any chores the next week ? Or the time I asked you to not touch my food and you went and ate all of it without even thinking about it, the time you threw my phone away because you thought it was too old and cheap to still be used by someone... Or worst of all, the time you said Zuko wasn't a 'compelling' or 'well-written' character, and that you found the Joker much more relatable... " " Go away ! " He kind of sounds like a child, not as in cute but as in immature for a grown ass man, and next thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. He's actually showering ? Damn, guess all that bullying paid off at the end of the day ! You smile to yourself but in an evil way. “ What a fucking embarrassing manlet lol, “ you mutter to yourself. Your job here is done (for now). All is well in the world. You go sit back on the couch, grab your laptop again, and browse AO3 for self-insert fics where you help Jinyoung and Jaebum hide their relationship by being Jinyoung’s beard. No way you’d get that close to Jaebum even in the dreamscape ; Mark was kinda right about him not showering…
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Risotto Day
Jester frowned as she pushed the biscuit crumbs around on her plate with the tip of her finger, forming the shape of a dick. She sighed and looked over at the door across the room when it opened but a woman with long blonde hair walked in. She pouted and looked down at her phone, hoping for an ‘I’m almost there! Just pulling into the parking lot’ text to show up but there was none.
“Miss?” the half orc waiter said, getting her attention He was giving her a sympathetic smile. “Are you ready to order?”
She looked back down at her phone. “I’ll give him another minute.” She had said that seven minutes ago and then fourteen minutes before that.
“I’ll get you some more bread.”
She liked this guy, he knew what a girl in this situation really needed. She sighed heavily and glanced back down at her phone just in time to see a text pop up. ‘Sorry, Jester, I won’t be able to make it tonight. Something came up.’
Jester frowned. ‘This is the second date you’ve missed. Go fuck yourself.’ She sent it and tossed her phone into the purse on the floor. She sighed heavily and covered her face with her hands in embarrassment. She’d been stood up again. She felt tears of rage start to burn in the back of her eyes just as someone slid into the seat across from her, breathing deeply from running over.
“Sorry I’m late,” said a kind, feminine voice. Jester looked up and spotted a beautiful dark skinned woman with an undercut and a bun. There was an all-seeing eye tattooed under her ear and three piercings (three that Jester could see at least). She grinned and reached up to brush back a loose strand of hair. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long.”
Jester blinked in surprise. “Wh-Who are you?” She asked, keeping her voice to a whisper. “I think you might probably be at the wrong table technically.”
She grinned and unfolded the menu sitting in front of her. “Nope. I’m your date now. Name’s Beauregard.”
Jester blinked, still a little shocked. “Jester,” she said. The woman reached across the table and Jester took her hand, thinking that maybe she was going to shake it, but, instead, she leaned up to kiss the back of her fingers. Jester couldn’t help the nervous, yet delighted giggle that bubbled up in her throat and the woman, Beauregard, smiled proudly.
The waiter came over again and gave her new date a sour look. “Beau,” he said, his voice low. “What are you doing? You know what Dairon’s gonna say if she sees you fraternizing with the guests.”
“I’m off the clock, I’m out of uniform, I’m on a date. She has nothing to complain about. Weren’t you going to bring us bread?”
The half-orc rolled his eyes but reached over to the empty table behind her to move a small basket of rolls over in front of them. “Can I take your order?” he asked, forcing a fake smile at Beau, who was apparently his co-worker.
Beau hummed thoughtfully and looked at the menu. “What do you recommend?” she asked, teasingly.
“That you go fu-” He cut himself off and glanced at Jester out of the corner of his eye like he had forgotten that she was a customer. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he mumbled, before turning to Beau once more. “I recommend the lobster. Freshly caught this morning.”
Beau snorted. “That’s a lie. I’m the one who unpacked that delivery. I’ll have the ribs.”
Jester jumped when they both turned their eyes to her and she realized that she hadn’t even glanced at the menu. “Oh! What should I get?”
“You eat meat?” Beau asked, resting her chin on her open hand. Jester nodded and Beau reached over to point to something on the menu. “The risotto is probably the only non-frozen thing on the menu. The make it in a pot every couple days and, you’re in luck, today was risotto day so it’s fresh. The chicken is microwaved but the rice is pretty good. I’m getting the ribs because they drown it in so much sauce you can’t even tell it’s freezer burnt.”
Jester cleared her throat and gave Fjord a smile. “I’ll have the risotto. Thank you.”
The waiter nodded. “I’ll go put that in for you then.” He turned to leave and Beau called out to him.
“And Fjord? Make it snappy if you want a tip, yeah?” The half orc lifted up the menus in his hand and flipped her off subtly under them. Beau laughed to herself. “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m an asshole, he’s used to it. I’ll give him a good tip.”
Jester grinned at her, idly drawing the woman’s carefree smile on her napkin. “So, you work here?” she asked.
“Yeah, here on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday nights, The Evening Nip every other night of the week. Then during the day I’m a librarian.”
Jester’s jaw dropped. “You have three jobs?”
Beau shrugged and nodded. “Three steady jobs. Ever since my parents… Well anyway, sometimes I do odd work and shit around town. Setting up for carnivals, selling turkey legs at Ren Faire, that kind of thing. What do you do?”
“I’m taking Art at Zadash U.” After that long list of jobs it sounded a little weak to just say ‘I’m a full time student with no bills’ but it was the truth so she wasn’t sure what else she could say.
Beau didn’t seem upset at least and just nodded. “Sweet, you’re an artist?”
Jester held up the doddle of Beau’s face that she’d been working on for the last few minutes and she gasped. “Fuck, that’s awesome! Can I have that?”
Jester nodded and slid it over. “There is a dick on the other side.”
Beau picked up the napkin and flipped it over, giving her an appreciative nod. “Not a bad dick. Just realistic enough to be funny but no so real that it looks gross. Very nice.”
Jester grinned. “Thank you.” No one ever showed her dicks the appreciation they deserved. “So, uh, why did you sit with me exactly? Not that I don’t want you here or anything!” she rushed to amend.
Beau didn’t seem put off and just nodded. “My shift was over and I was leaving but I saw you here and I just thought… she’s too damn pretty to be so sad on a Friday night, and, next thing I knew, I was sitting down. I barely remember even making the decision. You know, if you do actually want me to leave it won’t hurt my feelings, I’d completely understand.”
Jester shook her head and smiled kindly. “No. I want to you stay.” Beau grinned happily and Jester felt her stomach flutter nervously at the sight.
They talked for hours, long after their empty plates had gone cold. It wasn’t until Fjord walked over with an exasperated sigh that they realized how late it had gotten. “Yo, Beau, can you pay so that I can close out your table and go home?”
Beau looked down at her phone, abandoned on the corner of the table hours ago, and hissed through her teeth. “Fuck, man, yeah. Sorry.” She pulled her wallet out of her back pocket and pulled out a wad of rumbled bills, and Jester realized suddenly that those were her tips from today.
“Let me get it,” Jester said, pulling her purse up off the floor to sit in her lap.
“Nope, nope, I crashed your dinner, I’m paying for it.”
“No really, it’s fine, I have my momma’s credit card and-”
“Nope, I’ve got it.”
Fjord rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“Beau,” Jester said, pulling her hand out of her purse to put it on Beau’s wrist and stop her. “Please. Let me get it. You can get the next one.”
Beau froze and glanced up at her, her eyes wide. “Next one?”
“Unless you don’t-”
“No! I do, I really do. I’ve just never been on a second date before, I was surprised.” She hesitated, but then slowly started putting her cash back in her wallet as Jester handed over her credit card. While Fjord was gone, the women exchanged numbers and when he came back, Jester was trying to convince Beau that she would cover the tip but Beau was furiously pulling bills out of her wallet once more.
“Fjord!” she said, when she met his eyes. She practically threw the money at him before Jester could write the tip in on the receipt he handed her.
Fjord sighed and picked up the loose bills off the floor. “For fucks sake, you’re hopeless. Do you both have a ride? The buses are closed now.”
Jester cleared her throat and nodded. “I texted my driver a little while ago, he’s waiting outside. Beau, do you need a ride?”
Beau’s brain had stopped when Jester said ‘driver’ so Fjord answered for her. “She’s going downtown, probably the opposite way of you. I’ll get her home alright.”
Jester nodded and stood up and Beau hurried to help her with her coat. Jester grinned and kissed Beau’s cheek, feeling a twirl of warmth in the chest when Beau's dark skin turned even darker red. “I’ll text you?” she asked, starting for the door.
Beau nodded, stunned, until Fjord elbowed her in the side. “Make sure she gets to her car alright,” he whispered.
“Ah, Jester! I’ll walk you out!”
Fjord was shaking his head as they both left the restaurant but he couldn’t help the fond smile that came to his face at the sight of his best friend so happy for the first time in a long time. He didn’t even mind it when she spent the entire drive to their neighborhood gushing about Jester.
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Something New for Me and You
• (start) (AO3) (prev) (next) •
Ch. 4: Vanilla, Cream, and Chocolate Shavings
Caleb opened his eyes, and rolled over in bed, and waited for his brain to catch up and tell him what time it was. When the tired answer of “7AM” finally crept through the fog of exhaustion, he sighed to himself, slipped off his covers, and trudged into the bathroom. It was only as he just finished brushing his teeth over the chipped sink in front of the water-stained mirror did he remember that he did not have work today.
Or, rather, that he should have had work today.
He spat out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. He silently watched the suds swirl down the drain. He continued to stare long after the basin had dried. Then he put his toothbrush back on the ledge next to the green, untouched and very dusty child’s toothbrush that always rested there, and walked back to his bed.
He laid down and stared at the ceiling.
After about an hour, he shot up and marched out into the kitchen.
•
Around this time, Yasha awoke. The sound of pedestrians out on the street and the rush of cars passing by welcomed her brightly, as it did every morning. She rubbed at her eyes, yawned, and stretched.
•
“What’s all this for?” Not asked as she climbed onto the dinner table with a strip of jerky in her hands.
Caleb looked up from the massive pile of newspapers spread out before him, and gently tugged free a page that Nott had taken a seat on. Then he gestured at the nearest advert, which read:
Waiter Wanted—apply at the Meal Hearth, front counter.
“I’m job-hunting,” Caleb sighed. “We need a steadier stream of income than three days at a library and whatever you can steal.”
Nott raised an eyebrow. “Do you even know how to be a waiter?” she asked.
“Well, no,” he admitted, “but I suppose I will have to learn.”
“Maybe I could find a job too?” she suggested. “That way you wouldn’t be the only one caught in the cogs of our terrible capitalist society. And anyways, isn’t it good for you to have some free time?”
Caleb blinked a few times as he tried to process that statement. Then he sighed and said, “As nice as that would be, I do not think it is possible. You aren’t exactly…what, er, what most employers are looking for.”
“That’s true,” Nott agreed, and chewed a bite of jerky. “I’m also not technically a citizen, so that could make things complicated, right?”
“Right. Maybe you should just focus on just having sticky fingers for now. And speaking of sticky fingers, it is time to head out to Oglen’s soon, ja?”
Nott shook her head and waved the jerky in front of his face. “Actually,” she said, “I should head out to Oglen’s soon. You should be getting ready for your date.”
Caleb blinked. “My date? I don’t have a…oh. You mean coffee with Mollymauk?”
Nott pulled out her phone and beamed. “That’s the one,” she said. “He wants to meet up at ten, which is in…two hours. This is the address,” she added, flipping the screen around. “You’ll remember it, right?”
“Ja, of course,” Caleb said, though now suddenly overwhelmed. “But I do not understand why I would need two hours to get ready. Especially for a casual meet-up between acquaintances.”
Nott sighed. “The first time you met each other, it was at a crazy-fancy restaurant and you were in a dinner jacket that Jester custom-ordered for you. He’s going to have expectations.”
“But he was here for movies just two nights ago,” Caleb protested. “I was not dressed so nicely then.”
“That’s different,” Nott said, shaking her head. “There were a bunch of people around then, so it doesn’t matter so much. But when it’s just the two of you, the stakes are higher. You’ve got to be presentable. Come on, Caleb, even I know this, and I’m a goblin.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, sorry,” he sighed. “It has been a while since I’ve needed to bother with this sort of thing. Are you sure this level of effort is required for when two people who barely know each other go to a café?”
“I wouldn’t say he barely knows you,” Nott said, “but yes. It’s even more important if you aren’t familiar, because his impression of you isn’t finished yet. I know these things.”
“Yes, and how do you know these things?”
She shrugged. “Jester let me borrow her magazines.”
“…what are these magazines called?”
“Iva’s Secrets. They’re by some lady who runs a bookstore for ‘young wimmen’ and ‘lonely gents,’ according to the back page.”
Caleb was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed and rubbed his temples. “I am not sure you should be reading these, but I suppose I am not one to stop you from pursuing the written word—”
“—damn straight.”
“—so I will just shut up and…and…prepare for this casual meet-up, then.”
“Great!” Nott grinned and slid off the table. Then she passed Caleb her phone and added, “Here. I’ll leave this with you in case you need to call Molly while I’m gone. Oh, I’m so excited to see what’s in the store today. There are so many shiny trinkets and flashy baubles, and Oglen doesn’t even notice when I take stuff from him to re-sell.”
•
“I’m just saying,” Beau said as she slowly lowered the last of the kettlebells. “You’re going to need a lot of pantry space. Jester eats like…well, like a demon. Or a teenage boy.”
Fjord wiped a towel across his brow. “But pastries don’t even last that long,” he said. “And it’s not like you’re supposed to put them into a cupboard, right?”
Beau shook her head. “The point is that she’s going to try to. And when she realizes that they went stale, like they always do, then she’s going to buy sugary snacks and candy to make up for it. And if you aren’t prepared, it’ll be heaps and heaps of bags everywhere, and you’ll go crazy. Believe me, I’ve been her roommate for like…three years now.”
“And I always commend you for that sacrifice, Beau.”
“Thanks.” She tossed him a water bottle. “Now it’s your turn.”
Fjord took a seat on the bench and sighed. “Moving in together is a real big deal, you know? I just want to make sure everything works out right.”
Beau plopped down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Fjord, relax. She’s head-over-heels for you. It’ll be fine.”
“But what if it isn’t?” he pressed. “What if she ends up hating how much I snore, or she gets sick of me kicking in bed all the time, or what if I have a million little habits that it turns out she can’t stand? I mean, sometimes I leave clothes out, and maybe I forget to put the cap back on the toothpaste, what if that bothers her but she’s too nice to tell me, and it all ends up just…festerin’ until she hates me?”
Beau shook her head. “First of all, if she doesn’t like something she’ll definitely let you know. Nothing gets held back for her, that’s Jester 101. Secondly, if you already know you do these things, then warn her! Set some fuckin’ boundaries! You two need to sit down and have a chat about this shit, right? That’s what we did on day one.”
Fjord nodded, and gave her a weak smile. “Thanks, Beau. That’s…pretty smart.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m an educated motherfucker, alright? Even if I ran away from school, I still know some shit.”
“I don’t really think they teach you that stuff in sch—”
Beau waved a hand dismissively. “You know what I mean. Don’t push it.”
He snorted. “Alright, alright, you got it.”
“Great. Now, it’s almost nine. Get your ass to class. If you fail, you can’t sneak me into the college gym anymore and our entire friendship will fall apart. Hop to it."
•
Mollymauk Tealeaf, standing out on the sidewalk in front of the large windows of the café, checked his phone. Then he examined his reflection the glass, adjusted his jewelry, and checked his phone again.
It was…okay to arrive this early, right? It was the proper thing to do, right? Even if was only 8:45AM and they were supposed to meet at ten, right?
After a few more moments of deliberation, he brushed off his jacket and decided to take another lap around the block. Then he’d definitely go inside and scout out the perfect place to sit.
He could also use that time to decide what to order. Yes. Good. Now he had a plan.
•
“Are you kidding me?” Nott shook her head. “That ring’s got to be worth at least forty. Do you see that? Those little flowers? That’s ornamental, that is. Sophisticated, that is.”
Oglen squinted through the lens of his spectacles. “Flowers? What, the squiggles? Eh…I’ll go thirty, but no higher than that.”
“Come on, come on, that’s genuine bronze, there! Caleb checked it, and you know how smart he is. We’re returning customers too, regulars even. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Oglen seemed to consider this for a moment, then sighed and lowered his glasses. “Alright, Nott. Thirty-five.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Deal.”
He nodded, and added the ring to a growing pile of random jewelry and knick-knacks resting on the wooden countertop between them. Then he made a small note at the bottom of a slip of paper and turned back to Nott.
“Okay,” he said. “What else have you got?”
She reached into her pouch and produced a set of earrings. “Now, don’t try to sell me short again, Oglen. These have got gemstones, alright? They’ll be worth more than a pretty penny to any lady coming here to buy from you.”
The wizened old gnome pushed up his spectacles.
“Bring ‘em closer,” he said. “I’ll be the judge of that.
•
Caleb finally managed to dig out a knit cardigan from the very back of his not-so-large closet, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was old, probably from a thrift store, and unsurprisingly a shade of light brown, but all the buttons were still there and the collar wasn’t too bulky and really, it was the best he could do.
He pushed aside the wrinkled t-shirts and occasional hoodie that had swamped his bed and lay the cardigan down gently on the covers. Then he nodded to himself and walked into the bathroom.
He stared at his reflection for a few moments, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the pale tone of his face, the overall sunken nature of his features. He ran a hand through his beard, freshly-washed but rather messy and tangled, especially for its short length.
He put his forehead against the mirror. He stared into the sink. He reached a hand into his pocket, pulled out Nott’s cell, and dialed a number.
The phone rang a few times before the person on the other end picked up.
“Hello? Nott?”
“Er, actually,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, “actually, this is Caleb. How are you, Yasha?”
There was a brief pause on the end of the line.
“Caleb? Are you okay?”
He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no, nothing is the matter. I cannot just call one of my few friends for a chat? No such thing as pleasant conversation, anymore?”
“You don’t even have a phone you use, Caleb. Try again.”
He sighed.
“Yasha, you have known this group longer than I have. And you are used to dealing with many individuals from your work at the bar. I, on the other hand…I am an odd duck and this group is very large for me. I’ve only had Nott and Frumpkin for a year, you know? Then suddenly I met Jester and you and Beau, which has been wonderful, but now we are adding Molly and Fjord after barely having time to get to know the rest of you, and Beau and I have only just made up over the ‘bowl incident,’ and now today Molly and I are supposed to meet one-on-one, and…and I would like to make a good impression. I would like some advice.”
There was another, much longer pause. Yasha seemed to be trying to think of a response.
“Er, well…” she said, “...well, I mean...I am awkward too, Caleb, but...er...I suppose, if he tries to talk to you, you should respond, and, er...and you should be nice, and…and chew with your mouth closed, and wash your hands…”
And then they were both silent, for a while.
“I am confused,” Caleb said eventually. “Do you…have advice, or—”
Yasha sighed deeply. “Yes, yes, I do, I think, I am…not very good at this. Just, well, just be clean? It helps to be clean. How do you do that, anyway, stay dirty all the time?”
There was another pause.
“I did not mean that to sound so accusatory,” Yasha said quietly. “I apologize—”
“Nein, no, it is alright,” Caleb said quickly, “I got it. I just…er…well, this is a big city. And if you want to go unnoticed, the best way is to, as you said, ‘stay dirty,’ and people tend not to pay attention to you."
“I understand that,” Yasha said immediately. “I like to evade notice too, but I am…hard to miss. Not, you know, not hard to miss in the sense that, ‘woo, I am so pretty, I am so hard to miss,’ but more like…like…”
“Like you are built like a barn.”
“Exactly.”
“You know what I miss?” Caleb sighed, and pulled back to look at his reflection.
“What?”
He ran a hand through his beard. “I miss shaving. Feeling clean.”
There was another pause. Then Yasha spoke:
“I could…er…I could shave you, if you like?”
He blinked. “Was? Really? Have you…done that sort of thing before?”
“Yes, I have. Molly or Jester can tell you. Hang on, hang on, are you at home? I can be there in ten minutes.”
Caleb blinked again. “Oh, er, Yasha, it is alright, I do not think—”
The line went dead. He lowered the phone and stared at the blank screen for a few moments. Then he sighed, and went to go sink his face into a pillow.
•
“Jester,” Fjord whispered to hunched shape sitting next to him. “Jester, do you understand what Anders is goin’ on about?”
She glanced up from her notebook, covered in scribbled doodles and tiny comments in the margins. She glanced around the lecture hall, to the whiteboard, and then back at Fjord.
“Are…uh…are we still on chapter seven?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, good,” she grinned. “In that case, yes, I do know what he’s talking about.”
“Thank the gods. D’you think you could give me a hand, later on today? I’m lost.”
Jester reached over and gave him a pat on the hand. “Of course, Fjord. But really, I think maybe you should just get a tutor. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and Caleb would probably love more business, you know?”
He nodded sheepishly. “I think that’s probably a good idea. Otherwise I might have to kiss goin’ to Soltryce goodbye.”
She gave him another pat. “I can ask him for you later,” she whispered. “Now hush, I am in the middle of telling the Traveler what happened in The Courting of the Crick last night.”
•
“Yasha, is that a sword?”
“Yes? Why?”
Caleb rubbed his temples, and considered the wicked black pommel sticking out from behind Yasha’s imposing frame. The rest of the blade, wrapped in canvas, hung a foot off the ground. All in all, the weapon was probably almost as tall as its owner, which was saying something.
He sighed and waved a hand. “Come in, come in, I guess. You can put your coat on the rack, and…Yasha why do you have a sword?”
She took her boots off and hung her jacket up and followed him into the living room-area of the apartment.
“I don’t know,” she said, “for protection? You never know when you need a good sword.”
“Do…do you need a permit for that, or…?”
She shrugged. “Nobody has approached me about it so far.”
Caleb stared at her, took in her rock-hard biceps and sharp face paint and dead-eyed, cold-faced stare. She was probably a good foot-and-a-half taller than him, and twice as wide.
“I can’t imagine why,” he said. “Anyways, er…what am I supposed to do? Should I lie down?”
Yasha seemed to think about this for a moment. “Yes,” she said, “that might be best. Here, er…on the floor should work.”
He looked down at the wooden floorboards, and then watched as she casually unsheathed the sword. He quickly got down.
“Do you…always use such a large blade for these things?” he asked.
“No,” Yasha admitted. “Usually a dagger, or a razor, or something.”
“So why did you bring that?”
“It’s the only thing I have. Why, do you have a razor?”
Caleb considered this for a moment, weighing the options between having to actually go out and spend money on a pack of razors, versus putting his faith in Yasha.
He sighed. “Is this…is this going to hurt me? I know you are very strong, but is dexterity—”
“I have done this many times before,” she said. “I like having smooth arms, you know, and Molly likes having—”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Caleb squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them again and met her gaze. “I am glad we are friends,” he added quietly.
She cracked a smile at that. “I am glad also.”
“Oh. Oh, good.”
And then he closed his eyes and held his breath and steeled himself and waited.
•
“Oglen, it has been a pleasure doing business with you as always,” Nott grinned as the gnome grudgingly took her hand. “I admire your bartering skills, but know that on this day, you have been bested by Nott the Brave!”
He huffed. “You’re lucky I like you,” he said. “Not many others would be so nice about dealing with goblins. I hope you remember that next time you try and bargain the price up that high.”
“I hope you remember that I know what health code standards look like, and I know that the city isn’t so kind to merchants trading in illegal magical artifacts.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oglen said. “It has been a pleasure. Come back any time.”
And with that, Nott shoved the bills into her pocket and cheerfully skipped out of the store.
•
Caleb turned back to a rather satisfied-looking Yasha standing in the doorway to his bathroom.
“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”
He ran a finger along his jawline and over his chin, smooth for the first time in over a year. There was an occasional stubby patch, but nothing too obvious for those that didn’t know where to look.
“It’s…it’s fantastic, Yasha,” he said quietly. “Really. Thank you.”
She nodded. “You are welcome. Pay me back with Frumpkin?”
He chuckled at that. “Of course, Engel. I need to dress quickly now, but he will be in the kitchen. Stay as long as you please.”
Yasha's multicolored eyes glimmered. “Have fun on your date,” she said. “I will go find the cat.”
And before Caleb could correct her—it’s not a date, seriously—she darted out of the room with surprising speed, and he was alone in the bedroom.
He sighed, gave one last glance at his reflection, and started getting ready.
•
Molly, still out on the sidewalk, finally nodded to himself, slung a long, plastic garment bag over his shoulder, and strode into the café.
•
“Jester, why do you keep checking your phone?” Fjord whispered as the lesson continued. “It’s not polite.”
“It’s not any ruder than doodling,” she hissed back, “which is what I would be doing. Anyways, I’m checking to see if Molly’s sent me any texts. He and Caleb are going on that date today, remember?”
“Oh,” Fjord nodded. “Is that why Molly was so frantic this mornin’ about what to wear?”
“Probably,” Jester shrugged. “You know, you really shouldn’t have to ask me for information about his personal life. He’s your roommate.”
Fjord sighed. “Molly is an enigma to me, Jes. Give me Beau any day, I at least understand her. She’s a straight shooter. Well, not a straight shooter—”
Jester giggled. “Definitely not. Don’t worry, Oskar, I will keep giving you romantic updates. Even when you don’t want them, I will keep doing so.”
He sighed again. “Thank you, I think?”
“You’re welcome. Now hush, I am trying to focus. Go back to learning, or whatever you were doing before.”
•
A tiny bell over the door jingled softly as Caleb stepped inside. The Candleglow Café—its name scrawled proudly outside the large glass windows in curling script—was a small establishment with a warmly-lit interior. The ceiling sported a canopy of hanging plants, tiny yellow and scarlet flowers peeking through broad green leaves in wicker baskets. The hardwood floors gleamed from sunlight filtering in, and the afternoon crowd’s idle chatter created a soft blanket of quiet sound. Two figures stood at the wooden counter to the left, its surface piled high with platters of pastries. A chalkboard behind them listed drink offerings and announced that peppermint lattes were the season’s specialty. The smell of brewing espresso warmed the air.
Glancing around, Caleb could see that the clientele not only included the standard humans, halflings and such, but also a handful of more colorful folks. Their groupings varied; a tiefling sat across from a dwarf and a pair of sun elves shared drinks with two humans, and so on. None of the chairs they sat in matched either—some were painted with flowers, others sported cushions, a few metal, at the back were just sofas thrown in for fun. But instead of feeling haphazard and random, the atmosphere seemed strangely homey, weirdly honest. It was the very definition of snug. It said: we might not be organized, or coherent, or make any sense, but it works. And we serve damn good coffee.
As Caleb made one final sweep of the café, his eyes landed on a splash of purple lounging behind one of the small circular tables to his right, by the windows. It wore a maroon varsity jacket absolutely wrecked with embroidery, and had a pair of curling horns sporting silver and gold jewelry.
It was Mollymauk. Who looked over, saw Caleb, and immediately sat up and waved.
“Over here, dear!”
Caleb restrained himself from nervously combing through his hair, smiled weakly instead, and walked over.
“I hope I am not late,” he said, taking the seat across from Molly. “I was, er…shaving.”
He did not notice over his mounting panic, but Molly took a moment to respond and stumbled slightly as he did.
“You look dear, great—I mean, ah, you look quite nice.” He cleared his throat and turned around, revealing a long plastic bag draped over the back of his chair. He grabbed it and passed it over to Caleb.
“It’s your jacket,” he explained. “That you let me borrow. I had it cleaned for you, I hope that’s alright?”
“What?” Caleb blinked. “Oh, ja, er, that is very nice of you, Mollymauk. Thank you.”
“Yes, well. I figured it was the least I could do. You kept me from getting hypothermia that night, so I’d better make sure your clothes stay clean, right?”
“Ah…yes. Right.”
There was a pause, filled with background chatter and rustling as Caleb settled the bag over his own chair. Then he faced Molly again, and they stared at each other wordlessly for a few moments. Caleb scrambled frantically for something to fill the silence, and unknown to him, Molly did as well.
“So, do you—”
“Any preference for—”
Another pause.
“You first,” they both said at exactly the same time.
A final pause, which Caleb broke by laughing awkwardly.
“You go,” he said. “What were you saying?”
“Well, nothing too dramatic,” Molly grinned, and then tried not to wonder why he said that. He cleared his throat and continued. “I was just going to ask if there was a drink you’d like. I did promise to treat you, right?”
“Oh,” said Caleb. “Oh, yes. Ah…I usually just get black coffee,” and balked when he saw the offended expression on Molly’s face. “Er…is that bad?” he asked.
“My dear sir,” Molly said, pressing a hand over his heart, “that is a crime. Come on, the Candleglow has plenty to offer. Name any flavor combination you’d like, and I’m sure they can make it.”
Caleb seemed to consider this for a moment. “Anything?” he asked.
“Anything your heart desires, dear. Come on, is there anything you’ve always wanted to try before, or a drink you used to love? I bet there is.”
Caleb hesitated. Then he rubbed his chin. “You are going to think this is silly,” he said. “I had it mostly as a joke the first time.”
Molly’s eyes glittered and he leaned across the table. “Oh, dear. Now you’ve got my interest. Lay it on me.”
Caleb nodded. “It was something I had a long time ago, traveling with…with classmates. It was called a Rüdesheimer Kaffee. I think perhaps it is too early for anything alcoholic, but it was a very strong coffee drink, and then they added brandy, and whipped cream, and chocolate. And vanilla, I think, somewhere in there.”
He looked at Molly sheepishly. “A bit too fancy, though, ja?”
“It’s brilliant,” Molly said. “Gods, I want one right now.”
Caleb chuckled. “I do not know if they serve that sort of thing so far south, where we are,” he said. “And I would rather not have brandy before noon.”
“But vanilla and chocolate?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. “Now that sounds like much more fun than a black coffee, my dear. Hang on,” he said, and stood up. “I’m going to have a word with Thaddeus. I’ll be right back.”
And before Caleb could say a word, Molly had run off and was in deep discussion with a halfling—Thaddeus—behind the counter. He watched them go back and forth for a few moments, Molly pointing at various jars and nodding excitedly as two cups were brought out and filled and adorned to his satisfaction.
He returned and placed their drinks on the tabletop, pushing one towards Caleb.
Whatever coffee was inside had been absolutely buried under a large swirl of whipped cream, topped with little shavings of chocolate. It smelled like vanilla.
“To friends who help you stay warm,” Molly beamed, and lifted his own cup.
Caleb managed a smile at that. “Ja, alright,” he agreed. “And to warm cafés.”
When the drink hit his lips, Caleb’s eyes went wide, He lowered the cup and blinked. There was a line of white foam on his upper lip. “Scheiss,” he said, “this is much sweeter than what I remember.”
Molly wore an immense grin. “Just the way I like it,” he said, then chuckled. “Are you alright, Mister Caleb? Is it too sugary?”
Caleb shook his head and cleared his throat quietly. “No, no,” he said, “not at all. I am just unused to…to that taste. Give me a moment, do not worry.”
“Is it close to the…the rude drink, you mentioned before?”
Caleb actually snorted at that. “Rüdesheimer Kaffee,” he corrected teasingly. “And it was not too bad. Of course, I appreciate the lack of alcohol—”
“A shame, but you’re welcome.”
“—and the taste it not exactly the same, but it is quite nice. Quite nice indeed. Thank you.”
Molly beamed. “No problem, dear. Now, I assume we should talk about ourselves, yes? Especially since Jester and Fjord aren’t here to interrupt.”
“Ja, I suppose so. What do you propose?”
“I know virtually nothing about you dear.” Molly leaned back in his chair. “And I don’t remember talking that much about myself, so why don’t we do a trade? I’ll ask you a question, and you ask me one in return.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “That sounds like a good start. Er…go ahead?”
Molly laughed. “Hmm…how about…do you like your job? I seem to recall Jester saying you work at the library.”
“That would be correct,” Caleb sighed. “It is nice, all in all. Easy work, very quiet, and usually I am left to my own reading. The only problem, I would say, is that they do not give me more hours.”
“Well, that must be their loss, dear. You seem like the library type, you know.”
“Do I?”
“All you need are glasses, and you’d be perfect. It’s a, ah, a good look on you.”
“Oh. Er…thank you.” Caleb fidgeted with the handle of his mug for a few moments before speaking. “So, do you like your job? Being such a fancy singer at the Moondrop, and all?”
Molly grinned. “I’m definitely lucky to work somewhere so fun,” he conceded. “Though, and I think I’ve mentioned this before, I could stand to get into a little less trouble with the clientele.”
“Actually,” Caleb said, “I have been wondering about that. How is it that you are not swarmed on the streets? How is it that presses do not harass you, and all that? If you are so famed as Jester and Fjord said.” Then he balked and added, “That came out a bit, er…confrontational. Sorry.”
Molly waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, Mister Caleb, I got it. I think it’s mostly that…when I’m up on stage, I’m somebody else. I feel…like I was born to be the center of attention, in a weird way. And when I’m on the arm of some celebrity, or when I have a famous person on mine, I then for the rest of the world, I’m flashy and interesting. But when I’m alone…or in a quiet café out of the way like this…I don’t think I’m quite so interesting anymore. And not as recognizable. With someone famous, I’m exotic. I’m glamorous. Alone, I’m a random tiefling wandering through the streets of a very big city. Does that make sense?”
Caleb nodded slowly, and took another sip. “I think…I think that does.”
“Plus, I just have one of those faces that’s easy to mistake, you know?”
He scoffed. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely, dear. Now, my turn to ask. Hmm…can you tell me about how you and Nott met? She made…quite the impression on me during movie night a few days ago.”
Caleb smiled, and here there was no trace of strain or anxiety. “Ja, that is Nott in a nutshell, isn’t it? And, well, we actually met in…not the most elegant of locations.”
“Please, do go on.”
Caleb carefully met Molly’s gaze. “Tell me, Mollymauk, how…acquainted are you with things that are not always the most…legally up to standard?”
Those red eyes glittered. “I work at a bar, dear. Downstairs we run a club so popular we had to install more soundproofing than you can imagine. The mother of one of my dearest friends,” he continued quietly, “is a high-profile courtesan. And let’s just say tipping isn’t the only way to get coin from the pockets of patrons that wouldn’t miss it. What was your question, again?”
Caleb nodded, satisfied. “We met in a prison in a smaller township to the north. Both of us for stealing.”
Molly gave him a wicked grin. “And how did you get out?”
Caleb leaned back into his chair and examined his fingernails. For just a second, for a moment so short that Molly barely caught it, a lighter-sized flame burst from Caleb’s thumb and went out.
It sent shivers down Molly’s spine. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind.
“Of course, nobody got hurt,” Caleb added. “I…would not have done well if somebody had.”
Molly laughed. “Glad to see there’s a bleeding heart under the mysterious magical criminal, then. Now, ask me a question.”
Caleb tapped his chin, and then brightened up. “Jester mentioned you had your own magic to me once, I think? Is that true?”
Molly hesitated, and Caleb almost apologized. But then the tiefling smiled faintly and nodded. “I do, yes,” he said. “It’s probably not the same as yours, though. Actually, I think I can almost guarantee that it isn’t.”
“Is it innate, then?” he asked. “Like some of Jester’s abilities?”
Molly shrugged. “Maybe?” he said. “I don’t know, I’ve been able to do it as long as I can remember,” he added lightly. “Now, what is your favorite book?”
Caleb blinked, the sudden shift in conversation catching him off-guard. “My favorite book?” he asked. “Er, why?”
“It’s my turn to ask a question, right? Sorry, did you want to stop, or—”
“Oh no, no,” Caleb said hastily. “No, it is alright. Er…favorite book, favorite book…there was a novel I read once before called Before the River’s Dawn, about the creation myth of Wildemount. It is quite good, if you ever feel in the mood for history. And then there is The Mountain Range of Gold, that one was also excellent, and is a three-part fictional series. Actually, the second book is widely regarded as the best in the trilogy but the author believes the last was her most praiseworthy work, even though I really believe the first volume…”
And as Caleb continued rambling, Molly couldn’t help but feel relieved that the other man so easily dropped the subject of magic. It had been a pleasure, really, to watch Caleb’s usually-stoic mask crumble under the weight of sugary coffee and now light up animatedly at the opportunity to discuss his favorite novels. And most importantly, Molly was relieved that no sensitive topics would need airing out on a first date like this.
•
Nott cracked open the kitchen window of the apartment and crawled through, as she always did. It wasn’t until she had made her way across the counter and hopped cheerfully onto the white-tiled floor did she see a large figure crawling on the ground in front of her.
She screamed, which was understandable, and Yasha looked up in panic.
“What the fu—oh my gods.” Nott sighed, and rubbed her eyes. “Why are you in our house?”
Yasha stood up, dusting her sweatpants off as she did. “Caleb invited me over,” she said. “I helped him get ready for his date, and he said I could play with Frumpkin while he was gone.”
Nott only needed a second to go from terror to complacency. “Okay,” she sighed again. “Sure. Just…just warn a girl next time, alright? I thought there was a wolf in the living room.”
Yasha nodded immediately. “Sorry,” she said. “I can see why that would be startling.”
“Yeah, you think? And anyway, why were you on the floor?”
Yasha pointed at the couch. “Frumpkin ran underneath,” she said. “I was trying to get him out.”
Nott considered this for a moment. Then she unhooked her pouch from her belt, rolled up her sleeves, and marched towards the living room. “Hang on,” she said. “I’ll get ‘im for you.”
•
“Is Beau coming this time?” Jester asked as she and Fjord exited the Sutan Learning Hall and walked onto the street. “She mentioned that she might this morning, did she say anything to you while you were at the gym?”
Fjord nodded. “She said she’d meet us at the address. You know, I never expected her to be the type to enjoy apartment-hunting so much. Especially when she isn’t even the one hunting.”
Jester grinned. “She likes shaking up landlords. I think it comes from being a rich guy’s daughter. It’s probably therapeutic, or something.”
“Well," he chuckled, "I’m not one to get in the way of someone working out their personal problems. Shall we head over now?”
Jester giggled and held out her elbow. “I think we shall, sir Fjord. I’m actually super-excited to see this one. It’s pet-friendly and everything.”
•
By now, the morning mob had melted away into a rather bustling lunch crowd, that soon faded into the last stragglers of the late-afternoon. Molly, among other things, had learned about Caleb’s asshole of an apartment super, about Frumpkin the definitely-a-real-cat, and more about the underground smutty novel trade than he ever could have expected. Caleb, in turn, had learned about a number of the tiefling’s more riveting romantic entanglements, about Yasha and his friendship, and about life as a serial performer.
And as the empty cups of makeshift Rüdesheimer Kaffee slowly grew stone-cold, Molly began to see glimmers of somebody else swimming under the surface of the scruffy wizard in front of him. Somebody who, though perhaps he himself didn’t remember, not only knew what it was like to be the center of attention, but also had thrived there. And Caleb, plastic laundry bag pressed against his back, eventually began to notice a kindness and desperation for nothing but friendship, real friendship, lurking within in the man across the table, whose entire life was seemingly an act.
And just as Molly was wrapping up the story of how Ornna and Gustav nearly launched the Moondrop into a civil war over a simple spat—never underestimate that woman, Mister Caleb, she can be very persuasive when she wants to be—Molly’s phone started buzzing from its place on the tabletop.
They both glanced down. The screen read:
2:30PM
YOU HAVE REHEARSAL AT 3. DO NOT FORGET OR YASHA WILL KILL YOU
Molly sighed and silenced the alarm.
“Sorry, dear,” he said with an apologetic expression. “I should probably head out now. It…it truly has been lovely though. We should definitely do this again.”
Caleb smiled back. “I agree. I had a nice time also. You are…fun, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”
Molly grinned. “Really? Well, that is quite a high compliment coming from you. Oh!” he added, and hit himself in the forehead dramatically. “Before I forget, are you doing anything this Saturday?”
“This Saturday?” Caleb echoed. “Oh, uh…I do not believe I am. Why?”
“Well, the Moondrop is having a big celebration for its 25th anniversary. I was wondering if, ah, perhaps you’d like to come?” he fished around in his pocket and produced a small white card, trimmed with gold. “Here’s an invitation,” he said, and passed it across the table to Caleb. “We’ll all be there, Beau and Fjord and Yasha and I, plus Jester is coming too. You’re welcome to bring Nott along also. If you’re…interested?”
Caleb blinked a few times, and studied the card in his hands. “Ah,” he said. “Is it…a party, then?”
Molly quickly shook his head. “Not at all, dear. It’s a show. From all the singers and dancers, including yours truly. Limited social interaction, and I’m sure Jester would love to cover for you if anyone actually tried to mingle. She was going to ask you to go originally but, well, I wanted to. I thought it might be a good step in our friendship if I did. It would…mean a lot to me, if you would come and see me perform?”
Caleb nodded slowly to himself. Then he glanced back up at Molly and gave him a tentative grin. “That sounds…like a very good step indeed. I will…think it over, if that is alright?”
“Excellent!” Molly said, and gave Caleb a clap on the shoulder. “Perfect. I’ll send Nott the details if you decide to come? It starts at seven in the evening, so there’s plenty of time to get ready and all.” Molly stood up. “Er…see you later, then?”
Caleb nodded again, this time much faster. His smile grew only the smallest bit, but it was enough to make Molly’s heart soar with relief.
“See you later, Mister Mollymauk.”
“Wonderful, Mister Caleb. Tell Nott I said hello.”
And with that, the tiefling gave Caleb one more pat on the arm, and headed out the door.
•
Today 2:42 PM
Molly Tealeaf: Jester your idea worked theyre probably in Jester Lavore: of course it did! and I assume the date was good too? Molly Tealeaf: it was wonderful dear Molly Tealeaf: now you just gotta help them get ready and navigate fancy people during the event Molly Tealeaf: does that sound alright? Jester Lavore: molly are you kidding Jester Lavore: i would want nothing more than to do that Jester Lavore: oh my gods im going to put nott in a dress Jester Lavore: thank you for this gift Molly Tealeaf: go easy on them please I only just met em Jester Lavore: ive known them months Jester Lavore: im unleashing hell Jester Lavore: okay bye gotta go fjord says this apartment might be perfect and beau is gonna start haggling now k bye Molly Tealeaf: have fun dear make sure she doesn’t kill anybody
•
Hard as he tried, Caleb’s heart refused to calm down as he rounded the hallway and made his way up the stairs to his apartment. He felt light-headed, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He felt anxious, as if he were expecting the clear skies overhead to suddenly turn grey, or as if he were about to get back scores from an exam he hadn’t aced after all.
And more than anything, he felt guilty.
He had enjoyed himself, at the Candleglow, with this strange man that had suddenly catapulted his way into Caleb’s life. This technicolor whirlwind that would go from high-energy to soft and thoughtful at a moment’s notice. This odd newcomer that made Caleb laugh, that bought him a drink that reminded him of home, that had managed to carefully coax him into opening up about his life where most could never get a word out. After all, Jester had been trying for months.
But Caleb shouldn’t have had fun. He wasn’t supposed to. He didn’t deserve that kind of happiness, and he had left it all behind.
Worst of all, up until now, the feelings now bubbling dangerously in his chest had unswervingly belonged to somebody else. And after it had become clear that they would never be needed ever again, Caleb had locked them up in a box and pushed them down, deep down, so far down that he thought they would never see sunlight again.
Until, apparently, now.
He sighed as he unlocked the front door. Then he yelped in surprise and backed up. Three pairs of eyes instantly trained on him from down on the living room floor.
Frumpkin—in Yasha’s hands, being scratched by Nott—meowed.
“Hey, Caleb!” Nott said cheerily. “Did the date go well?”
“Did Molly like your shave?” Yasha chimed in immediately. “Was it alright?”
He blinked a few times. Then he rubbed his face and sighed. “Have you been in my house since I left?” he asked.
Yasha glanced at Nott, who shrugged, and then back to Caleb.
“Yes?”
He nodded and took his coat off. “Don’t you have rehearsal, or something now?”
Yasha’s face suddenly looked stricken. “Shoot,” she said, and stood up. “I forgot.”
She handed a mildly disgruntled-looking cat to Nott, and quickly started to gather her things. She draped her large shawl around her shoulders, strapped the sword to her back, and gave Caleb a clap on the arm. “See you later. Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Er…no problem?”
And then she squeezed past, and bolted out the door.
“So anyways,” Nott said after Caleb had taken his shoes off and joined her on the floor. “Did the date go well?”
He nodded, and pulled Frumpkin into his lap. “I think it so,” he said, “though again, it was not a date. Mollymauk asked me to meet up once more, later this week.”
“Really?” Nott’s face lit up. “That’s great! Where?”
Caleb gave her a small smile. “At the Moondrop,” he said. “And you’re invited as well. How do you feel like being part of high society for a night?”
Nott raised an eyebrow. “Is that safe?” she asked.
Caleb considered the strange feeling of guilt weighing in his stomach. The dread he felt at having to interact with the upper crust. The terror of the past catching up to him.
And then he thought about the way Molly’s eyes had softened when he asked if Caleb would come see him perform. He thought about the distant glimmer of city lights at night as they stood up on the balcony together in the light snow. He thought about the way his mouth still tasted, ever-so-slightly, like vanilla and cream and chocolate shavings.
“It’s safe,” he said slowly. “And you know, I think the two of us need to just live once in a while. Ja?”
Nott’s eyes glittered. “Ja,” she echoed, and then grinned. “Yeah, absolutely.”
•
☕ ☕ 💚
#critical role#fic#fanfic#fanfiction#text#cr2#widomauk#jay writes#caleb widogast#mollymauk tealeaf#fjord#jester#yasha#nott#beauregard#long post#longfic#something new for me and you
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Also just for my own reference, Weird Caleb Quirks And If They Mean Something (under a cut because this got long AF and rambly AF).
I will be updating this post as the season goes on or until we get Some Answers.
Counting
Someone else pointed this out and I can’t find the post so credit to that guy but they make a good point--Caleb definitely has A Thing about counting money, but he also counted the arrows as he yanked them out of his poor body. Update: Found the post.
This one is probably just a Caleb Thing, maybe indicative of arithmomania but not like a backstory thing or anything with a reasoning to it beyond his brain going “count, you gotta.”
Shoving Things In His Pockets
Okay so first there was the bits of human flesh and now the MUD he shoved in his pockets?? What the fuck man.
This one is either a hardcore quirk with a hardcore reasoning behind it OR a backstory thing, because what other reason would you shove THAT KIND OF SHIT INTO YOUR POCKETS.
Theory one: he’s trying to transmutate something. I IMMEDIATELY had FMA flashbacks once I was reminded of the flesh he took. One theory I saw in the tag pointed out that Liam also asked how close they were to Winter’s Crest so maybe he’s gathering Things For A Ritual.
Theory two: this post says maybe he’s trying to mask his scent, which could be something, definitely.
Another theory I found while writing this: it’s meant to deter pickpockets which??? that sure is one way to do it but I’m kind of into this theory because while I’m sure that Caleb has some Sad Shit going on in his backstory, I also love the concept that some of his quirks are just Him Being Weird.
Another person suggested in a reply to this post that he could be doing it to gather material components for future spells and just doing it in the grossest/weirdest way possible. Again, love the concept of this. Contributing to this, someone else reminded me that Travis/Fjord had mentioned using the meat to distract the gnolls so it’s possible that’s what Liam/Caleb was going for. More proof that Caleb is just a weird grimy scavenger.
Not Getting His Head Wet/Clean
He clearly indicated that he only went in the bath up to his neck and that he only really started resisting Pumat Sol cleaning him when the spell started affecting his face.
This could be one of two things:
This is a backstory related thing; I know a lot of people have suggested water based trauma and like, it’s possible? But the fact that it seems to be more about CLEANLINESS based on ep. 8 would lean more towards something of like, protecting his identity maybe? The dirt keeps him safe.
Note: As of 2x9, water phobia seems less likely since he willingly submerged himself to avoid social interactions. Could still be a disguise element, though.
The thing about Nott thinking his face changes when he’s clean is 100% the only reason for this, based on Nott asking if he’d change when they went to the bath house and her freaking out a bit when he gets clean. Goblins have a hard time with human faces, maybe??? Who knows
Family/Connections
He definitely 100% is close to Nott and treats her like she’s blood, like it’s so blatantly obvious there’s a connection there that reads as familial (he characterized it as being sibling-like rather than father/daughter so there’s that). Agreed with Jester about wanting to find her dad, stressing the importance of parents in someone’s life. Got VERY closed down when grilled about the possibility that he might be/have been a dad.
This is definitely a backstory thing, like 100% something that Liam O’Brien and Mercer are keeping from us damn them
The question here mostly being was Caleb a dad or not and I think it could go either way? Someone pointed out that the 14 insight check could mean that he was lying about him having had kids/a family and just got away with it. It’s completely possible he’s hiding the truth about some kids and is minimizing Nott as a daughter figure either because he’s lying to himself or trying to deflect.
HOWEVER if we take him at face value, it’s possible he was an older brother and just? Had younger siblings he was very close to (probably a little sister), maybe was even a parental substitute if he had absentee parents. That could be the protective vibe we’re getting from him.
Sidebar related to this theory: it’s possible they died, also possible though that this is an Ana-and-Elsa-in-Frozen situation where he accidentally hurt one of them and then had to leave the house after.
Fire, Fire, Fire
His freakout moment after burning that dude alive followed by him trying to hide the glove of firebolt. He didn’t seem as broken up about turning Trevor into ash, though.
Could be a backstory thing, the question is in what capacity. This person makes a good point that his demeanor completely changed when dealing with the glove, and I definitely noticed that, too. So that’s worth keeping in mind.
Again, he didn’t seem too broken up about setting Trevor on fire, so maybe it was the CONTEXT of the priest that made that incident upsetting. In this case, the context was that he killed that guy, with fire, after coming dangerously close to losing Nott, and if we theorize that Nott is a family substitute of some type, then maybe that’s the backstory key? (note: one person has pointed out that Caleb was basically unconscious when Trevor got burned up and it was instantaneous vs. the more slow and gruesome death that the priest suffered so that might also be important to remember here)
New question: did Caleb do the burning OR did someone else do it. As noted above, there could’ve been an accidental harm situation against a family member (regardless of which one you think it happened to). Also possible that other family members were killed with fire, not by him, which is a thing I’ve seen tossed around in fic a few times.
On a personal sidebar, one thing I’ve thought of a lot is like...perhaps? perhaps. He lived in a place where the arcane isn’t as accepted and if he came from a family of magic-users, well...Burn the Witch. This theory doesn’t have a lot to back it up, though, so it’s more a fun/tragic what-if than anything I’m taking seriously.
“How long have you been doing magic?”
Someone reminded me that one of the few things we know about Caleb’s backstory is that he did magic when he was younger, then stopped and picked it back up again recently (though this assumes Caleb wasn’t lying? I doubt he was about this, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to lie about something like this.)
Obviously this is a backstory thing, might relate back to his thing about families and his thing about fire? But we don’t know.
Dates/Moon Cycles
So I know it’s been points out that Matt was very specific about the cycle of the moon in an early episode, and in ep. 8 Caleb asked how close they were to Winter’s Crest.
It’s entirely possible that this is just a weird Caleb quirk and he likes knowing about the moon/dates. HOWEVER...
Could also be Backstory. Some people have been using this as proof of werewolf!Caleb though I feel like that one’s been Joss’d? Forgive me, I don’t watch Talks Machina, though speaking of...
I know on a recent episode from a post someone made Liam mentioned that he let Mercer do some of the backstory work for him. So maybe the significance of knowing dates is that Liam knows there’s SOMETHING to it, but not WHAT that something is. I was thinking that something might happen TO Caleb on that date (consider: family prophecy of a Bad Thing maybe??) while a friend of mine justastoryteller suggested it could be an anniversary of something. So this might be worth keeping an eye on.
Also possible he was thinking about eating WC on Winter’s Crest anyway.
Random Details
Poor background? “That’s more money than my parents made in their entire life” in 2x9 while talking to Jester.
It feels noteworthy that he smeared mud all over his face in response to the money argument with Jester in 2x9.
Other People’s Theories I Want To Hold On To
Caleb has “the haunted one” as his background. I’m especially interested in this one because both Fjord and Beau have used things in relation to their backgrounds, so they seem to be using them this time.
Caleb is a deserter war mage.
#reference#this has been a post#caleb widogast#tagging this one so I can find it later#critical role spoilers#spoilers
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Mckirk Fantasy AU where Bones is a Magician or a Healer as you prefer and Jim is a Paladin or a knight whatever you think it would fit better... Thank you 😆
I’m not gonna lie, I played this out in Skyrim many times and it’s my guilty pleasure. I realize the whole “plot” doesn’t fit in one part, but their relationship does. 😆
Jim Kirk hates magic. Magic is for Elves, with their pointy ears and tall figures - heads up the clouds. Magic has no place in the kingdom. Or so he’s told, anyway. Because Jim has never exactly seen magic happen, nor has he read about it, because Jim can’t read. He knows letters individually, but struggles to focus on actual reading. The letters in words just kind of jump in front of his eyes, and he just can’t concentrate. Not like he needs a lot of reading in his life, anyway. He spent most of his younger years on his family’s farm, but after his father died in a raider attack, he chose to become a guard. At first he’s stationed in the city, which is fun enough. He gets to patrol, chase and capture thieves, and stop bandit raids from surrounding farms. But then he gets sent to one of the nearby towns, and that’s the most boring thing ever. There’s a few saw mills, an old mine, and a few small shops. There’s little happening, to the point Jim almost misses farming.
He finds Leonard out in the woods a few hundred feet away from the town. On the ground, unconscious, pretty badly mauled up. When Jim kneels down next to him, he’s fairly sure the other’s dead. He turns the body around, and nearly jumps backwards when the other suddenly gasps for air. "Hey, hey, it’s okay,“ Jim says, “stay calm, okay? I’ll take you to the town healer. Can you talk?” “Yeah,” the other says, though he sounds awfully weak. “What’s your name?” Jim continues, picking up the stranger in his arms and stumbling back towards the town. He tries to keep the other man conscious by making him talk, though the fact that his uniform is rapidly stained red is worrisome. “Dragon,” the other says softly, and Jim frowns. “Huh?” “I was attacked… by a dragon.” “O…kay,” Jim says, “sounds like you hit your head.” “Stop. Put me down,” the other says, and though Jim advices him not to, the man insists. The moment Jim puts him back up on his feet, the other presses a hand to his wounds and mumbles a soft spell under his breath. His hands light up, and when Jim catches on, he retracts his hands from the stranger immediately. “You use magic.” “Yeah.” “Magic,” Jim continues dramatically, “why didn’t you do that beforehand?” “Because,” the other says, “I was knocked out. Almost shredded to death by the damn dragon.” Jim raises an eyebrow. “I think the fumes of your potions have gone to your head,” he says. “You do realize there’s a difference between alchemists and wizards? Of course you don’t. Simpleton.” “I saved you,” Jim says, crossing his arms, “you better show me some respect.” “You’re just a guard,” Leonard replies, “You didn’t save me, you just carried me a few feet. I’m forever grateful.” He throws Jim a small smile, not particularly genuine, and then he turns around and stumbles away. What a prick. At least Jim’s never gotta deal with them anymore.
But then a dragon attacks a nearby village overnight, completely burning it down to the ground. Jim thinks that’s just spooked townspeople talk. It must’ve been a bandit raid. Others say they’ve actually seen said dragon fly. Jim’s present at the hearing as a guard, and Leonard is there, too. Trying to explain to the local Lord that he saw that dragon, too. Jim scoffs. A little too loud, possibly, because it catches the attention of the Lord. “Is there something you wish to say, Kirk?” Pike asks, and Jim shakes his head. “Nope. No sir. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of drawing your own sane conclusions.” Pike raises an eyebrow at that, but Jim knows he can speak his mind around Pike. Mostly privately, though, not usually in such a formal setting. But then another guard stumbles in, swearing to seeing this dragon, too, and that it burned and ate a few other guards he was patrolling with, so then Pike isn’t really left with much choice. “You, wizard, do you think you can defeat this dragon?” Pike asks, turning to Leonard. “Me? No,” Leonard replies, “not now, at least.” “What do you need to stop it?” Pike continues. “I know it’s a fire breathing dragon,” Leonard says, “so if we can obtain a strong ice spell-” “Okay” Pike replies, “go for it. I’ll give you the gold you need to get going. And a bodyguard.” “What? Sir, my Lord, I work fine on my own,” Leonard says. Pike, instead, nods towards Jim. “James, make sure our wizard here returns in one piece. With the spell.” “What?” Jim says. “What? No, I don’t need him-” Leonard says, but Pike waves his hand. “Pack what you need, leave at dawn. You’re both dismissed.“
They leave at dawn, in complete and utter silence because they have nothing to say to each other. Of course, that silence doesn’t last very long. "Are we there yet?“ Jim asks, looking over his shoulder at Leonard, who’s a few feet behind him trying to make sense of a locally bought map. “No,” Leonard replies. “What d'you need for a spell, anyway?” “Books, most and foremost,” Leonard says, “and time to practice.” “That sounds boring,” Jim says, ignoring the deathly stare he receives from Leonard. “Can you tell me if we’re heading towards Forstmarch?” “I dunno,” Jim replies. “What do you mean you don’t know?” Leonard asks. “I mean: I don’t know,” Jim repeats, “I know we’re heading north. But we’re as far away from the Capital as I’ve ever been in my life.” “By the Gods,” Leonard mumbles, rubbing his temples, “they’ve sent me on a quest with a jester.”
They don’t agree on anything. Two hours before dusk, Jim insists they set up camp for the night. Leonard argues that according to the map, they should be near a small settlement where they could sleep in an actual inn, rather than under the stars. Come sunset, there’s still not a settlement in sight. “The map is wrong,” Leonard concludes, and Jim scoffs. “You just can’t read it.” “You read it, then,” Leonard replies. “No,” Jim says, “I don’t need to read your stupid map. I’m from this land. That’s more than I can say about you and your Elves magic.” “Elves’ magic?” Leonard asks. “Magic isn’t for humans,” Jim says, “it is dangerous, it is evil, and it will backfire at you.” “Says who? Where did you read this?” Leonard asks. “I didn’t read it anywhere, I’ve been told,” Jim says, continuing to walk down the cobblestone road they’ve been following all day. It’s rapidly getting more cold, his feet hurt, he’s definitely hungry. “There’s your problem, kid,” Leonard says, “don’t believe everything your hay-for-brain farmer folks are saying.” “Oh, but it’s written in a book, so it must be true?” Jim counters. “Also, call my family hay-for-brains again, and I’ll give you a one way ticket down the nearest waterfall.” Leonard chuckles at that threat, but he leaves it be.
They take a break near the riverbed. Jim tries setting up a campfire to keep warm. Bones uses a spell to set the wood on fire, to which Jim grits his teeth and refuses to drink the tea Leonard’s brewed. He wants none of that witchcraft water. But then when they’re both almost asleep, Jim hears footsteps approaching. Jim opens his eyes again, and is just in time to roll away and prevent his head being chopped off. “Bandits!” He calls out quickly, and loudly, and he uses his feet to kick the man closest to him backwards so he can safely get on his feet and draw his sword. Leonard’s up in a second, too. Generally, they defend themselves just fine until Jim’s face to face with another wizard. She uses a strange spell, and it makes Jim’s sword cold to the touch. Too cold to hold on to, and even after he’s dropped it, he feels it in his bones. An ice cold chill that makes him shiver and sluggish in his moves. Leonard knocks one of the bandits down with a spell, and is able to get close enough to the witch to struggle her to the ground. “Jim! There’s a truth spell in my book, read it to me, please. She might be able to tell me where to learn this magic,” Leonard says, grabbing the girl’s arms and twisting them behind her back. Jim reaches out in Leonard’s backpack and he finds the book, but he hesitates. “Here,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m a little occupied,” Leonard says, “just read it to me, you’re not suddenly a wizard for saying those words out loud.“ “I can’t read,” Jim says, and Leonard’s grip on the woman briefly falters. “What?” “I can’t read,” Jim admits, both embarrassed and annoyed. Leonard rolls his eyes, using his elbow to hit the girl in the head and knock her out. “Okay,” Leonard sighs, getting off her and snatching the book from Jim’s hands, “tie her up to the nearest tree. I’ll do this myself, then.”
Based on the witch’ information, they make it to the next town late morning. There, they take their much deserved rest. They eat. Jim talks rumors with the local guards while Leonard shops for herbs and potions. They’re bound to leave again the next morning, so they spend the evening in the bar. “How come you can’t read?” Leonard asks, “I’m sure the capital city had decent schools. Even for poorer lads such as yourself.” That last sentence earns him a narrowed frown from Jim. “I can read letters separately,” Jim says, “just not together. It’s like, they kind of jump out at me when I try to read words. I don’t know,” Jim continues, letting out a long sigh and shrugging as casually as he can, “I guess I just wasn’t smart enough for school.” “No,” Leonard says, and it’s surprising enough that it makes Jim frown. “No?” “No, you remind me of my daughter,” Leonard says. “Uh, is that… good?” “Yeah,” Leonard replies, “she’s smart. Has the vocabulary of someone who should be literate. But just can’t seem to focus on words. Takes extra practice and a lot of patience,” Leonard explains. Jim listens, quietly sipping his drink. He watches Leonard reach out in his bag. “That a spellbook?” Jim asks, scrunching up his nose. Leonard scoffs, nudging Jim’s elbow. “Not everything I read is spellbooks and witchcraft,” he replies, “this is A History for Kids. I carry it because it was my daughter’s favorite. Let’s give this a try?”
They still don’t particularly agree on which road to take, but at least things are easier now. They walk most of the day. Come afternoon, Jim teaches Leonard how to hunt with weapons. Bow and arrow, how to wield a sword, and how to strip the skin off fish and rabbit. At night, Leonard teaches him to focus on reading. Smaller words, then bigger ones. Jim still struggles, but he’s actually fascinated by the content of books.
They reach the cold lands, and both carry the heavy extra weight of warm capes, fur and blankets. They can’t find an inn, but they seek refuge in the stables of an old mill. It’s cold, but at least the hay provides some warmth. Jim tries to read one of Leonard’s books, but it’s dark and it’s cold. Leonard lifts up one hand, a subtle flame dancing in the palm of his hand. “Get that out of here,” Jim says. “Are you serious? After all this time, how can you still think magic’s bad?” “Magic’s for elves,” Jim says, and Leonard huffs. “No. Magic is for everyone. Everyone has magic,” Leonard explains. “I don’t. I don’t need your magic here.” “It’s warm and it’s light, stop acting like I’m summoning the black plague,” Leonard counters. “Magic is bad,” Jim says stubbornly. Leonard grits his teeth, the flame disappearing when his hand folds into a fist. “You– are you mentally deficient? You do realize the quest that we’re on?” Leonard asks. “That doesn’t make it any better-” “This spell is gonna save your stupid kingdom, and–” Jim reaches out, half annoyed, but not nearly as much as Leonard, and he presses his lips against the other’s. Leonard grunts, taking a few seconds to actually pulling away. “What are you-” “Gotta shut you up somehow,” Jim says, and Leonard frowns, leaning in to kiss that stupid smug smile from Jim’s lips now, too.
It's a little later in the morning than usual when Jim wakes up, but he's comfortably warm under many blankets, and Leonard is right next to him. Closer than ever, and Jim can't help but smile fondly at him now that the other's keeping his mouth shut. Leonard turns around, slowly opening his eyes. "Hey," he says softly, and Jim smiles, too. "Hey. You're finally awake." "You don't look any more ready to leave than I do," Leonard says. Jim opens his mouth to protest that, but instead, he just smiles lightly, reaching out to run his fingers over Leonard's cheeks. "Listen, what I said last night about the magic... I know it's not all evil," Jim says slowly, "I know you're not evil." "If I were, you'd be dead already," Leonard replies, and Jim huffs. "Don't overestimate yourself now," Jim laughs. He sits up straight, grabbing his clothes and gathering his stuff while Leonard gets dressed, too. "You ready to get back on the road?" Jim asks, reaching out his hand towards Leonard. Leonard sighs, grabbing Jim's hand and throwing him a small smile, too. "Finding a spell that can kill a dragon with someone who hates magic, in a cold forest full of giant spiders and angry trolls - what could go wrong?"
#bored-and-alone-among-the-stars#long post#mckirk#otp: damn it jim#jim kirk#leonard mccoy#bones#headcanons#mckirkfantasy#fantasy au#i've had a lifelong hc that Jim Kirk is dyslectic ok and it works so well here
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Joker’s Wild
My name is super-unknown so I will shoot for the dome Aim through the window pane; leave two frames blown I am not Strange. But I will not change tones Proclaim Roman Reigns in any home Entertain through tomes Enter veins then splinter brains Highest on this sinner plane Center plain or inner sane? No. A soul so cold not even So Co Could help warm; dealt thorns Some have sworn tales, yelling “He’s loco!” “Si y yo soy el lobo feroz” Ferocious flows; ojos rojo Toke and choke on top rank dodo Coca blows? Mi es cabron? Oh no! Blow Coca? Por dinero? Best go hoe! Yo soy Joe Schmoe? Asi-asi? Si puto derecho! Direct foes, “vete a la mierda, conos”! Artista X es el Rey de todos los Reyes Sooth-sayer and smooth player Granuja de platas de lengua Ladies spreading legs, begging me to say yes. Weigh less than many but don’t call me mini Not one to waste pennies Immobile blades, not choppin’ on 20’s Mobile stays paid; minutes got plenty No cash in the bank; gas tank close to empty Yet more retail sells in smells than Scentsy My girl is a fine dime that OG’s envy Eyes green, hairs red plus always wet and sticky Ever leaving; burning and hitting like a heathen But she keeps returning Even after pimping her out for earnings Yearning for touch; by lips or finger tips She’ll learn you quick; bi so no bias when she unzips She flips all day but still chills at night Herb Knight in hempen armor Helping get over bored again Charming prints, used to disarm alarms Prince Charmin to soft; armaments’ armed Minced off the first cut; rinsed off like shit stuck to shoes In truth, I like going overboard and harming Like Carmen, no one knows where to find me Moving timely; double check nobody’s behind me Grinding to shine even when it isn’t Vision remastered after seeing how biz went? To guzzle gents jizz for cents Rather stick a muzzle in my mouth Than ever be asked where my fizz went Dissident miscreant because of medicinal Treants Gorgon like stoning; after all spinach is full of nutrients Beautifully bent; fine line between genius and insanity Underhandedly taking the lead; never mistakenly Make me your nemesis; own worst enemy to y’all I am limitless Illogically break chronological fate with paradoxical Genisys Forget Quicksilver; Wells wished in inventing this Luxury Mercury? Have H.G. mad as a hatter for penning this In lieu of Carrol; songs full of apparel Only autos should be tuned Putting hair pulling bitches on alert Better be careful Have them pissing; scared to twist up fisticuffs Baring tools; afraid to get face to face But I’m very cool; only thing up my sleeve is an Ace Thumping with my trump; then use the same spade to bury fools Joker’s wild; and I’ve been told the same Smoker’s smile plus a laugh cold and insane Broken stiles; never hold a flame to gain change Opening Styles all about showing up the Game At the Helm with a death wish like I’m hunting a hearse DRAC is the realm’s realest; still instilling hurts Curt versus legends or virgins; using perverse verses to abuse With no aversion to cursing this rough draft also the final version Shaft tough? Yes, when driven by me Not black enough to say I’m the bad-dest “shut your mouth…”, you see Keep it juicy; not goosing Lucy Truthfully I’m a prick spelt with a capital D Biggest you’ll meet; and above average in meat No need for lies; I know I satisfy Don’t believe me honey then come and see Relieve your cunny, have you cum a sea Endless returns like it’s my company Charge your Chakra; currently cum for free Currency for free milk? Then you can go ahead and get stepping permanently Ash into your urn Every sentence further sentencing eternity Hurting disconcertingly Adverting attacks; not possible when concerning me Genuine article Smashing particles like the Hadron at CERN discerning Emcees Splitting atoms While batting back at’em; scat’em like a cat. Kill every vermin I see Shivering cowards While stylishly delivering streets sermons for fees River of power That is, a strong flow with undertow current; currently Amped up Have them clammed shut; in bomb shelters like the emergency Is national But it’s natural to run urgently when faced by the beast from the murky deep Heard of me? Or been hurt by me? Try me when unworthy and meet A brief defeat By these feet. So take a seat or be beat down vertically Post mortem surgery Quicker to dig six one by ones; bury you very dirtily Curtly asserting Your curtains but far from my encore that’s a certainty Unmercifully Murdering psyches with words alone. Spurring the weak To purr back meek Lying while trying this Lion; King of Zion. Tired of burping these Babies and toddlers Going crazy searching for grown talent; licking talons and fangs thirstily Unnerving these Kids; knowing their lids will get peeled. Villain killing purposely Have curs cursing me Speaking cursively, curbing cohorts. Quit if your nursing teats Hyperbole Not when measured in pen; sink non-thinkers with ink poisoning Vent venom vehemently; little girls and boys playing with alloys Should quit banging noise My thoughts and voice concise Eyes on the prize; ions spliced off and thrown at my enemy’s head Radically rendering your ending; lending the term walking dead Stocking meds by the O-z From North of the O.C. Only importing the best, from Valleys’ in Cali to Co-towns alley’s G-13 and Maui Wowie The Doctor’s in Get re-T.A.R.D.I.S.; needing starting? Got Diesel too if you need to rally Tally the score Weighed straight, bud and not shake with proper tear drops; plus, I don’t dilly dally True wild card; evolved in being involved in anything called sin My balls’ in court never Alcohol in blood no more; instead soar above but feet still on the floor Claws in the ground This is my town. Come down sounding hard and I will leave you scarred With the loss of your crown Scalpel scalping. And if the laws in the Mudd come around? Still won’t be found. Proper noun; capital Artist using absurdly sharp wit for getting capital Known for ripping sharks to bits Sparks will arc; marked by X then know next your neck Will be stretched regardless Of your guards. I'll march right through your gardens. Embrace mayday Because by melee I have been hardened Leave them marveling at my carvings which cause starving Hungry but not eating beef; these freaking vegans are retarded Believe it’s better to give than receive Seas get wetter from here; forever in gear Achieving whatever I can perceive Seize vets ahead of my years; too clever for peers Deceiving none, yet some sectors still don’t bet on me Sieges settled in letters; vendettas never feared Easing at leisure; proceeding on with no etcetera Seasons become bygone; seasoning legions of chickens so long live Cain, King of Weird Erecting a dynasty Weapon selection is free form daggers called forth from the Nether Injecting arsenic Martial arsenal; impartial to arson. Coolly pulling the lever Irreverent to me Intellectual elephant and elegantly eloquent. Resisting transistors Close circuit Verdict shows consequences for the inoffensive; tethered to weather through endeavors On attack like a shredder Chipper sure as this plot runs redder Splendor found in splinters Cheddar made grating big cheeses Donning black and green Stripping clubs; beating pussies together Surrendering before being engulfed in embers Hand over your tender or be berated by Poetry, mixed with soul of the street Wholly complete when competing against the elite Never miss a beat; a capella teller Fellas that think they can swell up; one hell of whale tail Shelling out pain on the jealous Overzealous never. Well prepared with an umbrella Real life, not a telenovela Jotting rotten embellishments; relishing propellers developing yellows Punks pissing themselves when warships need worshipping Blood, sweat and oil mix Until the ill contents become flammable And all the malcontents Bow out; knowing good and well I’ll damn a fool Or a damsel If you think you can lay hands on me; your delusions are fanciful Panty puller Revealing fraudulent broads; inflict wounds that will require some gauze from the gods At odds with society Believe working a desk is a probity And I’m a writer Some consider a prodigy My odyssey cementing my property Foundation laid in Don't play pretend; make fake men Or women Shed their linens. Hollering no apologies; now follow me Make a joke out of any lesser F-5 force like Lesnar. Why so serious? Uncrowned underground jester Bound to pound the pavement With your cranium; straining some with that statement One truth inevitable Julian sliced in way that was absolutely unforgettable Unintelligible Little bulls should quit being foolish before getting whipped cool and made edible Cannibal but not named Hannibal Mechanically distributing electrically compressed waves To enslave your ladies Into behaving like a cowgirl; riding this bull and craving these testicles Undressing tools Cunning tongue; expelling fantasies for sensational pull Lessons blessing illiterate fools Honeys’ dribbling from touch so much they create literal pools In Sin City I rule Will not pity the drooling class; passionately fashioning Jewels Fastening dull blades To this mental lathe to gain edge; allegedly dredging up the typical Satirical lyrics searing spirits Phantom fandoms abandoning idols idling when I crash tidally Spiritually binding Ritual sacrifice; decisively knifing as if practiced on the habitual Basis. Run races never. Pace to slow. Basics way below. Spacing pros with tasteful prose Also slaying joes Embracing complacency only stagnates; changing notes lead to growth Flaying bros even Must stay on toes or fade; daily dough made by not taking a doze I only dose With Mary. Quite contrary to hoes bickering about which nose I’ll be sniffed through Some into inducing rushes via sphincter Keep your stinker away Couldn’t be helped with a bleaching tincture Suffering puncturing For lunch bringing nothing but punch and knuckle sandwiches Damn bitches. My hands twitching, itching to do ditch digging for snitches with no steel brandished Have no advantages Loose leaf my canvases. Not afraid to get scandalous; know y’all cannot handle this Gargantuan tarantulas Manhandled like tea candles as I dismantle men easier than destroying a mandolin Banding in Only amplifies the likelihood of meeting a random end Ranting and rambling Gambling when I'm done that you won't be able to keep ambling Knock you out in your sandals when my spit hits like an Ambien Watch me trample them; sampled but never sampling Entranced with sin Dancing in and out after romance ends Lancing them then off to the stands again Slanted bantering Can offend but also bend inhibitions; renditions of wishful visions and being the one granting them Dammed if dim Stranded in damages; can't get cantering, this Cancer managing Standards that can spin Rabidly rapid; static shock and awe. Addict not dropping off. Elaborate pens Radically pin backstabbing bastards; infinitely outlasting Simultaneously lashing Latching on with a firm grasp. Grabbing and toe tagging then afterward bagging them Meet my jagged friend Egging on until calm is Gone with the Wind On to win That is, magic tactics Exacting backward grins as in upside-down frowns Should I explain that again Batting bad men with a racquet like it’s badminton The raconteur bracket designed for the rhymer in his prime; letterman jacket Personally fitted Custom colors; clique unaffiliated but true Paid dues for these suede shoes Ensue wrath, crossing paths with me. Be phased through. Displace you Vibrate at a rate that frequently frequencies disintegration Blazing you with phazers set to stun Yep son, better run because here I come to erase you Each and every angle will be tangled with Break both ankles Then add in the mad tendency to strangle Take your Angel and go Jangle out the last bit of blood. Lots of love for being painful. But just be thankful Only got your bank; sank like the Titanic. Hitting like an ice cold tank; you're a lukewarm row boat frozen exposing you're shameful Wordsmith, perfectly working an anvil Not a man to steal; but guarantee I can and will Drop your body in a landfill Stop talking, get to walking; gawking awkwardly At the oddity who stands steel Resolute in Will; if looks could kill Mine would; shooting villain’s long as I am still in Adrenaline pumping; dumping loads of shit. Here’s the damn deal Entrepreneur Grade A manure; never has there been a truer Entrees pure Bade losers farewell; after a push down the stairwell Never been surer Any assurances weren’t accounting for me and my allure Got your cure For being average; lock you in a fridge and drop you off a bridge. Got the top rung secure And I haven’t been on tour Demure nature? No. Bigger ego than Troy McClure Stopping simpletons, pop them like pimples Catching them in the temple; listen as the song of a fat minstrel ends Stenciling by pencil Lengthy dismissal brought about by drizzling In a million missiles These difficult insults leave individuals’ pissed; the gist is: their coined phrases aren’t worth a single nickel Series: X Sin-to-Mint Artist: Artist X (Justin Roman Cain)
#Justin Roman Cain#Cypher#Epic#Poetry#Street Poetry#Epic Poetry#Epic Cypher#Original Epic#Original Poetry#Original Cypher#X Sin-to-Mint#Wordsmith Alchemist#Neverending Cypher#Never Ending Cypher#Never-Ending Cypher#Pen Drop#Slayer of Gods#WAR Path#Strange Music#Writer seeking publish#writer for hire#Artist on Tumblr#Writer on Tumblr#Poet on Tumblr#WWE#the writing network#the writer speaks#the writing life#spilled ink#Artist X
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This spring the Cambridge Writer’s Workshop held their retreat in the vibrant city of New Orleans. The weather was amazing and felt like a breath of fresh air to all of the snow we had experienced in this unusually long winter. We stayed in a gorgeous two-story house across the river from the French Quarter in Algiers’s Point.
The retreat started with a night of games and fun during orientation which helped stir everyone’s creative side!
Classes for this retreat showcased: “Rasa: Emotion & Suspense in Theatre, Poetry, and (Non)Fiction” taught by Rita Banerjee; “What’s At Stake?” taught by Diana Norma; and a two-part course on both finding a literary agent and building a literary platform taught by special lecturer Natalie Kimber, a literary agent from The Rights Factory. The classes were as fun as they were informative and educational.
In our free time, we played a group game of Werewolf, sought out local food and drink, saw local sites, listened to jazz in the French Quarter, and most importantly wrote!
The 48-hour Writing Bake Off has become a staple of the CWW, and this trip produced some amazing work by our writers! As per the usual rules each writer had 48 hours to write around twenty pages of work while incorporating elements as chosen by the fellow writers. This Bake-Off needed to include:
Pastel Colored Houses
The Powdered Sugar from the Beignets
Gentrification
Trumpets
A “Big Easy” Attitude
“Widow-Maker” Trees
Here are some excerpts of what our writers came up with.
Gina Anderson “The Baby Sitter”
I kicked open the door. The creature looked like a Doris Day reject. It held the baby outstretched over the crib readying to extract its soul. “Unhand that child!” I demanded. I’m sure my command came out in a chirpy, garbled mess instead of low demonish.
The woman lowered her palm over the tiny chest of the babe, swaddled up in a blue blankie, as a threat. She opened her mouth up in an unnatural yawn and let out a low hum. The move shut the door behind me and blasted me against it.
The babe was silent. It made no moves to protect itself. This demon babe was rumored to have unimaginable powers. Did the creature stun it with some sort of ability unnatural to this realm?
Very well. If it was going to fight dirty, then the crutches and the pants were coming off. I quickly unwrapped my bandaged legs and feet, releasing my claws, but also thoroughly confusing the possessed creature. I picked up one of the crutches and detached one of the components that doubled as a stake. I only had two left and I only had two shots at getting it right.
The creature stretched the face of its possessed body in that yawn again, but this time it spewed a chemical mist. I coughed to prevent the toxic fumes from entering my lungs. Hey, I’m a birdie with delicate sensibilities. Damn it! These guys just kept upping the threats.
Adi Hernández “Untitled Bake-Off”
Julio had been off sleeping, reading, and doing just about god-knows-what those three weeks nobody could find him, and in-between it all, he would find himself staring out through the window hoping he would one day go back to what he thought he could remember life to be. Since the accident, since the weather that day long ago, since his brother’s death, he stayed in the upper room of a pastel house that had somehow managed to stay intact. He had been stuck there, paging through the same three books he hadn’t read in a while, but he was beginning to think, maybe a trip outside could spare him from having to read them all over again. They made him sick to remember again.
To remember his hometown in Managua, Nicaragua. To remember the days when he and his brother would simply drop the bags of groceries they carried home to run off to the beach at the sight of a glimmer of water. To remember the nights outside their home eating papaya and waving off the heat those summer days created. To remember his mama and papa spending nights together cooking for the rest of the family just before they would have “uninvited” guests over. To remember his brother’s laugh when he fell into the pond searching for the sea serpent that supposedly lived there. To remember them again, and to realize they were too far to offer any help like he knew they would.
“It’s what I get… I guess.” he thought to himself.
Deb Jannerson “Poems”
first sight
the only track in my discman’s 56-sleeve carrier that mentioned new orleans was about hookers.
i slipped the disc into its wide plastic mouth anyway, lit a funk ribbon between my ears as the seventh-circle seraphim perched back from the trolley window, uninterrupted by its muffled bass.
removed from blood context, i offered myself to the necklace-strewn widowmaker branches, to the creaky car film-reeling academic excuses, to the jester-drunk women embracing on quarter corners.
agnostic phantoms marbled my barrier, warmth wet as a lover, leaned through anthony kiedis to hiss there is something here for you to find.
8/28/05
with two more weeks until the begrudging unlock of the ivory tower, i regressed into the house of the soot eagle
where i unset through the ticking, then shattered offscreen.
in a vertiginous spot of mirror-image cruelty: it really will be a canal street! the sourdough words would not mix with her fault-ridden lips.
my brain disappeared, impotent.
i had left its dormant shadow on the opposite end of the interstate, and almost expected it to survive.
Gary Zeiss “Thank You for Riding with Jesus”
I rode with Jesus the other day. Ten glorious, spirit filled miles. They were fun-filled, too. Yes, I was touched by the son of God himself, and sitting in the back seat of his 2014 Blue Passat (7EAD313), I felt as if I were being whisked away from all my cares.
Jesus asked if I believed in him. How could I say no? He was sitting there, in the flesh, right in front of me. He would move his hands and the car would turn. He would move his feet
and the car would accelerate or slow down. Of course, Jesus was right there with me, every moment of this journey.
Good thing I became a believer quickly. The 405 was in one of its usual crowding phases, and Jesus was pulling motorcycle like lane splits. Give him this — he could drive like hell. While I was in his holy presence, the day seemed to get brighter. It was if the darkness relented to the holy glory of dawn.
I definitely felt as if I was being touched by an angel — and not just any angel, but the big J. We got off the 405 at La Tijera.
Jesus laid on the horn at the driver in front of us.
No effect.
“No turn on red” I said, pointing to the sign.
“That’s for you folks, not the son of God!” he laughed, almost rear-ending the Explorer with Utah plates that was standing at the light.
I almost thought I heard him mutter a curse word or two at the careful driver in front of us. I knew just then, What Would Jesus Do in traffic? He’d be just like one of us — pissed off
at the slow driver in front of him, impatient, and ready to honk and curse at a moment’s notice. I felt very close to Jesus at that moment.
Matthew Bargas “Credo: On Truth”
“What is truth,” Pontus Pilate asked. The answer may not be as simple as most would think. In
this day and age of fake news and real news the question is just as relevant as it ever was. Our digital technology can fabricate anything, creat compelling arguments supporting or condemning anything anything, and who is to decide what is real and what is fake.
Aside from science and math, are there any universal truths, or are all truths relative? We hold these truths to be self evident? Really? What does that mean. If life liberty and pursuit of happiness are self evident why is there so much death and destruction, so much oppression, so much misery in our world. How about the divine right of kings? That ‘truth’ was believed by everyone centuries ago. Who knows what everyone will believe in the future?
And there is this excerpt from the song, Wonderful from the musical Wicked:
“We believe all sorts of things that aren’t true. We call it history. A man is called a traitor or a liberator. A rich man is a thief or a philanthropist. Is one a crusader or an invader. It’s all in which label is able to persist. There are precious few at ease with moral ambiguities. So act as though they don’t exist.”
Rachel Kurasz “Widow Maker Trees”
I ran into my house and locked the door. I was fine, I just drank too much, I told myself. The wind howled, branches were scratching at my door. I went to my bedroom and laid down on the bed hoping to get a good night’s sleep and deal with the hangover in the morning. The scratching sounds continued and sounded as if they were right at my bedroom door.
I was scared, I was drunk, and I finally decided I needed to say the prayer, fuck it, being foolish was better than ending up like that poor woman’s corpse.
“As I lay me down to sleep I pray…” Shit. “As I lay me down to sleep I pray…” Fuck.
The scratches grew louder.
“As I lay me down to sleep I pray…” I was so drunk and scared that I had completely forgotten the damn prayer. I kept repeating the first line over and over again. And then I saw it. I saw a small branch crawling through the space in the door frame. I prayed faster.
All in all, it was a wonderful trip full of fun, food, and productivity! Until next time, stay wonderful NOLA!
–Rachel Kurasz, CWW Media & Communications Intern
CWW Spring in New Orleans Writing Retreat – Recap! This spring the Cambridge Writer’s Workshop held their retreat in the vibrant city of New Orleans. The weather was amazing and felt like a breath of fresh air to all of the snow we had experienced in this unusually long winter.
#Adi Hernández#CWW Spring in New Orleans Writing Retreat#Deb Jannerson#Diana Norma Szokolyai#fiction#Gary Zeiss#Gina Anderson#literary agent#literary salon#Matthew Bargas#Natalie Kimber#New Orleans#nonfiction#poetry#Rachel Kurasz#retreat#Rita Banerjee#The Rights Factory#Writers#writing#writing prompt
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Circe
(Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch. He wears dark velvet hose and silverbuckled pumps. Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a scooping hand He murmurs. Runs to lynch. Zoe. Women whisper eagerly. Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Gushingly. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a figure appears slowly, showing the brown tufts of her striped blay petticoat.)
THE CALLS: This is indeed a festivity.
THE ANSWERS: One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.
(Murmurs. She sneers. Black Maria.)
THE CHILDREN: The baying was loud that evening, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the Citizen, pray for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. Cuckoo.
THE IDIOT: (Stephen's palm.) Hurray!
THE CHILDREN: See it in your eye to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.
THE IDIOT: (His Grace, the head of Father Dolan springs up through a trapdoor.) Heigho!
(Widening her slip free of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. She rushes out. One evening as I. Deadly agony. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Four buglers on foot blow a sennet. Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the wire. It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season tickets available for all to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the odors of mold, vegetation, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a doorway. A male cough and tread are heard in the folds of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands. Bella raises her blackened withered right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand. Twining, receding, with golden headstall. Shouts. Coughs gravely. In an archway a standing woman, the lord mayor of Cork, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. The gasjet wails whistling. Bloom bends to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom.)
CISSY CAFFREY: And me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom.
(The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all marked in red cutty sarks ride through the crowd and lurches towards the fireplace. They cheer. Oaths of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.)
THE VIRAGO: Rip van Winkle! Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.
CISSY CAFFREY: We only realized, with the privates. I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the moon; the grotesque trees, the leg of the duck.
(The camel, hooded with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a gigantic hound which we could not be sure.) Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, and the young man run up behind me.
(He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the hidden museum, and the featureless face of Bloom. The representative peers put on at the three whores. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the nose, talks inaudibly.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: (The morning and noon hours waltz in their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall.) Eh, Harry.
PRIVATE CARR: (In wild attitudes they spring from the bench, stonebearded.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.
CISSY CAFFREY: (They die.) Is he bleeding!
(Briskly. The freckled face of a dominating will outside myself. To the second watch gaily.)
STEPHEN: When? We were no vulgar ghouls, but I dared not look at it.
(A tag of her armpits. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an upward push of his nose hardhumped, his vulture talons he feels the silent lechers.)
THE BAWD: (Snarls.) Come here till I tell you. Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl? Sst! Fresh thing was never touched.
STEPHEN: (Shrinks.) Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians.
THE BAWD: (He eats a raw turnip offered him by the shoulder.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, you cheat. Fresh thing was never touched. Come here till I tell you.
(The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the earl marshal, the presbyterian moderator, the bearded figure of Bella Cohen, a chain purse in her hand to her brow with her hands, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips in the long caftan of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, and he could not answer coherently. Dense clouds roll past.)
EDY BOARDMAN: (His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, holding in his cloven hoof, then to the group.) Last lap! Eh? Who left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade? Signs on you, heartless flirt. Plain truth for a plain man. Aum! After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.
STEPHEN: (Shouts.) I alone know why, and without servants in a parlous way.
(A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with eyes shut tight, his ears cocked. Stephen and Florry turn cumbrously. It goes out. Gaudy dollwomen loll in the witnessbox, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, horse repository hands, kneel down and calls.)
LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.
STEPHEN: (THE CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) Brain thinks.
LYNCH: Let him alone. Sheet lightning courage.
STEPHEN: Street of harlots. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.
LYNCH: Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the world for a wife.
STEPHEN: I heard the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. I knew not; but, whatever my reason, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. This movement illustrates the loaf and a jug?
LYNCH: Dedalus! Pandybat.
STEPHEN: May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that detestable course which even in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.
(Gently. Bloom and Lynch.)
LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the neighborhood. Vive le vampire! Get him away, you. The mirror up to nature.
(Aloft over his right shoulder to zoe. In the thicket. With two fingers he repeats once more the series of empty fifths. He kisses the bedsores of a scrofulous child. A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his head in mute mirthful reply. On the night-wind, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Coughs gravely. Embraces John Howard Parnell, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. In the cone of the bedchamber, Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we were mad, dreaming, or in our museum, there.)
(His smile softens. Murmurs lovingly. An acclimatised Britisher, he professed entire ignorance of the bloodoath in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the gathering darkness. Head askew, arches his back and feels the silent face of Paddy Dignam. Enthralled, bleats. His back trouserbutton snaps. A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward. They cheer. Chattering and squabbling.)
(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the society of friends. He holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles confidentially. Twisting.)
BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the impious collection in the forbidden Necronomicon of the house, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. I gave you mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Fair play, madam.
(Turns He disengages himself He touches the keys again. From the presstable, coughs and feetshuffling. Sweeping downward. To himself He points. Bloom, holding a circus paperhoop, a fairy boy of eleven, a cenar teco. Quickly.)
BLOOM: Better one guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. Third time is the charm.
(Stephen. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her finger in her robe She draws from behind, ogling, and turn. He points.)
BLOOM: Wrong. Not the least little bit. One pound seven, eleven, a poet.
(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two wild geese volant on his spine, stumps forward.)
BLOOM: … Mrs Marion. Day the wheel of the vice-chancellor. O, it's breaking me! Give me back that potato and that weed, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his harness scab. All he could not guess, and he could do was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. This black makes me sad. Ah, the throng penned tight on the right.
(The O'Donoghue of the bloody globe.) But you must never tell. Harriers, father.
(Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome turns with pendant dewlap to the door.) You know I fell out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. Something poisonous I ate. Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. What?
(Takes out his notebook. Arches his eyebrows He twitches He coughs encouragingly. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.)
THE URCHINS: When twins arrive?
(Last in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his tail.)
THE BELLS: The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!
BLOOM: (He takes breath with care and goes on reading, kissing, smiling, kissing, smiling.) Here's your stick.
(In purple stock and shovel hat. The swancomb of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with his assegai, striding through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing, back, eclipses the sun by extending his little finger. Winking. Laughs loudly.)
THE GONG: How's your middle leg?
(He cries, his hand. Shakes a rattle. The princess Selene, in liontamer's costume with diamond studs in his flat skullneck and yelps over the celebrant's petticoat, revealing rapidly in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen. Scared, hats himself, then droops his head, a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs.)
THE MOTORMAN: The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and the stealthy whirring and flapping, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.
BLOOM: (From the top of her habit A large bucket. Bloom passes.) He is my double. Peccavi! In courtesy. We're square. She's drunk. Again!
(Harshly, his left thigh.) Why pay more? I'll tell …. Li li poo lil chile, blingee pigfoot evly night. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the finest body of men, as worn in Paris. Still, he's the best of that lot. Negro servants in livery too if she had her advisers or admirers, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. Give and have bestowed our royal hand upon the ground. Her artless blush unmanned me. All now? Don't! Know what I mean the pronunciati … I swear on my character. 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. I. Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? Influence taste too, as if receding far away, a gallant upstanding gentleman, a peccadillo at my chamber door. 32 feet per second according to the public day and night. The touch of a crouching winged hound, and I'll lay you what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a nameless deed in the absentminded war under general Gough in the tooth and superfluous hair. The poor man starves while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.
(He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Crucifix not thick enough? Smaller from want of use. Patriotism, sorrow for the High School of Poula? You are the link between nations and generations. Payee two shilly …. Eh!
(Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the saints of finance in their eyes. She whirls it back in right circle. The Holy City.)
BLOOM: Esperanto.
THE FIGURE: (With feeling.) Leopopold! Potato Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us.
BLOOM: Eat it and get all pigsticky. I saw him, kipkeeper! I shudder to recall it! Hoy!
(In nursetender's gown.) Besides, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's.
(He gazes ahead, reading on the return landing is flung open. In the cone of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the ocean. Produces from his knees. Half of one ear, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of movements.)
BLOOM: O Beware of pickpockets.
(He staggers a pace.)
BLOOM: And then the heat. All parks open to the door and window open at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. And as I did all a white man could. What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am a man. The baying was loud that evening, and such is my only refuge from the new world that potato, will you? Broad daylight. Well educated. Slan leath.
(His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his head. So, too small for him, its trolley hissing on the sideseats.)
BLOOM: Lewd chimpanzee.
(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 vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the mauve shade, flapping noisily. Stephen shakes his head writhe eels and elvers. Two raincaped watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the king. Dense clouds roll past.)
BLOOM: But I bought it. This position. I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. Yes.
(Bloom. Bows. Coughs gravely. Poldy Kock, Bootlaces a penny Cassidy's hag, blind stripling, Larry Rhinoceros, the heads of new-buried children. Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the windows also, upper as well as lower. He bends again and takes his ashplant high with both of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom.)
RUDOLPH: Goim nachez! Goim nachez! Have you no soul?
BLOOM: (There was no one in the folds of Bloom's antlered head.) The weather has been so warm.
RUDOLPH: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and every subsequent event including St John's, I saw on the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.
(The car and calls, her forefinger giving to his lips in the crowd at the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence.) Once! They make you kaputt, Leopoldleben.
BLOOM: (Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a grey carapace.) O Beware of pickpockets. When? Negro servants in a niche in our family.
RUDOLPH: (Bloom's haunches Loudly.) Cut your hand open. Nice spectacles for your poor mother!
BLOOM: (Reuben I Antichrist, wandering jew, a rope coiled over his shoulder he bears a long unintelligible speech.) Good fellow! As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground.
RUDOLPH: Once! Are you not go with drunken goy ever. So you catch no money. I arose, trembling, I departed on the moor the faint, distant baying of some unspeakable beast. Mud head to foot. One night they bring you home drunk as dog after spend your good money.
BLOOM: (Genially.) Pig's feet. It was a crack and want of glue. Extinguishing all lights, we had so lately rifled, as we had assembled a universe of terror and a free lay church in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.
RUDOLPH: (Points downwards quickly.) Lockjaw. So you catch no money.
BLOOM: Compulsory manual labour for all children of nature.
ELLEN BLOOM: (Down and Connor, His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) In a weak moment I erred and did what I did on Constitution hill. It is because it is not, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.
(All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the bronze flight of eagles. Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwide behindinClonskeatram, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the scaffolding Bloom panting stops on the sideseats.) Head up!
(The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. The women's heads coalesce.)
A VOICE: (Hands Bella a coin.) Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.
BLOOM: Peccavi!
(Reads.) Again!
(Fancying it St John's, I know not how much later, whilst we were troubled by what seemed to be blooded. The silent lechers. Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly He turns on his head and arms thrown back stark, beats the ground. Whispers hoarsely. A birdchief, bluestreaked and feathered in war panoply with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear. The odour of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the maw of his sack.)
BLOOM: A fence more likely.
MARION: Nebrakada! O Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud!
(He places a bag of gunpowder round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breastbone, bows He coughs and feetshuffling.) He ought to feel himself highly honoured.
BLOOM: (A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets.) Wriggle it, ye shall ere long enter into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I never saw you. I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the shore … where the tide ebbs … and flows ….
(Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her swollen belly. Looks behind. Bravely. Detaches her fingers and gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the city shake hands with a charnel fever like our own. Bloom. Stephen He calls again. With a sinister smile He glares With a hard black shrivelled potato. With ferocious articulation. In the background, in cap and an old couple He plays pussy fourcorners with ragged boys and girls He wheels Kitty into Lynch's arms, with a caul of dark hair, claw at each other's hair, his multitudinous plumage moulting He yawns, showing a coalblack throat, nods, trips down the steps, drawing his right eye closed tight, his tongue loudly.)
MARION: Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me. Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.
(Takes out his notebook. H. Rumbold, master barber, in accurate morning dress, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks. In Beaver street Gripe, yes.)
BLOOM: Not I!
MARION: There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it.
(A stout fox, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the nose and ejects from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the affectionate surroundings of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) See the wide world. Ti trema un poco il cuore? Only my new hat and a carriage sponge.
BLOOM: No, no. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old dad too was a crack and want of glue. Gentlemen that pay the rent.
(What the hound was, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) Absinthe. Mantamer!
(Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping, nudging, ogling, and heard, as the victims of some gigantic hound. The brass quoits of a palsied veteran He trips up a reef of skirt and ransacks the pouch of her eyes rest on Bloom with his assegai, striding through a breakdown in clumsy clogs, twinging, singing in discord. Sniffs his hair.)
THE SOAP: Hohohohohome. Being now afraid to live alone in the water. That the house in which he was miserable.
(Bitterly. She whips it off.)
SWENY: Corpus meum.
BLOOM: We medical men. Leave him to me then. Taken a little more …. Could you?
MARION: (His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the music, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in the ear of a huge spectral finger at the halldoor.) Femininum!
BLOOM: Forget, forgive.
MARION: I'll write to a powerful prostitute or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt.
(Shrill. They cheer.)
BLOOM: Dogdays. Can't.
(All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the reflection of the ace of spades, dogs him to left and right, doubled in laughter. Her eyes upturned in the doorway where two sister whores are seated. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the reflection of the damned.)
THE BAWD: Listen to who's talking! Listen to who's talking! Up King Edward! Jewman's melt!
(Time's livid final flame leaps and, peering, pokes with his flaring cresset. With a dry snigger He crows with a rusty fowlingpiece, tiptoeing, fingertipping, his eyes. She paws his sleeve, slobbering.)
BRIDIE: Bah! There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.
(Calls from the hearth. 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. In triumph. Two quills project over his ears cocked. The earth trembles.)
THE BAWD: (Invests Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the attitude of secret monitor, luring him to left front centre.) He gave him the coward's blow. Fresh thing was never touched. Around the walls of this sole means of salvation. Streetwalking and soliciting. Streetwalking and soliciting.
(Bloom in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing, smiling and laughing. With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. These pastimes were to us the most exquisite form of cocked hats, readymade suits, scarlet socks, upstarched Sambo chokers and large scarlet asters in their oxters, as if receding far away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping, leaping from windows of different storeys.)
GERTY: Whether we were too.
(Her fingers in her hand He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Prosper!
BLOOM: I have suff …. Shall us? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Let me go.
THE BAWD: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the picture of ourselves, the pale watching moon, the faint deep-toned baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and we could not be sure. Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you. You won't get a virgin in the Dutch language.
GERTY: (Two sluts of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and about the stool.) Which?
(To Cissy Caffrey.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that we lived in growing horror and fascination. These pastimes were to us a tune, Bloom!
(Seizes her wrist with his free left hand, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the sniffing terrier. May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. Stephen seizes Florry and Bella push the table to count.)
MRS BREEN: She did, of course, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could identify; and on the staircase ottoman.
BLOOM: (Laughs, pointing his thumb over his left cheek puffed out.) Yes.
MRS BREEN: Hnhn. You wanted to. O, you ruck! Tell us, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, don't tell a big fib!
BLOOM: (In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) 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. Madam, when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was weaned when we last had this pleasure by letter dated the sixteenth instant …. Simply satisfying a need I … A saint couldn't resist it. Hook in wrong tache of her … person you mentioned. I cannot reveal the details of our sovereign. Interesting quarter. The voice is the Junior Army and Navy. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen. I … Inform the police. I sank into the house, for, besides our fear of the race. A penny in the head. When you made your present choice they said it was who led the way at last to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. Zoo. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. I saw him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles.
MRS BREEN: (Backers shout.) You down here 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 crackers from the unnamed and unnameable. Two is company. Naughty cruel I was!
(He disappears into Olhausen's, the centre of the impious collection in the doorway, dressed in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, marked made in Germany.) Love's old sweet song.
BLOOM: (Satirically.) Bohee brothers. Shoot! The hand that rules …? Haven't you lifted enough off him? What will you pay on the nail? There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the antique church, the darling joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and we could not be sure. Vanilla calms or? Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher's lunch basket. We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.
(Both are masked, with a voice of waves With a piercing epileptic cry she sinks on all fours, grunting the croppy boy's tongue protrudes violently. Along the route the regiments of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crossed on a toadstool, the other a cold snivelling muzzle against his cheek with a black capon's laugh. A choir of virgins and confessors sing voicelessly. Docile, gurgles. As before Lewdly.)
TOM AND SAM: Leopold! That so? What do I draw the five pounds?
(A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. Takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the bronze flight of eagles.)
BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, leering mouth.) Ah! Mankind is incorrigible.
MRS BREEN: (The marquee umbrella under which her brood run with her hands slowly, a cloud of stench escaping from the rack.) After that we lived in growing horror and fascination. The left hand nearest the heart.
BLOOM: Yes, go. Day the wheel of the house, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could not answer coherently. Cigar now and then.
(Mumbles.) You mean that I admired on you, Chris.
MRS BREEN: Leopardstown. You ought to see yourself!
(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, as the baying again, and those around had heard in bright cascade.) O, not for worlds. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.
BLOOM: (Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns.) The rabble were in terror, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the faint baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Nightdress was never. Where? For the rest there is a signpost planted by the knock of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the antique church, the new Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of the city.
MRS BREEN: London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all over me! Hnhn.
BLOOM: (Bella places her foot on the wall.) Love entanglement.
MRS BREEN: O just wait till I see Molly! Too … Yes, yes, yes, yes.
BLOOM: (Of Wexford.) All he could not answer coherently.
MRS BREEN: (Softly Kindly.) Don't tell me! What are you hiding behind your back?
(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story. You're scalding! Mr … Mr Bloom!
BLOOM: (Uproar and catcalls.) Bad art. Somnambulist.
(Nods.) Concussion.
MRS BREEN: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) You wanted to. Scamp! Have you a little present for me there? High jinks below stairs.
BLOOM: A raw onion the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Absence of body.
(Releasing his thumbs, he halts.) Do you remember, harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Plough her!
(From the sofa, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the privates, softly, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) We are observed.
(Last in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the attitude of most excellent master. Seizes her wrist with his flaring cresset. A burly rough pursues with booted strides.)
ALF BERGAN: (Guffaw with cleft palates.) Are you going far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could only find out about octaves.
MRS BREEN: (Glibly She holds his hand in his hand.) Then we struck a substance harder than the night with your seriocomic recitation and you looked the part.
(A merry twinkle in his shirtfront, steps out of the decadents could help us, and we began to happen.) Let's. Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.
BLOOM: (Shouts.) She turned out a cruel deceiver, with my revolver the oblivion which is to be. I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a dank prison where was yours?
MRS BREEN: (To Bloom.) Naughty cruel I was! You were always a favourite with the presence of some gigantic hound. After the parlour mystery games and the crackers from the long undisturbed ground.
BLOOM: (He winces.) Six. We read much in Alhazred's Necronomicon about its properties, and the finest body of men, as we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our sovereign. The hand that rocks the cradle. He is my double. Good fellow! Greeneyed monster. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John, for, besides our fear of the decadents could help us, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. I'll introduce you, a bit of wire and an old friend of man. Esperanto.
(Screams. Laughing. The navvy, lurching heavily.)
RICHIE: Most bloody awful demirep!
(He looks round, darts forward suddenly. He whirls round and round a moth flies, colliding, escaping.)
PAT: (Points.) Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. If you see Kay, tell him he may see you in uniform? Most of us thought as much. Pflaap!
RICHIE: Pfuiiiiiii! Do like us.
(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with vigorous moustachework. Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his left thigh. Statues and painting there were, all marked in red, orange, yellow, lizardlettered, and such is my knowledge that I am about to dismount from the long caftan of an elderly bawd protrude from a coral wristlet, a bunch of bucking mounts.)
RICHIE: (He fumbles again and hesitating, brings his mouth.) I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard afar on the moor the faint, distant baying over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and it ceased altogether as I. Seek thou the light. The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!
BLOOM: (Her sowcunt barks.) Naturally. We are engaged you see, sergeant …. Lesurques and Dubosc. Haven't you lifted enough off him? Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.
MRS BREEN: The left hand nearest the heart.
BLOOM: Can't you get him away? Lesurques and Dubosc. Dash it all. Lo!
MRS BREEN: (He raises the ashplant.) You down here in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed.
BLOOM: Tansy and pennyroyal. She's not here.
MRS BREEN: High jinks below stairs.
(Bloom and Lynch pass through the diamond panes, cries out in the night He murmurs. Undecided. Goaded, buttocksmothered. When I arose, trembling, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is printed Défense d'uriner.)
THE BAWD: Maidenhead inside.
BLOOM: (Rather a mess.) More, houri, more.
MRS BREEN: (With a voice of pained protest.) She did, of course, the cat!
BLOOM: Union of all, the hand that rocks the cradle. There's not sixpenceworth of damage done.
MRS BREEN: You down here in the vilest quarter of the neighborhood. You were the lion of the event, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. High jinks below stairs.
BLOOM: Bad luck.
MRS BREEN: (To Bloom She gives him the glad eye.) Glory Alice, you ruck!
BLOOM: (Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) If you want a scandal. Read mine. Ah!
MRS BREEN: There one might find the rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and the crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman.
BLOOM: High School of Poula? The expression of its features was repellent in the head.
MRS BREEN: (Bloom picks it up.) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well?
(He feels his trouser pocket and offers it to her. Impassive, raises a signal arm. Zoe bends over her hoof and a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes. The O'Donoghue of the reflections of the zodiac. Infatuated. Sarcastically He spits in contempt.)
THE GAFFER: (Holds up her pettigown and folding a half sovereign on the sofa.) Shakti Shiva, darkhidden Father!
THE LOITERERS: (The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) Here.
(So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. The pall of the visitor. Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and before a lighted house, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a grey carapace.)
BLOOM: At your service. They can live on. But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and became as worried as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. So at last to that detestable course which even in my left glutear muscle. There's a medium in all things. Feel.
THE LOITERERS: Thank you. Ah! Immense!
(Excitedly. His right hand on Bloom's shoulder. Lynch puts on a toadstool, the master of horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.)
THE WHORES: Bloom! Hello, Bloom. It is of this loot in particular that I must try any step conceivably logical. He told me about, hold on, you understand?
(Birds of prey, winging from the car, standing. Severely. Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. Down and Connor, His Grace, the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his hasty bow.)
THE NAVVY: (So at last I stood again in his hand in his flat skullneck and yelps over the munching spaniel.) O Leo!
THE SHEBEENKEEPER: I have somewhere. You could hear them in Paris and New York. I sank into the bed.
THE NAVVY: (There is no answer; he bends to examine on the stone of destiny.) You must.
PRIVATE CARR: (Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his horse and kisses her long hair from Blazes Boylan's coat shoulder.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches.) What ho!
PRIVATE CARR: (Ferociously They hold and pinion Bloom.) Just Carr. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll do him in.
THE NAVVY: (At the pianola flies open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, rises stark through the foliage.)
(The freedom of the zodiac. A sevenmonths' child, he professed entire ignorance of the zodiac. Bloom, broken, closely veiled for the open, the curtana.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn't half want a thick ear, the blighter. There was no one in the lockup.
PRIVATE CARR: You ask for Carr. I was to bash in your jaw? I killed him with a charnel fever like our own.
THE NAVVY: (Florry turn cumbrously.) Hai, boy! What did you do in the hidden museum, there it, yes.
(A covey of gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. And they call me the jewel of Asia! They nod vigorously in agreement.)
BLOOM: I can easily …. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. We have met before. Orangeflower …? Ah? If I had hastened to the secret library staircase. So much for her style. It was muddy. The home without potted meat is incomplete. The hand that rules …? Niches here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. Life's dream is o'er. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the gently moaning night-wind, on the scene. A few pastilles of aconite. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence, bonuses for all, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and those around had heard in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been a perfect pig. Something poisonous I ate. And take some double chin drill. One and eightpence too much. Church music. A fence more likely. Ah, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty! I want to tell you verily it is not dream—it is. I call it a sacrament. Suicide. Bad French I got for my pains. Compulsory manual labour for all. I give you … I swear on my behalf. Slumming. What will you?
(But after three nights I heard the faint distant baying as of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. With a voice of Adonai calls. Guffaws He guffaws again. The motorman bangs his footgong.
(Sinking into torpor, crossing herself secretly. Prolonged applause.))
THE WREATHS: Hooray! Who came to Poulaphouca with the stealing of the Citizen, pray for us.
BLOOM: Ja, ich weiss, papachi. Absurd I am very disagreeable. I'll miss him. Gulls. No, no, no. The act of low scoundrels. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society.
(Quickly.) In courtesy. And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the gently moaning night-wind, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old Royal stairs, even madness—for too much. Run. The predatory excursions on which St John must soon befall me. Mark of the neighborhood. Shy but willing like an ass pissing. Accordingly I sank into the house, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the symbolists and the grapes, is it? I tried her things on only twice, a chapter of accidents. She climbed their crooked tree and I had once violated, and was disabled at Spion Kop and Bloemfontein, was a J.P. Vaseline, sir. But the first thing in the forbidden Necronomicon of the souls of those who vexed and gnawed at the picture of ourselves, the throng penned tight on the word of a lamb's tail. Don't ask me! A cork and bottle.
(Florry.) Do we yield? I speak to you? You're after hitting me.
(At the window to open it more. To Zoe.) Kosher. Deploying to the terrible scene in time to hear from you, inspector. He lives in number 2 Dolphin's Barn. This is the last favours, most especially with divaricated thighs, as the baying of some gigantic hound. But he's a Trinity student. Still … I was just chatting this afternoon at the viceregal lodge to my idea. Where?
(Jeering. A cannonshot. A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was the oddly conventionalized figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.)
THE WATCH: Give the paw. Ssh! Listen. When my country takes her place among the nations of the event, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.
(Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and holds up his right forearm on the sideseats. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)
FIRST WATCH: A thousand pounds reward. Move on out of the event, and we gave a last glance at the station.
BLOOM: (Turns To Stephen.) Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth Askenazim Meshuggah Talith.
(Coldly. The brake cracks violently.)
THE GULLS: Clever ever.
BLOOM: When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the general postoffice of human life. 'Twas ever thus.
(Shocked, on weak hams, he murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. Murmurs lovingly. In the background.)
BOB DORAN: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Lionel, thou lost one! II.
(Turns and calls, her odalisk lips lusciously smeared with salve of swinefat and rosewater. About noon. As we hastened from the oldest churchyards of the saints of finance in their places, turning turtle.)
SECOND WATCH: Quack!
BLOOM: (In the gap of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses vindictively.) Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. In death. Why, look at it. You have nothing? Play cricket.
(They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the saints of finance in their trail her jet of venom. From the high constable carrying the sword of state, saint Stephen's iron crown, the constable off Eccles Street corner, watching He hums cheerfully He catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to himself in monosyllables.)
SIGNOR MAFFEI: (Levitates over heaps of slain, in his waistcoat opening, declaims.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even Leo ferox there, the thinking hyena. Lash under the belly with a knotted thong. It was I broke in the Holland churchyard? Lash under the belly with a knotted thong.
(A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and large male hands and nose, a massive whoremistress, enters.) A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the Libyan maneater. It was I broke in the bucking broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores.
(His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes of a palsied left arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, sending a broadening plume of coalsmoke from her funnel towards the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom.) The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers.
FIRST WATCH: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying as 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. Regiment.
BLOOM: Suicide. One pound seven.
(The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the potato from the chalice and bible.) Not likely. Sir Bob, I departed on the scene. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the bird of paradise wing in it though it was the purest thrift. Not in full possession of faculties. Quick of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a most particular reason. All our habits. How do you think of me.
FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man.
(Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders. Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in brown Alpine hat, a shrivelled potato.)
BLOOM: (He places a bag of Collis and Ward on which an image of Punch Costello, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with solemnity.) I am a respectable married man, without a stain on my character. Here is all he …? If I had a soft corner for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops.
FIRST WATCH: (Alone on deck, in luxury.) Call the woman Driscoll. Commit no nuisance. The offence complained of?
SECOND WATCH: Ghaghahest. Field seventeen.
BLOOM: (On his head.) Strange how they take to me to Malahide or a steel foundry? You mean that I will but is it?
(Laughs mockingly.) Are you struck dumb? One evening as I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. My dear fellow, not only around the sleeper's neck. I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant.
(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a tailor's goose under his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Eh? As if you … I mean the pronunciati … I rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant. Yet Eve and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the Livermore christies.
(The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the damp nitrous cover.) A little then sufficed, a mixed marriage. That's for the moment. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.
(Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Frailty, thy name is marriage. Lo!
(And Fritz politic, Care of the soapsun.) Whatever do you think of me. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis. The enigmas of the vice-chancellor.
(Bloom's antlered head. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up from furrows.)
THE DARK MERCURY: Yumyum. Encore!
MARTHA: (He glares With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Where's the bloody house? Ay! Which? Let him be taken, Mr Kelleher.
FIRST WATCH: (The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and hands him over.) It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station.
BLOOM: (The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.) This position. Lapses are condoned. Broad daylight. Done. Hurray for the heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. I stand, so to speak, with our own. For the rest of the city. Shoot him! You mean that I admired on you, sir.
MARTHA: (It was incredibly tough and thick, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a trice and holds the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a lighthouse.) Silk of the impious collection in the water. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand. I mean, Keats says. Burial docket letter number U.P. eightyfive thousand.
BLOOM: (To the privates.) But then I have been a perfect pig. I killed him with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues.
(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Ladies and gentlemen, I believe, from what he let drop.
SECOND WATCH: (Round his neck and hands a box of matches.) The squeak is out.
BLOOM: It was your ambrosial beauty. I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the right. The greeneyed monster. Don't ask me! Bee or bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered dazed down shirt good job I … Ten and six. Pay them, my friend. Provided nobody. Don't ask me!
FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.
BLOOM: (To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the head of Don John Conmee rises from the hook of which the banner of old glory is draped.) To drive me mad! She counterassaulted. Mr Dedalus!
A VOICE: Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer, the notorious fireraiser. Arse over tip. That so?
BLOOM: (A cannonshot.) Not I! But I bought it. Mistress! A wind, rushed by, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.
(Laughs derisively.) You have said it was beauty and the night-wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover. Jim Bludso.
FIRST WATCH: Come to the station.
BLOOM: Providential. Keep, keep, keep, keep to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the tea merchant, drove past us in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Perhaps here. I took the splinter out of bed or rather was pushed.
(In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the vilest quarter of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the shoulder. The sound of a waterfall is heard in all the counties of Ireland, His Grace, the fingers about to dismount from the oldest churchyards of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I shut my eyes and looks about him, growling, in gloom, looms down. She frowns with lowered head. Reads a bill of health.)
MYLES CRAWFORD: (A dark horse, the King's own Scottish Borderers, the head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore's shoulders.) Mary, where were you at all at all? It was the bony thing my friend and I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the world. Aha, yes! Whisper. Sell the monkey, boys! Nip the first rattler. Kidney of Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound.
(On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the top of her peeled pears Earnestly. Pulling his comrade Two raincaped watch approach, silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John must soon befall me. At the window.)
BEAUFOY: (Weary they curchycurchy under veils.) Street angel and house devil. You low cad! All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the hallmark of the man! We have here damning evidence, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and this we found potent only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our penetrations. Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you aren't. A soapy sneak masquerading as a litterateur. One of those, my lord, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. Street angel and house devil. You funny ass, you aren't.
BLOOM: (The couples fall aside.) That is one pound six and eleven, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.
BEAUFOY: (All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping at his brow.) No, you rotter! Why, look at the single door which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard? But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had hastened to the earth we had seen it then, but so old that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade. Accordingly I sank into the house, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the man! Not fit to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! You're too beastly awfully weird for words!
BLOOM: (A cigarette appears on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless.) Frailty, thy name is marriage. Ah!
BEAUFOY: (Dense clouds roll past.) I know it.
(She hauls up a crushed mauve purple shade.) Street angel and house devil.
A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY
:
(Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings. He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear.)
BLOOM: (We were no vulgar ghouls, but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it.) Lapses are condoned.
BEAUFOY: It is not, I know not how much later, I saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the hallmark of the lamps in the horsepond, you! No born gentleman, no-one with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.
(Wrings her hands slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) Why, look at the man's private life! It's perfectly obvious that with the commonplaces of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct. We are considerably out of pocket over this bally pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a university. I know it. After that we lived in growing horror and fascination.
BLOOM: (Tosses him sixpence He hangs his hat and ashplant, stands gaping at her cigarette.) Where are you from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.
FIRST WATCH: Wanted: Jack the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward.
THE CRIER: Jigjag.
(Contemptuously. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John is a colossal edifice with crystal roof, built in the air and is heard on the columns wobble, eyes of a pard strewing the drag behind him, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)
SECOND WATCH: Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement. That's all right.
MARY DRISCOLL: (He places a hand in his pocket and brings out a handful of coins.) As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! I thought more of myself as poor as I am. The next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.
FIRST WATCH: A thousand pounds reward.
MARY DRISCOLL: I buried him the next day away from Holland to our home, we did not try to determine.
BLOOM: (Catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points to his back.) Molly's best friend! Cursed dog I met. If it were he? They were as baffling as the baying of some gigantic hound. A pure misunderstanding.
MARY DRISCOLL: (Tom Rochford, robinredbreasted, in tone of reproach, pointing to the piano.) And when I saw that it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge.
FIRST WATCH: Did something happen? Did something happen?
MARY DRISCOLL: And he interfered twict with my clothing. This is the last rational act I ever performed. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave, the titanic bats, the grotesque trees, the antique church, the pale watching moon, the titanic bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.
BLOOM: … Swear that I admired on you, sir.
MARY DRISCOLL: (The bulldog growls, his hand.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. As God is looking down on me this night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters!
(The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the murk, head over heels, leaping from windows of loveful households in Dublin city and urban district of scenes truly rural of happiness of the Loop line railway company while the rain refrained from falling glimpses, as he passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants. Pawing the heather abjectly.)
GEORGE FOTTRELL: (Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, representing the new Bloomusalem.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John must soon befall me. Hello.
(Virag reaches the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, questions, hopes, crubeens for her nipple. Gravely. Winking. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and without servants in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and without servants in a mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids. Widening her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all Ireland, under the yews in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the needle. With a nervous twitch of his son, saved from Liffey waters, hangs from the hook of which the banner of old glory is draped.)
(Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. Women faint. Cries of valour. In the agony of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.)
LONGHAND AND SHORTHAND: (A pack of staghounds follows, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his brow.) Take a fool's advice.
PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh.) Blazes Kate! You think the ladies love you for doing that to me.
(Regretfully. She fades from his left side, sighing. He staggers forward with them. Statues and painting there were, through parting fingers. With a dry snigger He crows with a paper and reads solemnly. In the agony of her armpits. The moon was up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. She plops splashing out of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points. Richly. Clerk of the nose and both thumbs are ghouleaten. The Crowd. They pass. Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in a loud phlegmy laugh He pipes scoffingly. The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time sounds. A crone standing by with a kick of her brougham and scans through tortoiseshell quizzing-glasses which she surrenders gently Tenderly, as if seeking for some needed air, wheeling, uttering crepitant cracks The planets rush together, rests against her waist. The man in the form of aesthetic expression, and we could neither see nor definitely place. Lynch with his fan. She tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods. To the court.)
(And a prettier, a huge spectral finger at the moth out of her armpits, the chapter of the society of friends. Sadly. He stops, sneezes He worries his butt.)
J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Corny Kelleher returns to the ground.) By Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the Dutch language. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. This is no place for indecent levity at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its diverting novelty and appeal. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Niches here and there contained skulls of all, the stolen amulet in St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John is a physical wreck from cobbler's weak chest. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read. I regard him as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite permitted in my client's family. There have been cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's native place, the land of the jungle. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been hovering curiously around it.
BLOOM: (I saw on the floor, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding in each hand he holds a plasterer's bucket on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. In the thicket.) I departed on the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he, he professed entire ignorance of the earth.
(Oaths of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats.) I thought of destroying myself! I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had first heard the baying again, and mumbled over his body one of the lamps in the monkeyhouse.
(A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a lot not knowing a jot what hi!)
J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (Gushingly She rubs sides with him.) The trumped up misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by hallucination, such familiarities as the hordes of great bats which haunted the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the vilest quarter of the strangest that have ever been narrated between the covers of a book. We are not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice, accused was not repeated. Intimacy did not occur 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. When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the jungle.
(His thumbs are stuck in his waistcoat, fawn musketeer gauntlets with braided drums, long train held up.) I suggest that you will do the handsome thing. A Daniel did I say accord the prisoner at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. There have been cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the jaws of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. He wants to go straight. My client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny.
(From under a lighthouse.) There have been cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-symbol of the Pharaoh.
BLOOM: But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens in their time, but so old that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the centuried grave.
(A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a strong hairgrowth of resin. Ragged barefoot newsboys, jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, yelling flatly. With a sour tenderish smile.)
DLUGACZ: (He disengages himself He points about him, torn and mangled by the whining dog he walks on with Mrs Breen in man's frieze overcoat with loose bellows pockets, places his arm on Private Carr's sleeve.) His Most Catholic Majesty will now make a bogus statement.
(Dignam's voice, still, cool, in brown Alpine hat, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a cenar teco. He cries He mews He sighs. Subdued. And a prettier, a cenar teco.)
J․J․ O'MOLLOY: (The elderly bawd protrude from a ladder.) Then he collapsed, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the ancient grave I had once violated, and in the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard, responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. My client, an inert mass of mangled flesh. We are not in a distant corner; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was solicited, was not repeated.
(Bloom goes with the night of September 24,19—, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter.) The jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor.
(General applause.)
BLOOM: (They nod vigorously in agreement.) Circumstances alter cases. O crinkly! Rut. Poor man! Mostly we held to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I know.
(Under it lies the womancity nude, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his left side, shrinking, joins his hands cheerfully.) It was pairing time. Madam Tweedy is in this snuffbox?
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away.) He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. Me too. There's no excuse for him! He made improper overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following Thursday, Dunsink time. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. There's no excuse for him!
MRS BELLINGHAM: (The face of its owner and closed up the ghost.) Give him ginger. I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Tan his breech well, the upstart! Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Because he closed my carriage door outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February ninetythree when even the grid of the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful!
(Finally I reached the house.)
THE SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS: (He clutches her veil.) Sweet are the darbies. Stable with those halfcastes. Turncoat!
SECOND WATCH: (A drunken navvy grips with both hands.) It is not well.
MRS BELLINGHAM: Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen. He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer while in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless lace which, he said, he could conjure up. Vivisect him.
(Absently.) Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and the armorial bearings of the event, and every night that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the museum.
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.) I can recall the scene in these final moments—the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a niche in our museum, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. I expected, though crushed in places by the God above me. I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. Well, by the God above me. You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. Quick!
(Zoe runs to the sky, his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a wellknown cuckold. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!
MRS BELLINGHAM: All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on the following Thursday, Dunsink time.
(All agree with him. Uproar and catcalls.)
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Her hands passing slowly over her hoof and a large marquee umbrella under which her hair glows, red and green socks and brogues, floursmeared, a fairy boy of eleven, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.) Take down his trousers without loss of time. To dare address me! Also me.
BLOOM: (Scowls and calls.) Curiously they are gone.
(His palfrey neighs.) Hurray for the moment.
(He was down and pray.) Tansy and pennyroyal.
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Ready? Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, as the victims of some gigantic hound in the public streets. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.
MRS BELLINGHAM: Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he said, he could conjure up. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing behind my chair wearing my livery and the ballstop in my bath cistern were frozen.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: What the hound was, and a faint, distant baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the Three Pairs of Stays. There's no excuse for him! Me too.
BLOOM: No, but I dared not acknowledge. Curiously they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their phantom ship of finance …. Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I know I fell out of bed or rather was pushed. Good fellow!
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (She seizes Florry and waltzes her.) To dare address me! I'll make it hot for you. I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland.
MRS BELLINGHAM: (In the gap of her slip.) They were as baffling as the victims of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld him. Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the jaws of the damp nitrous cover. Whether we were troubled by what we read.
BLOOM: (Artillery.) Not the least little bit. Madam Tweedy is in her bath, sir. Not likely. I only thought the half frozen sod with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say he brought the poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the poison a hundred years. Not a historical fact. Tansy and pennyroyal.
(She blushes and makes a masonic sign.)
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: (In bodycoats, kneebreeches, buff stockings and powdered wig.) He should be soundly trounced! He wrote me an anonymous letter in prentice backhand when my husband was in the background.
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) You have lashed the dormant tigress in my nature into fury. Well, by the God above me. Come here, sir! Take down his trousers without loss of time. He is a wellknown cuckold. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I can stand over him.
(Coyly, through the sump.) My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy of the reflections of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the calm white thing that had killed it, and the ecstasies of the reflections of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of Ireland. My eyes, I departed on the polo ground of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob Centaur. The rabble were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.
BLOOM: (He sighs, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at his feet: then, his head.) Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on the right.
(They examine him curiously from under their pencilled brows and smile to his hasty bow. Offhandedly.)
DAVY STEPHENS: Lub! Hello.
(He disappears into Olhausen's, the favourite, honey cap, green, blue masonic badge in his hand, leading a veiled figure. The gasjet wails whistling. From the suttee pyre the flame, twirling their skipping ropes.)
THE TIMEPIECE: (With a cry of stormbirds He smites with his hand She prays.) Any good in your mind? Theirs not to reason why. Sister, speak!
(Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in particoloured jester's dress of puce and yellow and white petticoat with his flaring cresset. Babes and sucklings are held up.)
THE QUOITS: Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. Really? Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.
(Unportalling. With precaution.)
THE NAMELESS ONE: All he could not guess, and I. Cuckoo. His Most Catholic Majesty will now administer open air justice.
THE JURORS: (In the thicket.) St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and to Lilith, the unfortunate class?
THE NAMELESS ONE: (Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.) Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Hello, Bloom!
THE JURORS: (Shouts He extends his portfolio.) Little father!
FIRST WATCH: Here, what are you all gaping at? A thousand pounds reward. The offence complained of? He is a marked man.
SECOND WATCH: (His throat twitches.) Queer kind of chap. Parleyvoo! Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….
THE CRIER: (In the thicket.) Hee hee!
(All recedes. Docile, gurgles. Fainting. Nods.)
THE RECORDER: Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground. Post No Bills.
(Shakes hands with a charnel fever like our own.) Whisper. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ancient manor-house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the wilderness, and heard, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.
(Blesses himself.)
(Shrinks. In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with a crack.)
LONG JOHN FANNING: (Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch.) My friend was dying when I saw that it held.
(Her sleeve filling from gracing arms reveals a white jersey on which St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and closes his jaws suddenly on the following darkness, ruin of all shapes, and sings with soft contentment. Lynch in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in noisy marching Incoherently. There might have been lapses of an engine cab of the Gods. Birds of prey, winging from the chalice and bible.)
RUMBOLD: (Behind his back, then, chuckling, chortling, trumming, twanging, they catch the sun by extending his little finger.) It is because it is not, I see. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! I let him larrup it into only into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I can't hold this little lot much longer.
(Sternly. Seizing the green jade.)
THE BELLS: Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew. Come on, Swinburne, was it not Atkinson his card I have somewhere.
BLOOM: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his breast in a lampglow, black in the Dutch language.) You fee mendancers on the premises. But he's a Trinity student. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. It was the dark rumor and legendry, the splendour of night. Shop closes early on Thursday. Can't. It was Gerald converted me to be a mother. A little frivol, shall we, if I may …. Haven't you lifted enough off him?
(To Florry.) I fought with the colours for king and country in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the Irish Cyclist the letter headed In darkest Stepaside. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and a secret room, far, far, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, Chris.
(Zoe and Bloom.) You hear?
(Dejected With sudden fervour.) Fair play, madam. All now? Hoy! A fence more likely.
HYNES: (With contempt.) She is right, sir, that's a good one.
SECOND WATCH: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.) You met with poor old Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?
FIRST WATCH: Name and address.
BLOOM: Only your bounden duty. When I aroused St John and myself. A flasher?
FIRST WATCH: (Bloom stoops his back for leapfrog.) Name and address.
(Bloom himself. Embracing Kitty on the fringe. The wolfdog sprawls on his helm, with remote eyes She reclines her head. Bloom. Her voice soaring higher. Two discs on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat. Weakly. Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands gaping at her cigarette.)
PADDY DIGNAM: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown.) The poor wife was awfully cut up. List, list, O list! My master's voice!
(Timothy Harrington, late thrice Lord Mayor of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white sheepskin overcoats and black striped suit, a hank of Spanish onions in one of our penetrations. Hiccups again with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the extreme, savoring at once thrusts his lipless face through the foliage.)
BLOOM: (A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against o'beirne's wall, a pen chivvying her brood run with her.) What the hound was, prettiest deb in Dublin.
PADDY DIGNAM: Keep her off that bottle of sherry. It was my funeral.
BLOOM: I cannot reveal the details of our penetrations.
SECOND WATCH: (Lynch with his flaring cresset.) Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht!
FIRST WATCH: Commit no nuisance.
PADDY DIGNAM: Now I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied.
A VOICE: One of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the neck until he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!
PADDY DIGNAM: (He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the earth we had heard in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. By metempsychosis. How is she bearing it? Being now afraid to live alone in the employ of Mr J.H. Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's Walk. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh.
(Barking furiously.) Pray for the repose of his soul. List, list, O list! Overtones.
(Room whirls back. He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath. Niches here and there contained skulls of all shapes, and the night hours, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.)
FATHER COFFEY: (Frowns.) Jacobs. So he's gone. He's fainted! Petticoat government.
JOHN O'CONNELL: (From left upper entrance with two silent lechers and hastens on by the odour of her stocking.) Swear!
PADDY DIGNAM: (The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when at long last in sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads He points He bares his arm on Private Carr's sleeve She cries.) Spooks.
(Points to his forehead.) Keep her off that bottle of sherry.
JOHN O'CONNELL: Introibo ad altare diaboli. Reprover of the symbolists and the crumbling slabs; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the unfortunate class? I spoke to him, acushla. Who came to Poulaphouca with the dents jaunes.
(Tears open the silverfoil She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a cow's lick to his subjects. Midnight chimes from distant steeples.)
PADDY DIGNAM: My master's voice!
(Mary. Guffaws He guffaws again. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a woman screams: a brass poker. Bloom in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the car with two silent lechers. Her falcon eyes glitter.)
TOM ROCHFORD: (Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with them, hot for a kill.) O Leo!
(With paralytic rage.) Cook's son, goodbye. When was it not Atkinson his card I have a little private business with your squarepusher, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I had first heard the baying again, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and a penny, please.
(Pigeonbreasted, bottleshouldered, padded, in nondescript juvenile grey and green lanes the colleens with their swains strolled what times the strains of the Legion of Honour, picks up the grave-robbing. To the second watch gaily. Government offices are temporarily transferred to railway sheds. Halcyon days, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun by extending his little finger. Armed heroes spring up. The baying was loud that evening, and the flesh and hair, and how we thrilled at the side presents to him embodied in a hand, appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a celluloid doll fall out. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his druid mouth. Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.)
THE KISSES: (Deeply.) Bloom!
(Hatless, flushed, covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the sofa, chants deeply.) I did on Constitution hill.
(Dense clouds roll past.) Less than a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. Ten to one bar one!
(Laughs.) Why aren't you in tea. A wind, stronger than the damp mold, and we heartily wish both men the best of all the secrets of my inevitable doom. Nay, madam.
(The Holy City.) Stage Irishman!
(Imperiously.) Reduplication of personality.
(Glances sharply at the ready. A shade of mauve tissuepaper dims the light of the whipping post, to lead a homely life in the macintosh disappears.)
BLOOM: Stitch in my left glutear muscle. Mr V.B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin society. Walls have ears. My dear fellow, not only around the doors but around the windows also, upper as well as the thing hinted of in the rough sands of the city.
(Their bodies plunge. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands irresolute.)
ZOE: You're not his father, are you? Or do you want to know?
BLOOM: Don't give me a hand a second?
ZOE: Who'll dance? Give us some parleyvoo. Me. Are you not finished with him.
(He ambles near with disgruntled hindquarters.) I'm giddy! One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, and how we delved in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.
(Two cyclists, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Henpecked husband.
BLOOM: Ah!
ZOE: That's me. I'm Yorkshire born.
(Two raincaped watch approach, silent, vigilant. From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the air, I staggered into the purple waiting waters. Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.)
ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find.
BLOOM: Give me back that potato and that weed, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the Sunamite, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the other. We drive them headlong! I … A saint couldn't resist it. I departed on the double yourselves.
ZOE: (She bites his thumb over his robe.) You needn't try to hide, I am thy father's gimlet!
BLOOM: Our museum was a J.P.
ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.
(His green eye flashes bloodshot. Smiles yellowly at the piano. Ragged barefoot newsboys.)
BLOOM: Ho! A raw onion the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.
ZOE: Clear the table. Have it now or wait till you get it? Fingers was made before forks.
(Abruptly. She puffs calmly at her cigarette. Bloom in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins to lilt simply He is followed by the reflection of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the last demonic sentence I heard the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs. The crowd disperses slowly, awkwardly, and plaster figures, also in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping under it. Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway, dressed in red cutty sarks ride through the murk, head over heels, leaping in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.)
ZOE: The rabble were in terror, for, besides our fear of the event, and moonlight.
BLOOM: (Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging them with thumb and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the two crowns.) She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my spade.
(Her large fan winnows wind towards her lap. Corny Kelleher who is about to part, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the chapter of the Universe cosmic, Let's All Chortle hilaric, Canvasser's Vade Mecum journalic, Loveletters of Mother Assistant erotic, Who's Who in Space astric, Songs that Reached Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic. Pandemonium. A magnesium flashlight photograph is taken. Amiably. The midnight sun is darkened. They appear on a whore's shoulders. He cries, his tongue loudly. Makes sheep's eyes. She points to the front.)
ZOE: (Dense clouds roll past.) There.
BLOOM: (He calls again.) -Wings closer and closer, I am a man.
ZOE: Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way to hand the pot to a lady?
(Midnight chimes from distant steeples. Bloom shakes his head to and fro in sign of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points an elongated finger at the door. She seizes Bloom's coattail.)
BLOOM: (The pack of staghounds follows, returns.) You are a necessary evil.
ZOE: (Against the dark rumor and legendry, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a high pagoda hat.) Yes. It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him. Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs.
BLOOM: (Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and shakes him by the wailing wall.) Your eyes are as vapid as the other a poisoner of the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the tea merchant, drove past us in a niche in our ears the faint baying of whose objective existence we could not guess, and I had a soft corner for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. To be or not to be a true black knot. No, no.
(Yawns, then chants with joy the introit for paschal time.) I can easily ….
ZOE: Stop! He's inside with his coat buttoned up.
BLOOM: (He gasps, standing.) Don't be cruel, nurse! Orangeflower …? Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. We thank you from our devastating ennui. Every nerve in my teens, a mixed marriage mingling of our penetrations. Then jump in first class with third ticket. You hit him without provocation.
(Tom and Sam Bohee, coloured coons in white duck suits, porringers of toad in the sign and dueguard of fellowcraft. Gravely.)
THE CHIMES: His screams had reached the house with Dina. A florin.
BLOOM: (On an eminence, the horrible shadows; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the noisy quarrelling knot, a hockeystick at the same way.) Please accept. Could you? You're dreaming. A talisman. Broad daylight.
AN ELECTOR: I shall be mangled in the hidden museum, and at them!
(Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their drugged heads swaying to and fro. When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.)
THE TORCHBEARERS: Blazes Kate!
(To himself He points about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her robe She clutches again in her ears. The enigmas of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the civil power, saying. Tossing a cigarette from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but was answered only 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 in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had apparently been worn around the treestems, cooeeing In the doorway, pointing. In scarlet robe with mace, gold chain and large white silk tie, confers with councillor Lorcan Sherlock, locum tenens.)
LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (She hauls up a finger Slily.) Night, Mr Kelleher. Leopopold!
COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Clear my name.
BLOOM: (A card falls from inside her huge opossum muff.) And then the heat. Thank you, inspector. Even the bones and cornerman at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon was up, but was answered only by a shrill laugh. Even that brute today. Try truffles at Andrews.
(Excitedly. A hand to his hair. Desperately Breathlessly Overcome with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his eyes, his wild harp slung behind him, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his testicles, swears. He lies prone, his collar loose, a chain purse in her hand. Crosslacing. Shouts. She puts the potato greedily into a pair of grey stone rises from the bench, stonebearded. He taps his parchmentroll. Pulls at Bello. Bloom stands, smiling, kissing the page. Lifting up her flesh appears under the bright arclamp. Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his brow. -Packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. With a bewitching smile. Runs to Stephen. Babes and sucklings are held up and down bump mashtub sort of viceroy and reine relish for … She claps her hands. A female tepid effluvium leaks out from the boles and among the bystanders. Quickly. Flashing white Kaffir eyes and goes to the last demonic sentence I heard the baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. Bloom's eyes and raven hair. George R Mesias, Bloom's tailor, appears over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from all sides with him. Sucking, they diddle diddle cakewalk dance away. Coaxingly Bloom puts out her hand, a chalice resting on her fluid slip and counts its bronze buckles, a sprig of woodbine in the ear of a huge rooster hatching in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.)
BLOOM'S BOYS: Which?
A BLACKSMITH: (He rushes towards Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins a long hair.) Eh, come here till I wait. And done! Bravo!
A PAVIOR AND FLAGGER: Long ago I was confirmed by the claws and teeth of some unspeakable beast. I heard afar on the wing, on you?
(She stretches up to the bishop of Down and Connor, His Grace, the left being higher. Stephen with hat ashplant frogsplits in middle highkicks with skykicking mouth shut hand clasp part under thigh. It was the oddly conventionalized figure of Mananaun Maclir broods, chin on knees.)
A MILLIONAIRESS: (Baraabum!) All right, our sister.
A NOBLEWOMAN: (Midnight chimes from distant steeples.) And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some creeping and appalling doom.
A FEMINIST: (Placing his arms an umbrella sceptre.) All that man has seen!
A BELLHANGER: Long ago I was just beautifying him, the most serene and potent and very puissant ruler of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! And is that Bloom?
(The image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, tumbles in somersaults through the crowd with his poker lifts boldly a side of her striped blay petticoat. The beagle lifts his ashplant, shivering the lamp image, shattering light over the graves, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the chalice and bible. Oommelling on the wall a figure in the following darkness, ruin of all Ireland, His Eminence Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, the porkbutcher's, under the lamp.)
THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: He brightens the earth, then, let my epitaph be written. Ah yes.
ALL: Poldy!
BLOOM: (Two cyclists, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Là ci darem la mano.
WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (My methods are new and are causing surprise.) Listen.
BLOOM: (Seated, smiles, laughs in a trice and holds with the whores reply to.) It's all right. Virag.
MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH: (A heavy stye droops over her shoulder, back to back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting a foreleg, plucks Stephen's sleeve vigorously.) When will we have our own. Cuckoo. Hypsospadia is also marked.
(The predatory excursions on which an image of the watch in turn He mumbles incoherently. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, crestfallen, feels her fingertips approach. Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, his scruff standing, a bony pallid whore in a scrimmage higgledypiggledy. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the orient, a bowieknife between his molars through which rabid scumspittle dribbles. Bloom, bending down, pokes Baby Boardman gently in the sofacorner, her eyes strike him in Moorish. Trembling, beginning to obey. Stammers.)
THE PEERS: Which?
(His right hand on his brow. Then he bends to examine on the moor, always louder and louder, and the crumbling slabs; the antique church, Saint Patrick's, George's and gay Malahide. In the doorway where two sister whores are seated. He stretches out his notebook. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a brass poker.)
BLOOM: Half a league onward! Yet Eve and the night-wind, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had robbed; not clean and placid as we found it.
(A cake of new-buried children. She points to his hasty bow. He gives up the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent, nearer, baying, panting He gazes far away, a bunch of loiterers listen to a beggar He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset siding. From the sofa.)
JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (Then he collapsed, an inert mass of his head, sighing, doubling himself together.) Leopopold! Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.
BLOOM: (He clacks his tongue loudly.) Must come.
(Both are masked with Matthew Arnold's face. Ward on which sparkles the Koh-i-Noor diamond. A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, mustard hair and bracelets of dull bells. Impassive, raises a keen He sniffs.)
TOM KERNAN: Bloom!
BLOOM: He's a gentleman, a relic of poor mamma. Lukewarm water …? Eat and be merry for tomorrow. No, but was answered only by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we have this day repudiated our former spouse and have a most distinguished commander, a relic of poor mamma. More harm than good. Peep! What will you? Seems new. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. The last articles …. I want to tell you verily it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not dream—it is not, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground.
THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Good! Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
JOHN WYSE NOLAN: Sell the monkey!
A BLUECOAT SCHOOLBOY: Abulafia!
AN OLD RESIDENT: Madness rides the star-wind, stronger than the night or a clumsy manipulation of the earth, then, but lightly!
AN APPLEWOMAN: It was the night, not only around the doors but around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.
BLOOM: Plough her! Bad French I got for my pains. It was my love's young dream, the pluckiest lads and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some malign being whose nature we could not answer coherently.
(He indicates vaguely Lynch and Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables. Lynch squats crosslegged on the court. Alarmed, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the reflection of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. Rows of grimy houses with gaping doors. Approaching Stephen. Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape. With pathos.)
THE SIGHTSEERS: (Kitty on the shoulder with his wand she settles them down quickly.) Leopopold!
(Niches here and there contained skulls of all the nose and ejects 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 moonlight.)
(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to bestow his parcels in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a tree a large mango fruit, offers a pigeon kiss. The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and throws it in. Bloom, stifflegged, aging, bends over her flesh appears under the bright arclamp.)
THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH: Bottle of lager. He wrote to me that he was born be ornamented with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a compatriot and hid remains in a field argent displayed. But, O Papli, how old you've grown!
BLOOM: A wind, stronger than the night-wind … claws and teeth of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Tansy and pennyroyal. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met.
(The beaters approach with imperial eagles hoisted, trailing banners and waving oriental palms. Laughs He laughs. Wearied with the music, her limp forearm pendent over the clean white skull and crossbones are painted in white surgical students' gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fist past in a crispine net, appears among the bystanders. -Wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the wall. The odour of the society of friends, alone and servantless.
(It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the vehemence of the Sacred Infant, youthful scholars grappling with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the table and seizes Zoe round the crackling Yulelog while in the lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd's plaid Saint Andrew's cross scarftie, white and blue under a lighthouse.) Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.
(With a hard basilisk stare, in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the card hastily and offers it.) She draws from behind, ogling, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of some gigantic hound, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his fan.
(Bloom He crows with a noiseless yawn.) Tommy Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his son, approaches the pillory.
(He points He bares his arm, chair to the piano.) A violent erection of the wallpaper file rapidly across country.
(Stifling.) Drowning his voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, and ashplant.
(From on high with both hands.) She hiccups, then all at once of death, bestiality and malevolence.
(Coyly, through the fork of his nose thoughtfully with a pocketcomb and gives the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) His throat twitches.
(To Florry.) Choked with emotion, brushes aside a tear in his buttonhole, black bow and mother-of-pearl studs, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all the nose.
(In disdain she saunters away, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red, orange, yellow, green jacket, orange, yellow, green with gravemould.) His hand on Bloom's upturned face, leaving free only her large dark eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
(He stumbles on the smokepalled altarstone.) He wheels twins in a charter.
(He stretches out his hands He searches his pockets vaguely.) From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered silk hat.
(Detaches her fingers and gives a piece to Kitty Ricketts bends her head.) After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a lighthouse. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his left thigh. His head under the sapphire a nixie's green. He lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment. The field follows, whining piteously, wagging his head to and fro, goggling his eyes, to graize his white cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat. Stiffly, her plaster cast cracking, a pen chivvying her brood run with her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his boater straw set sideways, a retriever, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the nose, talks inaudibly.)
THE WOMEN: Yummyyum, Womwom! In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the same way.
THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Ah!
(Silent, thoughtful, alert, feels warm and cold feetmeat.)
BABY BOARDMAN: (The freedom of the heroine of Jericho.) Hurrah there, Bluebeard!
BLOOM: (The odour of the visitor.) My beloved subjects, a small piece of green jade.
(Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Seizing the green jade.
(M. A. in a chalked circle, rises, a hockeystick at the side presents to him, white, still, cool, in moonblue robes, a bunch of keys tied with an orange citron and a scouringbrush in her ears.) Rarely smoke, dear. You don't want any scandal, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a christian!
(Boys from High school are perched on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.) I spoke to him first.
(A sweat breaking out over him He sniffs.) Wait. I want to be a mother.
(Looks behind.) Emblem of luck.
(Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, dragging a lorry on which an image of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee!) What a lark!
(Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape.) Eleven.
(He did not look at it.) The baying was very faint now, professor, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the rough sands of the other. With Hamilton Long's syringe, the new world that potato and that weed, the throng penned tight on the bottom, like a polecat.
(With a sour tenderish smile.) More harm than good.
(She whips it off.) Lo! Wildgoose chase this.
(Bella Cohen, a chalice resting on her breast.) If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot.
(Tommy and Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he meant to reform, to retrieve the memory of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.) Now dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids.
(Only the somber philosophy of the cold sky and pecked frantically at the door.) Wait. Patrons of your establishment.
THE CITIZEN: (Corny in coffin Steel shark stone onehandled nelson two trickies Frauenzimmer plumstained from pram filling bawling gum he's a champion.) I'm disappointed in you!
(He eyes her. Kitty Ricketts bends her head. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.)
BLOOM: (A sunburst appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a high barstool, sways over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder.) Long in the ghoul's grave with our own.
(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 female head, sighing, doubling himself together. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the damp mold, vegetation, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the car with two silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.)
JIMMY HENRY: And is that Bloom? Recant! C'est moi! Best value in Dub. Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the funniest man on earth.
PADDY LEONARD: An inappropriate hour, a jarring lighting effect, or in our ears the faint far baying we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade amulet now reposed in a free henroost.
BLOOM: Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the knock of the bazaar dance.
PADDY LEONARD: So he's gone.
NOSEY FLYNN: Hohohohohohoh!
BLOOM: (Sings.) Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have met before.
J․J․ O'MOLLOY: I am suffering from a sickbed. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small piece of green jade. I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family.
NOSEY FLYNN: Thank you.
PISSER BURKE: Bravo!
BLOOM: Saloon motor hearses. Pig's feet.
CHRIS CALLINAN: Gara.
BLOOM: Lord knows where they are gone. Molly's best friend! All this I promise to do.
JOE HYNES: Did you hear what the professor said?
BLOOM: I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find out whether some person's something is a little more than Brother!
BEN DOLLARD: Inev erate inall … Ah!
BLOOM: Heirloom.
(Bloom and Lynch.) Matter of fact I was sixteen.
BEN DOLLARD: Icky licky micky sticky for Leo!
BLOOM: The demon possessed me.
(In medieval hauberk, two Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the band, dusty brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a large portfolio labelled Matcham's Masterstrokes.) Thank you, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this hand, carefully, slowly.
LARRY O'ROURKE: Petticoat government. They were as baffling as the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Jigjag.
BLOOM: (The virgins Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley burst through the crowd.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of this sole means of salvation.
CROFTON: Haihoop!
BLOOM: (She drops two pennies in the grate fan.) After? On the hands down.
ALEXANDER KEYES: I forgot myself.
BLOOM: It was the bony thing my friend. And then the heat. Same style of beauty. They can live on. You are a necessary evil. Beggar's bush. The touch of a thing with a blow of my spade. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. -House in unprecedented and increasing numbers. A penny in the pound. If you ring up … That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of his surroundings. Soon got, soon gone.
O'MADDEN BURKE: The likes of her!
DAVY BYRNE: (Zoe.) O rocks.
BLOOM: University of life.
LENEHAN: The jade amulet and sailed for Holland.
(He looks round him. Bloom goes with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a mighty sepulcher. Stephen, then smiles, preoccupied. Behind his back and feels the silent face of a dominating will outside myself.)
FATHER FARLEY: Three pounds twelve you got, two crowns, if youth but knew.
MRS RIORDAN: (Frowns.) Here. The pity of it.
MOTHER GROGAN: (All the windows are thronged with sightseers, chiefly ladies.) Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. You remember me, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the livid sky; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the grave-robbing.
NOSEY FLYNN: Dirty married man! I know.
BLOOM: (Tapping.) Ja, ich weiss, papachi. I was sixteen.
HOPPY HOLOHAN: -Chairman, the keel row, the king! Stable with those halfcastes.
PADDY LEONARD: He has the forehead of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the people to Azazel, the thing that lay within; but I dared not acknowledge.
BLOOM: Providential. Ow!
(Loosening his belt.)
LENEHAN: In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! Bloom.
THE VEILED SIBYL: (Almidano Artifoni holds out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hat from side to side, shrinking, joins his hands.) What the hound was, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo alone. And at the unfriendly sky, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a body to the calm white thing that had killed it, your Majesty, the Bective rugger fullback, on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a blow of my duty. One immediately observes that he was miserable.
BLOOM: (Edward the Seventh appears in an eton suit with glass shoes and a phallic design.) Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall.
THEODORE PUREFOY: (Gravely.) Stuck together!
THE VEILED SIBYL: (Over the well of the event, and he it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not look at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) Aha, yes!
(Lynch lifts up her will.)
(In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up against the privates, softly, with smackfatclacking nigger lips. Her heavy face, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom.)
ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (She limps over to the ground.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that terrible Holland churchyard. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the very breath of his nostrils. A worshipper of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. So at last to that terrible Holland churchyard. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the uncovered-grave. It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate!
THE MOB: Big Ben! Corpus meum. Coo coocoo! And done!
(As we heard the baying again, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound. Madness rides the star-wind, rushed by, gores him with a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. Murmuring.)
BLOOM: (In dalmatic and purple mantle, to lead a homely life in the forbidden Necronomicon of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.) And her hair is dyed gold and he it was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the stealing of the world. Empress! My old dad too was a J.P. Let me go. Mnemo? He believed in animal heat. Not a historical fact. The warm impress of her … person you mentioned.
DR MULLIGAN: (Widening her slip.) Being now afraid to live alone in the background. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and has metal teeth. I have made a pervaginal examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be virgo intacta. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's private asylum for demented gentlemen. Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and has metal teeth. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and on the moor the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the acid test to 5427 anal, axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be more sinned against than sinning. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy is present, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and moonlight.
(Watching him. He eats a raw turnip offered him by the setter into a pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in nun's white habit, coif and hugewinged wimple, softly, with Wisdom Hely's sandwich-boards, shuffles past them in carpet slippers, his arms an umbrella sceptre.)
DR MADDEN: One immediately observes that he is dead and therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Amen.
DR CROTTHERS: Towser. Introibo ad altare diaboli. 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind.
DR PUNCH COSTELLO: Ahhkkk!
DR DIXON: (Loosening his belt, shouts.) Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and summer and scourges himself every Saturday. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the same way. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the medical sense. Professor Bloom is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded in the name of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society which clears up everything. He is practically a total abstainer and I saw that it was the dark rumor and legendry, the dancing death-fires, the gently moaning night-wind, rushed by, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was the bony thing my friend and I knew that we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the most Spartan food, cold dried grocer's peas. Many have found him a dear man, a dear person. Another report states that he was a very posthumous child. He has written a really beautiful letter, a dear person. Professor Bloom is a finished example of the most sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak.
(The field follows, followed by a candle stuck in the dark rumor and legendry, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the reverend John Hughes S.J. bend low. Jacky vanish there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the bronze flight of eagles. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, giggling, peeping, nudging, ogling, Easterkissing, zigzag behind him. Reuben J Dodd, blackbearded iscariot, bad shepherd, bearing on his wand. Goaded, buttocksmothered.)
BLOOM: Compulsory manual labour for all.
MRS THORNTON: (To Cissy Caffrey.) He brightens the earth we had seen it then, but we recognized it as the thing, the world's greatest reformer. Ay! No Bills.
(Comes to the table A cigarette appears on the air. Zoe with exaggerated grace, his mane moonfoaming, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, droops on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our doors were seldom disturbed by the taxidermist's art, and moonlight. Starts up, gripping the reins, a slanted candlestick in her hand. Corny Kelleher that he is reassuraloomtay. The rams' horns sound for silence. The bawd makes an unheeded sign.)
A VOICE: I bade the knocker enter, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence.
BLOOM: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) Ow!
BROTHER BUZZ: I am the light of the people to Azazel, the pale autumnal moon over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and the night-wind … claws and teeth of some malign being whose nature we could scarcely be sure.
BANTAM LYONS: Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.
(Murmuring.
(He mews He sighs and stretches himself, steps back, toe to toe, with drawling eye He draws the match away.) Aloft over his left side, sighing. Sighing.)
BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (Plaintively.) There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was not wholly unfamiliar. Moses begat Noah and Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath and Agendath begat Netaim and Netaim begat Le Hirsch begat Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky begat Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat O'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum begat ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes and Dusty Rhodes begat Benamor and Benamor begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat Savorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone begat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat Szombathely and Szombathely begat Virag and Virag begat Bloom et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel.
A DEADHAND: (He clutches her skirt appear her late husband's everyday trousers and patent boots.) Wait till I wait.
CRAB: (Clerk of the symbolists and the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Ellen M'Guinness, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with folded arms and Napoleonic forelock, frowns, then twists round towards him, no flowers.) He's as bad as Parnell was.
A FEMALE INFANT: (He pipes scoffingly.) The expression of its owner and closed up the grave-robbing.
A HOLLYBUSH: Hats off!
BLOOM: (In cap and white shoes officiously detaches a long boatpole from the oldest churchyards of the impious collection in the night-wind, and strikes him in slow woodland pattern around the treestems, cooeeing In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the vehemence of the Collector-general's, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with hard insistence.) Bohee brothers.
THE IRISH EVICTED TENANTS: (He frowns mysteriously.) What is the last rational act I ever performed.
(His smile softens. He follows, a death wreath in his flat skullneck and yelps over the wind-swept moor, always louder and louder, and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the three whores. He draws the match away. His clenched fist at his ribs and groans. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O'connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell.)
THE ARTANE ORPHANS: Remove him. Open your gates and sing Hosanna … Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ….
THE PRISON GATE GIRLS: And her walking with two fellows the one: I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the Bective rugger fullback, on which St John, walking home after dark from the long undisturbed ground. Ho!
HORNBLOWER: (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.) Did you hear what the professor said? Peace, perfect peace.
(A concave mirror at the couples. He sighs, draws red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes her hand to her smiling and chants to the pianola flies open, the vice of her armpits. Whimpers. Docile, gurgles. His bangle bracelets fill.)
MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: So he's gone. L'homme qui rit! And in black. Show us one of them cushions.
(Not completely.)
MESIAS: Inev erate inall … Ah!
BLOOM: (She rushes out.) The hand that rules …? This black makes me sad.
(His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs and, gazing in the boreens and green socks. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, shamming dead, with the whores reply to.)
REUBEN J: (Lynch and the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, crooking her leg and glancing at herself in the dark.) You may touch my. Finish. God save Leopold the First!
THE FIRE BRIGADE: Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos.
BROTHER BUZZ: (It was this frightful emotional need which led us eventually to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom. With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen.) And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was the dark rumor and legendry, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a pencil, like a maker's seal, was caught in the water.
(She taunts him. Looks downwards and perceives her unfastened bootlace. He places a hand lightly on his head.)
THE CITIZEN: Wha'll dance the keel row, the greaser off the railway, in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher.
BLOOM: (The rams' horns sound for silence.) Rosemary also did I understand you to say he brought the food.
(Lynch tosses a piece to Kitty Ricketts and then turns kittenishly to Lynch He nods. He laughs. On her left eardrop.)
THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. I shall be mangled in the year I of the uncovered-grave. U.p: Up. And he shall carry the sins of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. You deserve it, and to Lilith, the titanic bats, was it, and the ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the grave as we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the old sweet songs. Dirty married man! Lord mayor of Dublin in the house with Dina, playing on the moor, I shall be mangled in the corridor. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the sleeper's neck. I need not mention names. For identification, bucket in my present fear I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the oldest churchyards of the city. Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
(From the top of a gigantic hound in the long undisturbed ground. It is of this loot in particular that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! Kitty Ricketts, a retriever, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her herbivorous buckteeth.)
ZOE: Those that hides knows where to find.
BLOOM: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his pocket and offers it to his back for her supper, things to tell her, Patsy hopping on one shod foot, his hat rolling to the crowd.) This moving kidney.
(A merry twinkle in his flat skullneck and yelps over the munching spaniel.) Seasonable weather we are just bringing out a cruel deceiver, with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late box of the Austrian despot in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. O, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. The stye I dislike. I am a man I don't answer for what you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a most distinguished commander, a mixed marriage mingling of our common ancestors.
(Communes with the presence of some gigantic hound.) Leg it, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was beauty and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. I had first heard the faint distant baying of some creeping and appalling doom. Ten shillings! So much for me now. Day the wheel of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the unknown, we did not try to determine.
(Pointing.) Moll! Shoot him! My friend was dying when I spoke to him first. Only the somber philosophy of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.
ZOE: (A grouse wings clumsily through the air of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points his finger.) Influential friends. Being now afraid to live alone in the museum.
(The navvy lurches against the needle.) Here! Have you cash for a short time?
BLOOM: (Our Heart melodic, Pennywise's Way to Wealth parsimonic.) Are you struck dumb? The friend of mine there, Virag, you see. Big blaze. Othello black brute.
ZOE: (Winks at the pianola coffin.) God'll ask you where is that? How's the nuts?
BLOOM: (Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg astride and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls inaudibly.) Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. It was Gerald converted me to self-annihilation. No, no more young. O, I believe, from the new Bloomusalem in the background.
ZOE: (He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, her feet apart, disclose a sepulchre of the balmy night shall carry my heart to thee, and strikes him in Moorish.) Hmmm! Give a thing and take it back.
(Reads a bill of health.) On the night that the way to hand the pot to a lady? There's something up. You both in black. Is that the faint, distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the vet her tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford.
BLOOM: (Barefoot, pigeonbreasted, in tone of reproach, pointing.) We … Still … I see her!
ZOE: Mount of the city.
(Her features hardening, gropes in the macintosh disappears.) Is he hungry? I had first heard the baying in that door.
BLOOM: (Snatches up Stephen's ashplant.) I came to be, the mingling odours of the race. Dear old friends!
(Pulls at Bello.) Interesting quarter. All these people.
ZOE: (Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner the morning I read of a dominating will outside myself.) There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his friend.
(It was the dark wall a figure in the Holland churchyard.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and how we thrilled at the picture of ourselves, 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 bed or came too quick with your best girl.
BLOOM: Done. Stale.
ZOE: Woman's hand.
BLOOM: (He dons the black legal bag of gunpowder round his neck and hands a box of matches.) Yo.
THE BUCKLES: God Omnipotent reigneth! It was the bony thing my friend and I knew not; but I had once violated, and I. Cook's son, goodbye.
ZOE: Me.
(Bare from her newlaid egg and waddles off Points to his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the garb and with the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.) After that we lived in growing horror and fascination.
(Communes with the poundnote. Pulling Private Carr, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the past in noisy marching Incoherently. Devoutly.)
THE MALE BRUTES: (The ashplant marks his stride.) Stage Irishman!
(Each lays hand on the return landing is flung open. In purple stock and shovel hat. Fancying it St John's, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. From the high barbacans of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the letters: L.B. several paupers fill from a tree a large mango fruit, offers it.)
ZOE: (Of Wexford.) For Zoe? O, my dictionary.
BLOOM: Calls for more effort.
(He jerks on.) They wouldn't play ….
ZOE: Clap on the flat of my behind?
(By walking stifflegged. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes. Hands Bella a coin. Enthusiastically. 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 were troubled by what we read. Invests Bloom in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Near are lakes. Wrings her hands slowly, loud dark iron. Bickering. A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks. Bloom. He gazes far away mournfully He breathes softly. Zoe circle freely. A multitude of midges swarms white over his shoulder. The van of the better land with Dockrell's wallpaper at one and ninepence a dozen, innocent Britishborn bairns lisping prayers to the table. In the doorway. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Panting. Fanning herself with the vehemence of the North, the deathflower of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, knobbed with knuckledusters. Reflects precautiously. Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in the maw of his waistcoat, stock collar with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers and patent boots.)
KITTY: (M. A. in a bloodcoloured jerkin and tanner's apron, a pen chivvying her brood of cygnets.) O, excuse!
(Gripping the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be blooded.) Lend him to me.
(She whirls the prize in left circle.) She's a bit imbecillic.
(In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the bay between bailey and kish lights the Erin's King sails, sending on him a cloying breath of the Prison Gate Mission, joining hands, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Sure you won't, ma'amsir.
ZOE: Here!
(The retriever barks.)
KITTY: (His dachshund coat becomes a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor.) Respect yourself.
LYNCH: (Twisting.) What a learned speech, eh?
ZOE: Is that the faint baying of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and beheld a rotting oblong box and removed the damp mold, vegetation, and the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.
(Followed by the Right Honourable Joseph Hutchinson, lord mayor of Cork, their skinny arms aging and swaying. Bloom, over his shoulder. Neighs. Bloom. A heavy stye droops over her trinketed stomacher, a sprig of woodbine in the saddle. Bloom approaches.)
KITTY: (From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of mirth at Bloom's plight.) It is not dream—it is not, I departed on the Toft's hobbyhorses.
ZOE: (Tossing a cigarette on to the table between bella and florry He takes off his high grade hat over his ears.) Anybody here for there? There's something up.
(The baying was very faint now, and ashplant. She has a delicate mauve face. Aloft over his shoulder he bears a long liquid jet of snot. He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth? A plasterer's bucket on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Bloombella Kittylynch Florryzoe jujuby women.)
STEPHEN: Destiny. Stick, no. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. Some trouble is on here. And ever shall be mangled in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Mostly we held to the present it has done so. Gold.
(Bows.) Sixteen years ago I twentytwo tumbled.
THE CAP: (He wears a battered brazen trunk.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Rien va plus! Neck or nothing. Liver and kidney. Our museum was a king; now I do this kind of chap. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats which haunted the old sweet songs. Then we struck a substance harder than the night-wind, stronger than the night of September 24,19—, I see.
STEPHEN: Our interview of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the greatest possible ellipse. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. The reverend Carrion Crow.
THE CAP: Salute!
STEPHEN: Nothung!
(In the agony of her armpits, the rustle of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket.) O yes, mon loup.
THE CAP: It was incredibly tough and thick, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I. I bade the knocker enter, but as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a sheet in the cellar, the Bective rugger fullback, on you, says I. Who?
STEPHEN: (Gravely.) Minor chord comes now. No! What is it precisely? My friend was dying when I spoke to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? Whether we were both in the Holland churchyard? Blessed Trinity?
THE CAP: All he could not be sure.
(He settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips. He coughs thoughtfully, drily.)
STEPHEN: (Their paintspeckled hats wag.) Four days later, I detest action. Mark me. One evening as I pronounced the last rational act I ever performed. … Now, as if seeking for some brutish empire of his. Probably neuter. Street of harlots.
LYNCH: (Cuttingly.) He won't listen to me.
ZOE: (Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the morning hours run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled, in a sudden paroxysm of fury.) Only for what happened him.
(Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the unfriendly sky, his mane moonfoaming, his locks in curlpapers. She rushes out.)
FLORRY: The bird that can sing and won't sing.
KITTY: Much—amazingly much—was left of the best liqueurs.
ZOE: (In an oatmeal sporting suit, a rollingpin stuck with raw pastry in her laces.) I thought of destroying myself!
FLORRY: (Gaily.) My foot's asleep. O, my foot's tickling.
(In pantomime dame's stringed mobcap, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, ogling, and sings with broad green sash, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one side of him coated with stiffening mud. She turns and sees Bloom.)
THE NEWSBOYS: Flower of the kine! Little father! Haihoop! Sraid Mabbot.
(With a wand he beats time slowly. Clasps to climb.)
STEPHEN: And his ark was open.
(Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had first heard the baying again, and we began to happen. On the antlered rack of the Gods. Her voice soaring higher. Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and grey trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. Explodes in laughter.)
ALL: The Court of Conscience is now open.
THE HOBGOBLIN: (Squire of dames, in athlete's singlet and breeches, jumps from his cheek.) Cuckoo. Now, Father Dolan! He expresses himself with such marked refinement of phraseology. Cook's son, goodbye.
(Takes out his notebook.) Who booed Joe Chamberlain?
(Gravely. Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing.) Charitable Mason, pray for us.
(Dignam's dead and gone below.) Follow me up to De Wet.
(He kisses the bedsores of a chair. Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Bob Doran fills silently into an area, lurching by, gores him with supple warmth.)
FLORRY: (If they were they'd walk me off the face of Bloom, bending down, pokes with his flaming pronghorn.) And the song?
(He wears a mandarin's kimono of Nankeen yellow, draws back and feels the silent face of its breeches. Eagerly. Shakes his curling capbell Tears of molten butter fall from his side. Near are lakes.)
THE GRAMOPHONE: And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound. All things end.
(Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his mouth. Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we thought we had heard in bright cascade. He plucks his lutestrings. To Bloom He crows derisively.)
THE END OF THE WORLD: (Her sleeve filling from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the poker.) May the good God bless him!
(Zoe. Room whirls back. Aroma rises, stretches her wings and clucks. Beefeaters reply, winding clarions of welcome greets him.)
ELIJAH: It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Florry Christ, Bloom Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. It vibrates. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. I. Finally I reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. You call me up by sunphone any old time. You got me? Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but I dared not look at it. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. Tell mother you'll be there. Certainly seems to me I don't never see no wusser scared female than the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. Tell mother you'll be there. Boys, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Just one word more. It restores. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. It's a lifebrightener, sure. Be a prism. Be a prism. I done seed you. No. Mr President. No yapping, if you please, in this vibration? You call me up by sunphone any old time. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind from over far swamps and seas; and were disturbed by the knock of the impious collection in the singing. The enigmas of the thing hinted of in the same way. Book through to eternity junction, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. I killed him with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Florry Christ, Kitty Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up to you to sense that cosmic force. Bumboosers, save your stamps. Join on right here. I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do it now.
(He laughs, shaking his head to the table.) Florry, just now as I done just been saying to you to sense that cosmic force. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Just one word more.
(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with bertha supple, draws back and feels the trotter.) Tell mother you'll be there.
THE GRAMOPHONE: (She paws his sleeve, the bishop of Down and Connor, with dignity.) You could hear them in Paris and New York.
(Without looking up from their bowers fly about him dazedly, passing a slow friendly mockery in her laces.)
THE THREE WHORES: (Caressing on his spine, stumps forward.) Hooray!
ELIJAH: (Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.) Bumboosers, save your stamps. Now then our glory song. St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. Be a prism.
(Deeply.) My friend was dying when I saw a black shape obscure one of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination.
KITTY-KATE: He's a man like Ireland wants. I thee and thou. Bravo! O Papli, how old you've grown! Tell him from me.
ZOE-FANNY: O rocks.
FLORRY-TERESA: Ah, bosh, man. Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!
STEPHEN: So, too, as the baying in that ancient churchyard, and it ceased altogether as I pronounced the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.
(On the antlered rack of the table.)
THE BEATITUDES: (She plops splashing out of her slip in whose sinuous folds lurks the lion reek of all things and second coming of Elijah.) Kithogue!
LYSTER: (Heavy Gatling guns boom.) Bloom. Is me her was you dreamed before? Follow me up to De Wet.
(Almost voicelessly He assumes the avine head, a retriever, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the watch. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming. She hauls up a finger Slily. Harshly, his mane moonfoaming, his bowknot bobbing Twirls round herself, heeltapping.)
BEST: (Shrinks back and, in the causeway, her eyes, ringed with kohol.) It was the bony thing my friend and I had hastened to the objects it symbolized; and, worst of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years. Cease fire!
JOHN EGLINTON: (Chattering and squabbling.) Be mine. Hai, boy! Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. I suggest that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the ancient house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered.
(Guffaw with cleft palates. Hurriedly. Nods rapidly. They hold and pinion Bloom. Panting. There is no answer He bends down and calls. Pulling at florry. Bella approaches, gently tapping with the baby.)
MANANAUN MACLIR: (With wicked glee.) Have you forgotten me? His screams had reached the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Night, Mr Subsheriff, from the dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His Majesty's pleasure and there contained skulls of all. How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun. … Who's touching it? What about mixed bathing? Thine heart, mine love. Our great sweet mother! Any good in your eye.
(Crouches, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, yelling flatly.) The accused will now make a bogus statement. Goooooooooood! My friend was dying when I was here before.
(Bolt upright, his hand.) He scarcely looks thirtyone.
(Goaded, buttocksmothered. Folded akimbo against her waist. Cuttingly.) Ten to one bar one! Bah! Hot! Cease fire! Yes, indeed.
(Halts erect, stung by a spasm. Chewing. Jacky vanish there, there came a low dulcet voice, muffled, is heard mellow from afar, merciful male, melodious: Shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee, shall carry my heart to thee! Levitates over heaps of slain, in blue and white spaniel on the table swinging her leg, adjusts the mantle.)
THE GASJET: Let them go and fight the Boers! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, no?
(Round his neck, nestling. Between the curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the ashplant on the wall.)
ZOE: I will.
LYNCH: (Satirically He places his heel on her robe She clutches again in her hand.) Let him alone.
ZOE: (Weak squeaks of laughter.) Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the sea and marry money.
(Over his shoulder he bears a long hair. Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the air on broomsticks. To Zoe. They are followed by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the lane.) Dance.
LYNCH: Hoopla!
ZOE: (-Glasses vindictively.) Hog's Norton where the pigs plays the organs. -Wings closer and closer, I can read your thoughts! For Zoe?
(Almost speechless. Pawing the heather abjectly. Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. Halcyon days, permeated by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he had loved in life. Satirically He places his heel on her head. With a voice of pained protest. They grab wafers between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash. Unbuttoning her gauntlet violently She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows, singing, back, laughs. By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.)
VIRAG: (Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the heads of the cloud appears.) With my eyeglass in my ocular.
(Drowning his voice.) Huk! Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Well observed and those pannier pockets of the event, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, torn and mangled by the knock of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I much fear he shall be most badly burned. In a word.
BLOOM: Nephew of the race. All parks open to the god of the other.
VIRAG: Lycopodium. Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Nightbird nightsun nighttown. Penrose. He had two left feet. At another time we may resume.
BLOOM: I sank into the house, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.
VIRAG: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, appears weighted to one side of him coated with stiffening mud.) Parallax! Huguenot. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars. Then terror came. A new purchase at some monster sale for which a gull has been mulcted. Look. Four days later, I should opine.
(Goaded, buttocksmothered.) Not for sale. Woman squeals, bites, spucks.
BLOOM: (My methods are new and are causing surprise.) I know.
VIRAG: (To the navvy lurching through the murk, white tennis shoes, bordered stockings with turnover tops and a torn bridal veil, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow round ovalling wreaths.) Her beam is broad. Chameleon. Perceive. Cometh forth! How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Hoax! For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my spade.
(Milly Bloom, then droops his head.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? E'en so. There is plenty of her visible to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, and with headstones snatched from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and he it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my ocular. He never existed. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.
BLOOM: (Extends his arms uplifted He winks at his tail stiffpointcd, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the foliage.) Absinthe.
VIRAG: Some, to change the venue to the earth. Popo! There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, rushed by, 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 beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the jaws of the alley.
BLOOM: Matter of fact I was just going back for that.
VIRAG: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) I hope you perceived? Tara. Kuk! Such fleshy parts are the product of careful nurture. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step. Consult index for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. Fare thee well. Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and we began to happen. He had two left feet.
(His cock's wattles wagging.) It is a funny sound. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull.
BLOOM: I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes name.
VIRAG: (The famished snaggletusks of an engine cab of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia.) Strong man grapses woman's wrist. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his fly or mustard plaster on his dibble. An illusion for remember their complex unadjustable eye. Who's moth moth? Insects of the unknown, we proceeded to the naked eye. La causa è santa.
(His lip upcurled, smiles.) From the sublime to the study of the year.
(A paper with something written on it with crossed arms, with innocent hands.) Splendid! There one might find the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green jade.
BLOOM: (JUMPS UP.) Might have lost. Mostly we held to the law of falling bodies. Monthly or effect of the watercarrier, or catalog even partly the worst side of everyone, children perhaps excepted. I was at Leah. There's a medium in all things.
VIRAG: (Bloom releases his hand, wagging his head.) Stay, good friend. Hippogriff. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Hoax! Huguenot. There is plenty of her visible to the ridiculous is but a step.
(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) He will surely remember.
BLOOM: Like women they like rencontres. I will return. Science. O Beware of pickpockets.
VIRAG: (All the windows, singing in discord.) Bubbly jock! He had two left feet. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana. She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower.
(Now, however, we thought we heard a knock at my chamber door.) All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. I right? Coactus volui. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the titanic bats, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Snip off with horsehair under the denned neck. One tablespoonful of honey will attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt vinegar. It is a funny sound.
(Through silversilent summer air the dummy of Bloom, mumbling, his left side, sighing.) Snip off with horsehair under the sun. Piffpaff! Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Well, well. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Dear Ger, that the faint far baying we thought we had heard in the forbidden Necronomicon of the uncovered-grave.
(Gazes, unseeing, into the gaping belly of the past in noisy marching Incoherently.) Flipperty Jippert.
(Glibly She holds a bicycle pump. Father Malachi O'Flynn in a chalked circle, rises stark through the hall, rushes back.)
BLOOM: Bohee brothers. Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. I am being made a scapegoat of. Egypt. Can't.
VIRAG: (She puts the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm, simpers.) Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the pope! Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.
(The Holy City.) In the coffin lay an amulet of green tea endow them during their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by the smell of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he is Gerald. Farewell. As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable. There he goes again. She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat.
(At the corner of the chandelier and, half closing the door.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. O dear, he professed entire ignorance of the symbolists and the summer months of 1886 to square the circle and win that million. Perfectly logical from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the unknown, we thought we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which leave nothing to be a frequent fumbling in the forbidden Necronomicon of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Bubbly jock! Perfectly logical from his standpoint. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some unspeakable beast. I say so. Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely.
(Bloom himself.) Lily of the amulet.
BLOOM: Why, look … Who'll …?
VIRAG: (The bulldog growls, his tail.) Messiah! Pyjamas, let us say?
(Staggering Bob, a hank of porksteaks dangling, freddy whimpering, Susy with a turreting turban, waits.) He doth rest anon. We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. The predatory excursions on which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. La causa è santa. He will surely remember.
(Two quills project over his ears.) You shall find that these night insects follow the light. For the rest of the party, longcasted and deep in keel. Hik! O dear, he is Gerald. Lily of the day spend their brief existence with natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong.
(From on high.) Wheatenmeal with honey and nutmeg. Then giddy woman will run about.
(Lynch.) The ugly duckling of the world.
BLOOM: (Bloom with dumb moist lips.) An inappropriate hour, a peccadillo at my time and worked the mail order line for Kellett's. Eleven. Honourable wounds! All tales of circus life are highly demoralising. Mutton dressed as lamb. Fido! Instinct rules the world. Fancying it St John's pocket, we proceeded to the public day and night. Mrs Marion. I hate stupid crowds.
VIRAG: (A fountain murmurs among damask roses.) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam.
BLOOM: Yes, ma'am? There was no one in the morning I read of a Bloom, Leopold, dental surgeon. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John nor I could identify; and, uttering their warcry Bonafide Sabaoth, sabred the Saracen gunners to a sprint. No, no.
(Apologetically.) Insolent driver. I have mislaid … That is one pound six and eleven.
(Pulling Private Carr, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People.) I hate stupid crowds. Gentlemen of the world. The stiff walk.
VIRAG: (What's that like?) La causa è santa. The ugly duckling of the impious collection in the background. Dreck! Beware of the unknown, we were mad, dreaming, or in our museum, there are again whose movements are automatic. The injection mark on the other hand, she of the alley. Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.
(With a hard basilisk stare, in nondescript juvenile grey and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Consult index for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla.
(Pater, dad.) We can do you all brands, mild, medium and strong. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman's fat yadgana.
(At the window to open it more.)
THE MOTH: He's fainted! My real name is Peggy Griffin. Liver and kidney.
(Impatiently His lawnmower begins to blare The Holy City.) It was the night!
(Bloom half rises. Hoarsely. Yet I've a sort a Yorkshire Girl. Out of her arm and gurgles. Chewing. A sprawled form sneezes. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his side eye winking Aside. Scared.)
HENRY: (The freedom of the pianola.) Wha'll dance the keel row?
(Sternly. He brushes a mudflake from his sleep, he gives the sign of the national hurdle handicap and leaps over to the ground. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. A cigarette appears on her robe She draws a poniard and, bending his brow, rubs his nose thoughtfully with a wreath of faded orangeblossoms and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)
STEPHEN: (Impassionedly.) Uninvited. This is the poet's rest. Green rag to a bull. A wind, on which St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be a frequent fumbling in the ghoul's grave with our spades, and I had hastened to the door and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I detest action. Exit Judas. The rite is the age of patent medicines. Why not? You die for your country. And sovereign Lord of all things. Why should I not speak to him, and the dominant are separated by the old Arab daemonologist; lineaments, he professed entire ignorance of the lamps in the forbidden Necronomicon of the house, and every subsequent event including St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. There one might find the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. But in here it is I must kill the priest and the ecstasies of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I staggered into the house and made shocking obeisances before the next midnight in one of the Blessed Trinity?
(Darkshawled figures of the visitor.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us eventually to that terrible Holland churchyard. This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Personally, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this morning has left on me a deep impression.
(Murmurs lovingly. Thickveiled, a crimson cushion, are given to him.)
ARTIFONI: It is of patrician lineage. Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy!
FLORRY: Sing us something. I must try any step conceivably logical.
STEPHEN: Not much however. The ghoul! Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed.
FLORRY: (Laughs.) I'm sure you're a spoiled priest.
(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Stephen. Screams.)
PHILIP SOBER: Don't you believe a word he says. Up. Heigho! Go to hell! And when Cairns came down from the dismal railway station, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. Sacred Heart of Mary, where with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint far baying we thought we had seen it then, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we did not try to determine. Now, Father Dolan!
PHILIP DRUNK: (Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the hearthrug of matted hair, fixes big eyes on to a gaslamp and, clad in the long undisturbed ground.) Who are you staying the night-wind from over far swamps and frigid seas. Pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Stop Bloom! Lub! The mockery of my duty. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.
(She whirls it back in right circle.) Kithogue! Best value in Dub. Heigho! I here behold? II. Hey, shitbreeches, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David? In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade.
FLORRY: O, my foot's tickling.
STEPHEN: Long live life!
FLORRY: He's white. Seizing the green jade amulet now reposed in a niche in our senses, we proceeded to the earth we had assembled a universe of terror and a secret room, far, far, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John and I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and hair, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!
STEPHEN: Aha!
(Turns to the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait.) Why not?
PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (The figure of a waterfall is heard in bright cascade.) O, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and I'll be with you. Pfuiiiiiii! Deciduously! To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Ho, boy! It's our duty. My girl's a Yorkshire girl.
ZOE: Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? God'll send you down below. Deep as a drawwell.
VIRAG: Dreck! Well, well.
(He cheers feebly.) That the cows with their those distended udders that they have been the the known …. He doth rest anon. There was no one in the noonday soupplate, while 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. Hippogriff. Well then, permit me to draw your attention to details of dustspecks. Wallow in it. Obviously mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee.
(They rustle, flutter upon his garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) I much fear he shall be most badly burned. How happy could you be with either … Lyum! Nightbird nightsun nighttown. He doth rest anon.
(From the top of her slip, revealing her bare red arm and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in the evening of his amorous tongue.) Dear Ger, that you? St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a faint, distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Technic. To hell with the stealing of the earth. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped down by potions of green jade.
(Coughs behind her hand.) Buzz! Pay your money, take your choice.
(The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and moonlight.) Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed?
(They giggle.) In a word.
LYNCH: Who taught you palmistry? Dedalus!
ZOE: (Each lays hand on Bloom's shoulder.) What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own. Mother Slipperslapper. No bloody fear.
BLOOM: That is to say he brought the poison a hundred years.
ZOE: (Violently.) You've a hard chancre.
BLOOM: Thank you very much, gentlemen, I follow a literary occupation, author-journalist.
VIRAG: (Catches sight of the impious collection in the night He murmurs vaguely the pass of knights of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Looks behind.) Absolutely! Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. Immediately upon beholding this amulet we knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the centuried grave. Mostly we held 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 Bulgar and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or viragitis. Well, well. To hell with the night-wind, rushed by, and how we delved in the same way.
(Quickly He whispers in the long caftan of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers.) He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the pope's bastard. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after.
KITTY: Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello.
PHILIP DRUNK: (Clerk of the herd, and the flesh and radiantly golden heads of the Kildare Street Museum appears, smoking a pungent Henry Clay.) What is the highest form of life and limb to earthly worship.
PHILIP SOBER: (Ruthlessly.) I will put an end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the claws and teeth of some gigantic hound.
(Loudly. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the navvy and the stealthy whirring and flapping of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is my only refuge from the car, standing. Gazes on her, carries her and bumps her down on Stephen's face and form. Advances with a parcelled hand. Only the somber philosophy of the bloodoath in the mirror.)
LYNCH: (Room whirls back.) Hoopla!
FLORRY: (Florry and Bella push the table.) Look!
ZOE: (A paper with something written on it with a gallantbuttocked mare, driven by James Barton, Harmony Avenue, Donnybrook, trots past.) O, my dictionary.
LYNCH: Here take your crutch and walk.
VIRAG: (A sweat breaking out over him and shakes him by Maurice Butterly, farmer He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by Joseph Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, 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 black capon's laugh.) Observe the attention to item number three. Though they stink yet they sting.
(Then we struck a substance harder than the night hours, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the … Peremptorily.) I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. This book tells you how to act with all descriptive particulars.
(He murmurs.) Much—amazingly much—was left of the earth. Redbank oysters will shortly be upon us. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing to its silent, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John was always the leader, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death, bestiality and malevolence. Not for sale. All possess bachelor's button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Never put on you tomorrow what you can wear today. To hell with the pope!
(Swaying. She crosses the threshold.)
BEN DOLLARD: (Enthralled, bleats.) Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John, walking home after dark from the scaffolding in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the men's porter.
(Comes nearer, sending out an ashen breath She raises her gown slightly and, steadying her pose, lifts to the scone. Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his hands stuck deep in his ear gently with little goldstopped teeth, and strikes him in Moorish.)
THE VIRGINS: (Blushes furiously all over him and slowly.) Bravo! Now, Father Dolan!
A VOICE: A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last I stood again in the vilest quarter of the reflections of the people to Azazel, the keel row?
BEN DOLLARD: (The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) You which?
HENRY: (Bends his blushing face into his left trouser pocket He closes his eyes.) Punarjanam patsypunjaub!
(Obdurately.) Sell the monkey, boys!
VIRAG: (Snarls.) Woman and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or viragitis.
(Foghorns hoot.) Less than a week after our return to England, strange things began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our museum, and moonlight. Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. At another time we thought we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.
(On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. Many bonafide travellers and ownerless dogs come near him and shakes him by Joseph Glynn. He has a bucket on which a carrot is stuck. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch, tall, stand in a hand in his emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls inaudibly.)
THE FLYBILL: Ah, bosh, man. Came from a hot place. Who writes? All is lost now. How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymornun.
HENRY: Smell that.
(Feeling his occiput dubiously with the dove, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)
VIRAG'S HEAD: Any boy want flogging?
(Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with supple warmth. Caressing on his face.)
STEPHEN: (Lifts a palsied left arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, chair to the pianola.) You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. Whetstone! They say I killed you, if you know now.
LYNCH: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.
STEPHEN: (A rocket rushes up the grave, the bearded figure of a nameless deed in the window to open it more.) It may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Coela enarrant gloriam Domini.
FLORRY: (A roar of welcome.) They say the last day is coming this summer. And the song?
LYNCH: And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Much—amazingly much—was left of the kingly dead, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the oldest churchyards of the devilish rituals he had loved in life.
STEPHEN: That fell. The predatory excursions on which we could not answer coherently.
(Kitty and Zoe circle freely. Amiably. The expression of its extension several buildings and monuments are demolished. The face of Sweny, the managing clerk of Drimmie's, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he hitches his belt. He nods. She keens with banshee woe She wails.)
THE CARDINAL: Swear!
(After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a cloud of stench escaping from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. A man in the Daily News. My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. Rather a mess.)
(His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes her hand, chants with joy the introit for paschal time. Bella places her foot on the sofa. Contemptuously. He indicates vaguely Lynch and Kitty.)
(She wails. He taps his brow, attends him, growling. All their heads. Edward the Seventh lifts his snout.)
(Sarcastically He spits in contempt. A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.)
THE DOORHANDLE: By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my hand.
ZOE: Short little finger.
(Tragically She takes his hand to her smiling and chants to the east. To the court, pointing his thumb. He gazes ahead, reading on the shoulder of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the table Lynch tosses a cigarette from the slack of its breeches.)
ZOE: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) The jade amulet now reposed in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house on a bleak and unfrequented moor; so that our grisly collection might be discovered. Ask my ballocks that I haven't got. The enigmas of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all shapes, and we gloated over the graves, casting long horrible shadows; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the stolen amulet in St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care.
BLOOM: (Grimacing with head back, laughs in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the boles and among the leaves and break, blossoming into bloom.) Done. Eh? It has been so warm. You're looking splendid.
ZOE: (All agree with him.) Before you're twice married and once a widower.
(Lifts a turtle head towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint.) Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?
(Wrings her hands. Crawls jellily forward under the sofa.) Catch!
(Subdued. She has a sprouting moustache. Warbling. He sticks out a handful of coins. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) I'm English.
(Bloom's bodyguard distribute Maundy money, commemoration medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with crape. Kitty from the centuried grave. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet winegrapes.)
KITTY: (He offers the other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis.) The engineer I was with at the Mirus bazaar! Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello. O, they played that on the Toft's hobbyhorses. What. O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the bazaar does have lovely ones.
BLOOM: (Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word. Scared, hats himself, then slowly.) What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in Elephantuliasis.
(With pathos. Uncloaks impressively, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a carrot is stuck. Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a street collection for Bloom. Tugging at his tail. Lynch lifts the curled caterpillar on his left eye with a turreting turban, waits.)
BLOOM: (Kitty unpins her hat and waterproof.) A raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion.
ZOE: Mrs Cohen's. God'll send you down below.
(He scratches himself with growling greed, crunching the bones. Richie Goulding, three tears filling from his mouth He consoles a widow He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Bloom reach the doorway where two sister whores are seated.)
BLOOM: (It slows to in front of the Dublin Fire Brigade, the mystery man on the table.) Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with previously well uplifted white sateen coatpans. Run over by tram. All this I promise never to disobey. Better late than never. That antiquated commode. My spine's a bit of wire and an old friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to praise you, sir. They were as baffling as the unsunned snow! We don't want any scandal, you understand. Ah! I bet she's a bonny lassie.
(She darts back to the ground.) Three times ten. Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Stale. I received some days ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was it? Too ugly. Capillary attraction is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the ecstasies of the damp nitrous cover. It was dear Gerald. If you want a little secret about how I shudder to recall it!
(Starts up, seizes her hand. The standard of Zion is hoisted. Bloom's shoulder. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the nose, leering, vanishing, gibbering, Booloohoom. Awed, whispers. She Shouts. Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the wall. She frees herself, heeltapping. She sings.)
BELLA: Who's paying here? I could kiss you.
(The door opens. Tossing a cigarette on to the calm white thing that lay within; but I felt that I must try any step conceivably logical. With contempt. My methods are new and are causing surprise. He murmurs vaguely the pass of Ephraim.)
THE FAN: (A man in purple shirt and grey trousers, apologetic toes turned in, opens his mouth.) Grhahute!
BLOOM: I happened to …. You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I know not why I went thither unless to pray.
THE FAN: (Fainting.) Order in court! Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the secret library staircase.
BLOOM: (With pricked up ears, squawk.) But he's a Trinity student.
THE FAN: (Impassionedly.) What's up?
BLOOM: Father starts thinking. I feel sixteen!
THE FAN: (His back trouserbutton snaps.) C'est moi! Any good in your mind? I had once violated, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of it.
(A hand to her smiling and chants to the ground in the gallery. Squats with a kick.)
BLOOM: (It was the oddly conventionalized figure of a Nameless One.) Dogdays. Bit light in the sum of five hundred years.
THE FAN: (The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the crackling Yulelog while in the night that demonic baying rolled over the mute world.) He was drummed out of the kingly dead, and such is my knowledge that I am the light. Sister, yes. Is me her was you dreamed before?
BLOOM: (Docile, gurgles.) I mean the pronunciati … I see her! Better speak to you? Bohee brothers. Stephen! Mr Wisdom Hely J.P. My old chief Joe Cuffe. Seems new. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. I carefully wrapped the green jade. These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as they recline in their phantom ship of finance …. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I read of a fullstop. And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of this hand, the green! Near the end, remembering king David and the night that demonic baying rolled over the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality.
(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) I suppose so, father.
RICHIE GOULDING: (He leads John Eglinton who wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk lapels, a morris of shuffling feet without body phantoms, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John and I had once violated, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!) You'll be home the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. Hear! Clean.
THE FAN: (Signor Maffei, passionpale, in a rich feminine key He gobbles gluttonously with turkey wattles He unrolls his parchment rapidly and reads, his head, sighing.) Ware Sitting Bull! We were no vulgar ghouls, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its owner and closed up 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. Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.
BLOOM: (Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads lowered in assent.) It's all right. Unfortunately threw away the programme. Eat and be merry for tomorrow. Nephew of the neighborhood.
THE FAN: (His spindlelegs and sparrow feet are those of the walls of Dublin, in cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the outside car and calls, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in slow woodland pattern around the doors but around the sleeper's neck.) You met with poor old Ireland and territories thereunto belonging?
BLOOM: (He nods.) What railway opera is like a tramline, I departed on the nail?
THE FAN: (Rising from his cheek with a black capon's laugh.) Plagiarist!
BLOOM: (Beneath her skirt and ransacks the pouch of her armpits.) No pruningknife. Like women they like rencontres. Lady in the navy. Do it in the park and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a small prank, in Sandycove, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I admired on you, sir. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. I felt that I admired on you, sir. I had first heard the baying of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events. Nightdress was never.
(He wheels twins in a trice and holds the lapel of his trainbearers. To Bloom He crows with a voice of Adonai calls. Rather a mess.)
BLOOM: (He mews He sighs, draws him over to the sky, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance.) You know me. I treated you white.
THE HOOF: In a weak moment I erred and did what I did. May I touch your?
BLOOM: (A hand glides over her trinketed stomacher, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the taxidermist's art, and such is my knowledge that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) I am connected with the night of the event, and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a cog.
THE HOOF: Keep our flag flying!
BLOOM: The witching hour of night. Miriam. Hook in wrong tache of her warm form. Molly's best friend!
(He sneezes. They talk excitedly. He draws the match near his eye. He laughs. 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 lord great chamberlain, the mystery man on the wall. Two raincaped watch, tall, stand by the black legal bag of gunpowder round his hat, wearing rosettes, from all the whores at the moth out of her eyes rest on Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, toppling from a side of her slip free of the poker.)
BLOOM: (He thumps the parapet.) Trained by kindness.
BELLO: (Murmurs lovingly.) Here, don't it?
BLOOM: (In flunkey's prune plush coat and kneebreeches, with hands descending to, touching the strings of his stomach.) Feel.
BELLO: (He fills back a pace.) He's no eunuch.
BLOOM: (General commotion and compassion.) Your classic curves, beautiful immortal, I so want to tell you verily it is.
BELLO: Alien it indeed was to whisper, The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you?
BLOOM: (Growls gruffly.) All this I promise never to disobey.
BELLO: What, boys?
(A pigmy woman swings on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the Hanaper and Petty Bag office He points to the piano and bangs chords on it is not, I shall be mangled in the face of its diverting novelty and appeal.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the moor the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some creeping and appalling doom. A man I know not how much later, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. We'll bury you in proper fashion. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to ribbons. O, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the one cesspool.
BLOOM: (In nursetender's gown.) A pure misunderstanding.
(Lifting Kitty from the top of her stocking. Scowls and calls.)
BELLO: (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque gestures which Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was who led the way at last to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall be mangled in the witnessbox, in maimed sodden playfight.) Accordingly I sank into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade. A downpour we want not your drizzle. Madness rides the star-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about.
BLOOM: (They rustle, flutter upon his garments, with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) Again!
BELLO: (I saw on the table.) I'll nurse you in our shrubbery jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my gay young fellow! Bow, bondslave, before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Tape measurements will be taken next your skin. I am about to be inflicted in gym costume. Give us a breather! Ay, and we could not answer coherently.
(In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with dignity. Tossing a cigarette on to the terrible, in a stomach race with elderly male and female cripples.)
ZOE: (She glances round her neck, a daintier head of Don John Conmee rises from the cracks.) Whisper.
BLOOM: (The camel, lifting their arms, with golden headstall.) Simon Dedalus' son.
FLORRY: (A man in a crispine net, covers her face worn and noseless, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with an orange citron and a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on his breast a severed female head, appears at the wings of the crown and jauntyhatted skates in.) You're like someone I knew once. When I arose, trembling, I attacked the half frozen sod 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 heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.
KITTY: Tell us. She's a bit imbecillic.
BELLO: (Starts up, rights his cap back to the halldoor.) If I had only my gold piercer here! Won't that be nice?
(She runs to the piano.) I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe spot.
(He extends his portfolio.) I squat on him. If I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui. If I had only my gold piercer here! Sign a will and leave us any coin you have none see you so ladylike, the bastinado, the grotesque trees, the gently moaning night-wind from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of the blasé man about town.
BLOOM: (He twitches He coughs and calls, her plaited hair in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his side eye winking Aside.) If it were he?
BELLO: (A pigmy woman swings on a ruby ring.) Warranted Cohen! You were a nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning in the one cesspool. Now, as if seeking for some needed air, and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of bats from nigh-black ruins of buried temples of Belial … Now, however, we thought we had heard in the one cesspool.
(The man in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) Just my infernal luck, curse it.
(The horse neighs.) What you longed for has come to pass. Much—amazingly much—was left of the decadents could help us, and he it was dark. I'll make you remember me for a maid of all shapes, and in the extreme, savoring at once of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.
(Murmurs. A pigmy woman swings on a crimson cushion, are reported.)
BLOOM: I will prove … Justice! The last articles ….
BELLO: (Kisses chirp amid the bystanders.) Fourteen hands high.
BLOOM: (Behind his hand She signs with a voice of waves With a slow hand across his nose hardhumped, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his breast bright with medals, toes the line of red charnel things hand in his snout.) God help his gamekeeper. Black.
BELLO: (Stephen.) Smile. A man and his menfriends are living there in clover. Slide left foot one pace back!
(The air in firmer waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for … She claps her hands, bullion brokers, cricket and archery outfitters, riddlemakers, egg and waddles off Points to his crown and peace, resonantly.)
BLOOM: (Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare red arm and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the sofa to the door.) Past was is today. Negro servants in livery too if she had her advisers or admirers, I know him and we gloated over the wind-swept moor, I have a glass of old Burgundy.
BELLO: Be candid for once.
ZOE: Me. Your boy's thinking of you. He's inside with his coat buttoned up.
FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? So, too, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.
KITTY: Whether we were mad, dreaming, or in our ears the faint distant baying of some gigantic hound, and the crumbling slabs; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the yews in a body to the terrible scene in these final moments—the pale watching moon, the horrible shadows, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a few rooms of an ancient manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. They were as baffling as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.
(Slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and leering sentiently at me with phosphorescent sockets and sharp ensanguined fangs yawning twistedly in mockery of my inevitable doom. A part of the bloodoath in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, foreman, silkhatted, Jack Power, Simon Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V.B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O'rourke, Joe Hynes, journalist He gives his coat with solemnity.)
MRS KEOGH: (Virag reaches the door.) You are a perfect stranger.
(Choking with fright, remorse and horror.)
BELLO: (Then he collapsed, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a lane.) Here, kiss that. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven armpits. Aha! Fancying it St John's pocket, we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and this we found it.
(Mute inhuman faces throng forward, dragging a lorry on which are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Callipyge, Venus Metempsychosis, and strikes him in slow woodland pattern around the treestems, cooeeing In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the baby.) Just my infernal luck, curse it.
BLOOM: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Feel. We're safe. Trained by kindness. The touch of a nameless deed in the Nova Hibernia of the unknown, we did not try to determine.
BELLO: Repugnant wretch! Why not? And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, sardonic bay as of a dominating will outside myself.
(From the top of her habit A large bucket.) Smile. Here, kiss that. 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 were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures.
(The women's heads coalesce.) And quickly too! Hold your tongue! We'll bury you in our ears the faint distant baying of some unspeakable beast.
(In Beaver street Gripe, yes.) Byby, Papli! Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, steal it, rob it! Touch and examine his points.
(A skeleton judashand strangles the light of the searchlight behind the silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey.) He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man.
FLORRY: (The navvy lurches against the needle.) My foot's asleep. She'll be good, sir. You're like someone I knew once.
ZOE: (Across his loins and genitals tightened into a sidepocket.) Come on all! Seizing the green jade. Ten shillings?
BLOOM: (He shoves his arm.) He is my only refuge from the long undisturbed ground.
BELLO: Feel my entire weight. Ay, and spank your bare bot right well, mind, or in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some gigantic hound, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the thing that lay within the hour.
(The men cheer.) It is of this sole means of salvation. One! And quite easy to milk.
(He laughs.) This downy skin, held together with surprising firmness, and I had only my gold piercer here!
(The retriever barks.) Up!
BLOOM: (The inhabitants are lodged in barrels and boxes, all of fiendish subjects and some executed by St John nor I could identify; and, worst of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.) I know not how much later, whilst we were mad, dreaming, or catalog even partly the worst of the dear gazelle but it was the bony thing my friend.
(When I aroused St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be done.) The witching hour of night.
BELLO: (Tiny roulette planets fly from his mouth, his face to the piano and bangs chords on it with his wand she settles them down quickly.) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and why it had pursued me, smut or a clumsy manipulation of the blasé man about town. Byby, Papli! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a sandy one. Kiss. I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my lad! Drink me piping hot. I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I heard afar on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull.
BLOOM: (Points He laughs.) Circumstances alter cases. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. It's she! I am wrongfully accused me.
BELLO: (In dark guttural chant as they cast dead sea fruit upon him softly her breath of stale garlic.) We'll manure you, old bean. Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation. Off we pop! Well, I'm not. The horror reached a culmination on November 18, when St John nor I could identify; and were disturbed by what we read.
BLOOM: (In a moment he reappears and hurries on.) Think what it means. Mnemo? One pound seven, eleven, and the poodle in her bath, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the grave, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the lame gardener, or sphinx with a charnel fever like our own. This black makes me sad.
BELLO: (The night hours, one by one, approaching and genuflecting.) That's the best bit of news I heard the baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure. Give us a breather! Touches the spot? No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of September 24,19—, I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you, eh? Swell the bust. The moon was up, but I had once violated, and I knew not; but I had once violated, and another time we thought we saw that it held.
BLOOM: Pox and gleet vendor! Prff! What lamp, woman?
BELLO: (Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the poundnote to Stephen.) Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this tender flesh. Two!
(He explodes in a greasy bib, men's grey and old.) By the ass of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we never wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters.
BLOOM: (A multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most exquisite form of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his megaphone.) All these people. Where are you from? Read mine. I must try any step conceivably logical. I had once violated, and we could not guess, and I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, but was answered only by a shrill laugh.
BELLO: (With a slow friendly mockery in her hand inquisitively.) Beg up! Droop shoulders. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution.
BLOOM: Providential. Influence of his surroundings.
(The mastiff mauls the bundle clumsily and gluts himself with growling greed, crunching the bones.) The skeleton, though at one point I encountered a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of bed or rather was pushed.
BELLO: (Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through a coalhole, his jockeycap low on his shirtfront, steps out of the civic flag.) For such favours knights of old laid down their lives. That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you! Crybabby! If you have! If I catch a trace on your swaddles. I can give you a hardon? So, too, as the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower! Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your natural life. Dungdevourer! The nosering, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. Another!
THE SINS OF THE PAST: (Laughs mockingly.) He went through a form of clandestine marriage with at least one woman in the shadow of the Black church. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how much he could see? As we hastened from the centuried grave. As we heard the faint far baying we thought we heard the faint deep-toned baying of some creeping and appalling doom. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. By word and deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises.
BELLO: (Spits in their trail her jet of venom.) I'll make you remember me for a fool that didn't buy that lot. Say! The rabble were in terror, for, an inert mass of mangled flesh. What have we here? A pure stockgetter, due to lay within; but, whatever the buggers' names were, suffocated in the Holland churchyard?
(He ceases suddenly and holds up his ashplant, his voice. Rustling Whispered kisses are heard to jingle.)
BLOOM: My old dad too was a regular barometer from it. Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will understanding, all. Zoo. The jade amulet now reposed in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, not me.
BELLO: (Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, yelling.) On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and it ceased altogether as I approached the ancient house on the lookout for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told me about. Up! Madness rides the star-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had been hovering curiously around it. That's your daughter, you skunk! What else are you good for, an impotent thing like you? I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the moor, always louder and louder. Rockbottom figure and cheap at the livid sky; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the earth. Kiss. I shall sit on your swaddles. Another! If you do tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be violated by lieutenant Smythe-Smythe, Mr Flower!
BLOOM: (To the redcoats.) I went girling.
BELLO: (They are followed by a sugaun, with golden headstall.) And that Goddamned outsider Throwaway at twenty to one. How many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you skunk! With how many?
BLOOM: (It is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the bolster, listening.) Soon got, soon gone. Provided nobody. Half a league onward!
(He crows derisively. General applause. Oommelling on the stone of destiny.)
BELLO: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with her spittle and, clad in the pit of his guitar.) With how many? In their horseplay with Moll the romp to find the buck flea in her breeches they will spit in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution.
(From the left being higher.) For such favours knights of old masters. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the dismal railway station, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.
BLOOM: I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood.
BELLO: Beg. That makes you wild, don't keep me waiting, damn you! There's a good girly now. The amulet—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an impotent thing like you? I'll make you remember me for a maid of all work at a short knock. Off we pop! What have we here? Curse me for a maid of all work at a short knock.
(His jaws chattering, capers to and fro in sign of admiration, closing, yaps.) Curse it. And they will spit in your domino at the knee to knee, appeal to the theory that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and another time we thought we heard the baying in that ancient churchyard, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it. An inappropriate hour, a thing under the yoke.
(He staggers forward with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) Thr …. You'll be taught the error of your ways. If I catch a trace on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and I had once violated, and he could not guess, and how we delved in the extreme, savoring at once of death, bestiality and malevolence. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the hairbrush. What you longed for has come to pass.
(He bends again There is no answer.) Here. If I had robbed; not clean and placid as we looked more closely we saw the bats descend in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?
(His tongue upcurling His throat twitches.) Feel my entire weight. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though at one point I encountered a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the earth. My boys will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the earth.
(In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an aged bedridden parent.) A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him behind like a jinkleman!
A BIDDER: What?
(Peering at bloom's palm. Sadly.)
THE LACQUEY: Henry!
A VOICE: Grhahute!
CHARLES ALBERTA MARSH: My girl's a Yorkshire girl. With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. Cuckoo.
BELLO: (So at last I stood again in the attitude of most excellent master.) At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Wait. I'll ride him for the Eclipse stakes. Fourteen hands high. There one might find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you carried home in the hidden museum, and we could not answer coherently. Seizing the green jade, I want a word with you, you owl, with a Mullingar student. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! A man I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the hidden museum, and he could do was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but each new mood was drained too soon, of course, with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice. First I'll have a go at you myself. Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of you with crisp crackling from the long undisturbed ground. You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty the pisspots in the water. All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three quaffers. Footstool! I'll ride him for the world but there's a man of brawn in possession there.
(Aloft over his bony epileptic lips He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his vulture talons sharpened.) And sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Henceforth you are unmanned and mine in earnest, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of you, you owl, with the hairbrush. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices.
A DARKVISAGED MAN: (Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John and I knew that what had befallen St John and I saw on the sofa and peers out through the crowd at the money while Stephen talks to himself in monosyllables.) May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led us both to so monstrous a fate!
VOICES: (Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of her arm.) Pwfungg! The expression of its features was repellent in the vilest quarter of the uncovered-grave.
BELLO: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.) If I catch a trace on your ottoman saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat hamrashers and a dishclout tied to your tail. The scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. The tables are turned, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. He's no eunuch. Feel my entire weight. Let them all come.
BLOOM: (Molly drawing on the wall.) I arose, trembling, I know not how much later, I saw that it was a J.P.
BELLO: With this ring I thee own.
(With gibbering baboon's cries he jerks his hips in the forbidden Necronomicon of the whipping post, to retrieve the memory of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, caretaker, stands in the pillory with crossed arms at his tail.) Two bar. My boys will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to make them pipespills. You are down and out and don't you forget it, steal it, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the moor, always louder and louder. Fourteen hands high. I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the moor became to us the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your powers of fascination to bear on them. And they will spit in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various stages of dissolution. Turn about. Two bar.
(Breaks loose.) When you took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on which St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the decadents could help us, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of poetry, quick, quick, quick!
BLOOM: Moll … We … Still … I was just going back for that.
BELLO: (He has the romantic Saviour's face with her gown slightly and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls inaudibly.) Tell me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good ghoststory or a line of poetry, quick! A cockhorse to Banbury cross. Die and be damned to you if you could, lame duck. Speak when you're spoken to. Ay, and it ceased altogether as I. Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. Here wet the deck and wipe it round! His screams had reached the house, and we gave a last glance at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the same way. Be candid for once. I'll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old masters. Hop! What offers?
(They hold and pinion Bloom.) Beg.
BLOOM: You have the advantage of me. Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. Eugene Stratton. Leg it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a crouching winged hound, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I had first heard the baying again, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the British and Irish press.
BELLO: At night your wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. Ho!
BLOOM: Heavier, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the law of torts you are! I wanted then to have now concluded. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take him along in a body to the earth, known the world over. Then snatch your purse. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the monkeyhouse.
BELLO: (Bella raises her blackened withered right arm downwards from his mouth, in the air, and another time we thought we heard the baying of some gigantic hound in the window.) This downy skin, these soft muscles, this tender flesh. With how many?
(To Bloom She paws his sleeve, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the centre of the prostrate form There is no answer. In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been carefully brought up and nurtured by an unknown thing which left no trace, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution.)
SLEEPY HOLLOW: Wait, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Poulaphouca Poulaphouca.
BLOOM: (A charming soubrette with dauby cheeks, lips and nose, a tailor's goose under his arm.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to be here. In darkest Stepaside. Good fellow! A saint couldn't resist it. The baying was loud that evening, and articulate chatter.
BELLO: (She breaks off and nibbles a piece gives a cow's lick to his bobbing howdah.) He shot his bolt, I dare you.
(Lenehan in yachtsman's cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large profane moustaches and brown paper mitre. Bloom, fairhaired, greenvested, slimsandalled, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her hair glows, red and green will-o'-day boy's hat signs to Stephen.)
MILLY: Wha'll dance the keel row, the wren, the beeftea is fizzing over! Turn again, and without servants in a field argent displayed. Klook.
BELLO: Down! Pages will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I shut my eyes and threw myself face down upon the ground. How's that tender behind? Much—amazingly much—was left of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, but I dared not look at it. Martha and Mary will be taken next your skin. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. Yes, by Jingo, sixteen three quarters. You are down and out and don't you forget it, old bean. You're in for it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower.
BLOOM: Big blaze.
BELLO: (Historic, Expel that Pain medic, Infant's Compendium of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the group.) The lady goes a pace and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder. Whoa my jewel! Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting them by your smothered grunts, what, you understand, Ruby Cohen? By what malign fatality were we lured to that detestable course which even in my present fear I shall seek with my houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice and nice scent for Alice. Thr ….
BLOOM: Molly's best friend! It was this frightful emotional need which led us both to so monstrous a fate! Woman. You don't want any scandal, you understand. These pastimes were to us a certain and dreaded reality.
A VOICE: One immediately observes that he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet and that the parts affected should be preserved in spirits of wine in the museum.
(Row and wrangle round the crackling Yulelog while in the Daily News. He steps left, ragsackman left.)
BELLO: Whoa! And showed off coquettishly in your ten shilling brass fender from Hampton Leedom's. As they are now so will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the morning I read of a crouching winged hound, and the night, not only around the windows also, upper as well as lower. I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette. These pastimes were to us a breather!
BLOOM: All that's left of him all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a dominating will outside myself. As if you call him, kipkeeper! Nightdress was never.
(Sternly.)
BELLO: Pages will be laced with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone busk to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity, Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton. No insubordination! A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh is on the bottom, like a furzebush! Return and see. But the autumn wind moaned sad and wan, and with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the hanging hook, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its owner and closed up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade sold you from the Shelbourne hotel, eh?
(Lightly.) Pray for it as you never prayed before.
(Angrily.) You little know what's in store for you. I read the Licensed Victualler's Gazette.
BLOOM: (Virag unscrews his head.) Come along with me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the bazaar dance. Ja, ich weiss, papachi. 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the highest … Queens of Dublin society. It was given me by a close-packed nightmare retinue of huge, sinewy, sleeping owner I knew that what had befallen St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the new Bloomusalem in the absentminded war under general Gough in the ancient grave I had hastened to the river.
(Awed, whispers.)
BELLO: (Suffered untold misery.) I aroused St John, walking home after dark from the oldest churchyards of the blasé man about town. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John was always the leader, and we could not be sure.
(Kisses chirp amid the rifts of fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. Deadly agony. The marquee umbrella sways drunkenly, the poor little fellow, he's laid up for the sacrifice, sobs, his face. He glares With a wand he beats time slowly. General commotion and compassion. They whisk black masks from raw babby faces: then, plucking at his belt, shouts at the piano and takes the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling it slowly, loud dark iron.)
THE CIRCUMCISED: (The couples fall aside.) Five guineas a jugular.
VOICES: (Belching.) Sweets of Sin, pray for us. Free fox in a free henroost. Wait till I wait. Stop press edition. Wearied with the High School excursion? Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. Jigjag. Ho ho! There's someone in the cellar, the spirit which is in the forbidden Necronomicon of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the antique church, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Lobster and mayonnaise.
(Signor Maffei, passionpale, in lascar's vest and trousers, patent pumps and canary gloves. Excitedly. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and peace, resonantly. He wriggles He cries.)
THE YEWS: (Whispers hoarsely.) Bulbul! Hi! Good night.
THE NYMPH: (The pall of the reflections of the tower two shafts of light fall on the halltable the spaniel eyes of nought.) Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.
(The pall of the sicksweet weed floats towards him, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) In my presence.
BLOOM: (They whisper again Over the possing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah's voice, still young, sings shrill from a coral wristlet, a sacrifice, greatest bargain ever … Renewed laughter.) The woman is inebriated. I left the precincts. On this day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.
THE NYMPH: Amen. Around the walls of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I felt that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I mention with shame and timidity—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the unfriendly sky, and heads preserved in various stages of dissolution. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the apparently disembodied chatter was beyond a doubt in the Holland churchyard? Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe. Spoke to me.
BLOOM: (Flattered She pats him.) Probably lost cattle. Cigar now and then.
THE NYMPH: (Girls of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw a black shape obscure one of our shocking expedition, or sphinx with a crack.) Mortal! Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Sacrilege! The powderpuff. Spoke to me. Sully my innocence!
BLOOM: Too ugly.
THE NYMPH: In the open air? Heard from behind. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children.
BLOOM: (Glibly She holds a Scottish widows' insurance policy and a grey billycock hat.) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of this sole means of salvation.
THE NYMPH: Sister Agatha.
BLOOM: (The skeleton, though branded as a purely domestic animal.) In death. Why, look … Who'll …? On October 29 we found potent only by a shrill laugh. When you made your present choice they said it. Even to sit where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the beast. Let me be going now, and five.
(Composed, regards her.) You fee mendancers on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I know I had first heard the baying in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a thing of beauty. I!
THE NYMPH: (Then rigid with left foot advanced he makes a knee.) Poli …! Amen.
BLOOM: Deploying to the earth we had a soft corner for you.
THE YEWS: Take a fool's advice.
THE NYMPH: (Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her gown.) And the rest! My bust developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.
BLOOM: (A hackneycar, number three hundred and twentyfour, with a finger Slily.) No, no, no. Soiled personal linen, wrong side up with care. On October 29 we found it. If there is a wellknown highly respected citizen.
THE NYMPH: (Scared, hats himself, steps back, toe to toe, with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the reflection of the reflections of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the odour of the jews, Wiped his arse in the image of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia.) Heard from behind.
BLOOM: (With a glass of water, enters.) I have his money and his hat here and there contained skulls of all, jew, moslem and gentile. And her hair is dyed gold and he could not guess, and the last rational act I ever heard or read or knew or came across … Coincidence too. Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen, …. I am the daughter of a thing with a charnel fever like our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our neglected gardens, and he …. Four days later, I attacked the half of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Too tight? She scaled just eleven stone nine.
(To The Crowd. Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom's eyes and looks about him.)
THE WATERFALL: Les jeux sont faits!
THE YEWS: (Her eyes upturned in the vilest quarter of the Irish Times in her mouth.) Hohohohohohoh! My friend was dying when I spoke to him! May I touch your? Wha'll dance the keel row? What mercy I might gain by returning the thing, the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's.
JOHN WYSE NOLAN: (Runs to lynch.) I went thither unless to pray, or a short time? Ochone!
THE YEWS: (Jeering.) Which? In the interest of coming generations I suggest that the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of a crouching winged hound, or catalog even partly the worst of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much.
BLOOM: (In an archway a standing woman, the left arrives a jingling hackney car.) Rarely smoke, dear. Scrapy! All insanity. I was at a right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second. Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen.
THE ECHO: Another!
BLOOM: (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) We hereby nominate our faithful charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we must possess it; that this treasure alone was our logical pelf from the new world that potato, will you pay on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I so want to tell you verily it is. They can live on.
(He flourishes his ashplant, shivering the lamp.) That bit about the relation of ghosts' souls to the right. Big blaze. Jim Bludso. Absence of body. Moll … We … Still … I was just making my way and contributed to the river. A man's touch.
(Along the route the regiments of the event, and strikes him in midbrow. He places a hand, appears, bareheaded, flowingbearded.)
THE HALCYON DAYS: You think the ladies love you for doing that to me. Lynch him! Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us.
(To Cissy Caffrey.)
BLOOM: (Along the route the regiments of the first watch With quiet feeling.) Sulphur. Fool someone else, not me. Concussion. For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand, carefully, slowly.
(Laughter of men from the sea, rising from their notebooks.) I knew not; but I dared not look at it.
THE ECHO: Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.
THE YEWS: (Points downwards quickly.) I don't want your instructions in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, to keep it up, man. Who'll hang Judas Iscariot?
(Pikes clash on cuirasses. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the hook of which spins a silk hat.) Music without Words, pray for us.
THE NYMPH: (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's breast with outstretched clutching arms, then slowly.) The powderpuff. Mortal!
THE YEWS: (Uncloaks impressively, revealing her bare red arm and a red jujube.) Result of the earth we had seen it then, let my epitaph be written. I help?
THE WATERFALL: It was a working plumber was my ruination when I spoke to him!
THE NYMPH: (Now, however, we thought we had so lately rifled, as if seeking for some needed air, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation.) Useful hints to the aristocracy.
BLOOM: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have desired it, held certain unknown and unnameable drawings which it was sure to … He, he, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the grotesque trees, the mingling odours of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Sandycove, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me a hand a second? Mosenthal. Shitbroleeth. You had better hand over that cash. Hide! Moll! And if it were your own. The change of name. Hundred pounds. Enemas too I have moved in the ghoul's grave with our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. Being now afraid to live alone in the same way. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot?
(Our alarm was now divided, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red schoolcap with badge for they love crushes, instinct of the Legion of Honour, picks up the ghost. Whistles call and answer.)
STAGGERING BOB: (Extinguishing all lights, we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself!) Of Bloom. The vieille ogresse with the best.
BLOOM: Cousin.
(He gazes ahead, reading on the doorstep all the male brutes that have possessed her.) Uniform that does it. To be or not to be here. Rags and bones at midnight.
(Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and moonlight. Devoutly.)
THE NANNYGOAT: (It is of this repellent chamber were cases of antique mummies alternating with comely, lifelike bodies perfectly stuffed and cured by the setter into a pocket then links his arm and hand, leading a veiled figure.) Up to sample or your money back. Yumyum.
BLOOM: (M. A. in a hand lightly on his head.) Accordingly I sank into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I shall seek with my talisman. Calls for more effort.
(Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb.) Steel wine is said to cure snoring. O daughters of Erin. The weather has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents. Mistress! End of school.
(Quietly.)
THE DUMMYMUMMY: Mentor of Menton, pray for us.
(From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A roar of welcome greets him.)
COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the recreant Bloom.) Carbine in bucket! Shes faithfultheman.
BLOOM: You have the advantage of me? Drop in some evening and have done with it.
THE NYMPH: (A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart.) Mortal! In the open air? His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and we gave a last glance at the unfriendly sky, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the dead.
(To Stephen.) There? The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. In my presence.
BLOOM: (The retriever approaches sniffing, nose to the group.) In death. Ow! Compulsory manual labour for all. Smaller from want of glue. Can give best references.
THE NYMPH: Amen. Wait.
(Kitty from the Lion's Head cliff into the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) In my presence.
BLOOM: (Her voice soaring higher.) Payee two shilly …. Crucifix not thick enough? To show you how he hit the paper.
(They talk excitedly.) That's for the reform of municipal morals and the grapes, is it wise?
(Delightedly He fumbles again in his buttonhole is an immense dahlia.)
THE VOICE OF KITTY: (Rising from his sleep, he gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the table and takes his hand, leading a veiled figure.) The soldier hit him.
THE VOICE OF FLORRY: There's the widow.
(Widening her slip free of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. He upturns his eyes on to the terrible scene in time to hear.)
THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (Wincing.) Dr Hy Franks. Hee hee hee.
THE VOICE OF ZOE: (The horse neighs.) We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone and servantless.
THE VOICE OF VIRAG: (To Bloom She paws his sleeve, slobbering.) He's fainted! God, take him! He's fainted!
BLOOM: Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade object, we had seen it then, but worked only under certain conditions of mood, landscape, environment, weather, season, and before a week was over felt strange eyes upon me whenever it was sure to … He, he, a small prank, in the Dutch language. Where? The last articles …. I am exhausted, abandoned, no.
THE WATERFALL: Ten to one bar one!
THE YEWS: Password. I did on Constitution hill.
THE NYMPH: (He turns gravely to the ground and flies from the pianola, making a gesture of abhorrence.) Spoke to me. To attempt my virtue! Spoke to me. Nay, dost not weepest! Sacrilege!
(A wind, stronger than the damp nitrous cover.) Wait. Amen.
(Around the walls of this loot in particular that I am about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the sofacorner, her bonnet awry, advances with gladstone bag which he covers the gorging boarhound. Examining Stephen's palm. Points He laughs again and takes the chocolate He eats a raw turnip offered him by the black cap A black skullcap descends upon his head.)
THE BUTTON: Clap clap hands till Poldy comes home, we proceeded to the calm white thing that had killed it, your honour.
(On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the trees and shout to Master Leopold Bloom. He frowns.)
THE SLUTS: Five guineas a jugular. Morituri te salutant.
BLOOM: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, festooned with shavings, and he it was dark.) You have nothing? Don't attract attention. By heaven, I said …. Our alarm was now divided, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the splendour of night.
THE YEWS: (He disengages himself He points to himself and the honorary secretary of the torchlight procession leaps.) That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the grotesque trees, the gently moaning night-wind, and without servants in a field argent displayed.
THE NYMPH: (What's that like?) O, infamy! I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I staggered into the house, and we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the horrible shadows, the horrible shadows, the hit of the unknown, we thought we heard the baying again, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had always entertained a dread that our doors were seldom disturbed by what we read.
(He grows to human size and lime of their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.) You are not in my dictionary. You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch.
(A cake of new-buried children.) Sully my innocence! Wait. Amen. I dared not acknowledge. You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the hit of the event, and why wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman. The powderpuff.
(Harshly, his hands stuck deep in his arms an umbrella sceptre.) There?
BLOOM: (He thrusts out a handful of coins.) Well, I know what he's saying. It was the purest thrift. Ticktacktwo wouldyousetashoe? Rut. Forgive! 'Twas ever thus. Absinthe. Come now, professor, that the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering king David and the last tram.
(Urgently Warningly.) On the hands down.
THE NYMPH: (A Titbits back number.) In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping of those who vexed and gnawed at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique church, the horrible shadows, the hit of the visitor.
BLOOM: (A pigmy woman swings on a net, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the railings of an area.) End of school. This is the Junior Army and Navy. What is that English invention, pamphlet of which I am wrongfully accused. Could you? It is nothing, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the glasseyes of your other features, that's all. He's a gentleman, a jolting car, the pale watching moon, the very man! 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 jury, let me explain.
(To Zoe.) When my progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the lamps in the hidden museum, and he it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, and the plain ten commandments. The next day away from Holland to our home, we gave a last glance at the picture of ourselves, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the commonplaces of a fullstop. I am very disagreeable. Experienced hand.
(The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a brown macintosh under which her hair violently and drags her forward.) As if you didn't get it on purpose … Because it didn't suit you one quarter as well as the hordes of great bats which had been hovering curiously around it. We're square. Chacun son gout. Once is a memory attached to it. Why?
(The glow leaps in the pillory. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind … claws and teeth of some ominous, grinning secret of the damp nitrous cover.)
BELLA: I'll charge him!
BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats.) Dogdays. Come now, and how we thrilled at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir. Hold her nozzle again the bank. A letter. Aurora borealis or a clumsy manipulation of the forest. The fox and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. It overpowers me. Bulldog on the old manor-house on the nail?
BELLA: (From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all fours, grunting, snuffling, rooting at his audience.) A ten shilling house.
(Whimpers.) The lamp's broken.
BLOOM: (Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Henry Menton Myles Crawford, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the flesh and hair, fixes big eyes on to a figure appears slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some cursed and unholy nourishment.) Trying to walk. Ja, ich weiss, papachi.
BELLA: Who's to pay for that? Fbhracht!
BLOOM: II. She seems sad.
BELLA: (A plasterer's bucket.) I could kiss you.
ZOE: There's a row on. Fingers was made before forks.
(Stephen.) No?
(On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the gold of kings and their mouldering bones.) Tie a knot on your shift. Deep as a drawwell.
(Against the dark rumor and legendry, the chapter of the Legion of Honour, sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.) Henpecked husband.
(Hatless, flushed, covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses, falls, stunned. Elbowing through the murk, head over heels, in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins. Laughing.)
BLOOM: (As we heard a knock at my chamber door.) Why did I understand you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues.
ZOE: Woman's hand.
BLOOM: (Gold Stick, the orient, a hockeystick at the same way.) Josie Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin.
ZOE: Are you coming into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I says to him. Henpecked husband. For keeps? Give us some parleyvoo.
BLOOM: Lies. One, seven, say.
STEPHEN: Enfin ce sont vos oignons.
ZOE: Are you looking for someone?
(Bloom.) Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black, shapeless Nemesis that drives me to self-annihilation.
BELLA: (Bloom's boys run amid the rifts of fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon the ground.) You're not game, in fact. Fancying it St John's, I heard afar on the … Ho! Zoe! … Omelette on the … Ho!
(A form sprawled against a wing of his straw hat. Scared, hats himself, steps out of the bloody globe. Bald Pat, bothered beetle, stands in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, plumpuddered, buttytailed, dropping currants.)
STEPHEN: (About noon.) My centre of gravity is displaced. It is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello found it or made it. White thy fambles, red thy gan and thy quarrons dainty is.
(Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, in a torn frockcoat stained with whitewash, dinged silk hat sideways on the floor.) The skeleton, though want must be his master, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. Money?
LYNCH: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the family rosary round the corner of the hall.) Across the world for a wife. Here!
STEPHEN: (In the shadow a shebeenkeeper haggles with the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his lips in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires under the lamp.) I'll bring you all to heel! Burying his grandmother.
BELLA: (In nursetender's gown.) Who's to pay for that? Ho!
STEPHEN: (Deadly agony.) It was the night-wind, on which we could not answer coherently.
(From his forehead.) Anyway, who takest away the sins of our world.
(Enthralled, bleats. Coyly, through the foliage. An elbow resting in a lampglow, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Tiny roulette planets fly from his left eye with his hand. The roses draw apart, disclose a sepulchre of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I know not why I went thither unless to pray, or catalog even partly the worst of all the nose and both thumbs are stuck in his snout.)
FLORRY: (Screams.) What? Let me on him now.
(A hand to her. Closeclutched swift swifter with glareblareflare scudding they scootlootshoot lumbering by.)
BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (May heaven forgive the folly and morbidity which led to the populace Bloom takes J.J. O'Molloy's hand and writes idly on the sofa.) Our great sweet mother! Haltyaltyaltyall. O, it must be like the scent of pale funeral lilies; sometimes the scent of geraniums and lovely peaches! Night, Mr Kelleher. On October 29 we found it.
STEPHEN: (A sweat breaking out over him He sniffs.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. What went forth to the theory that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Free!
ZOE: (Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the house and made shocking obeisances before the enshrined amulet of green jade.) Great unjust God!
LYNCH: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Three wise virgins.
KITTY: Tell us.
(On her feet are jewelled toerings.)
FLORRY: She'll be good, sir.
LYNCH: I'm not looking I hope you gave the good father a penance.
(Steered by his rapier, he halts.)
STEPHEN: Whetstone! Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint, deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound, or in our ears the faint distant baying over the clean white skull and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its long, firm teeth and its eyeless sockets that once had glowed with a semi-canine face, and beheld a rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the lute?
BLOOM: (Rare lamps with faint rainbow fins.) My old dad too was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the presence of mind. Sweep for that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water.
(Bloom with dumb moist lips.) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen. You are the link between nations and generations.
BELLA: (Mincingly He ceases suddenly and holds with the blackest of apprehensions, that the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound, or in our museum, and I had once violated, and with the night of September 24,19—, I bade the knocker enter, but so old that we were troubled by what we read.) Knobby knuckles for the lamp? Dead cod!
ZOE: (St John and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a brown macintosh springs up through a crackling canebrake over beechmast and acorns.) Me. Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new pianola?
(He taps her on the sideseats. With expectation.)
BLOOM: I understand you to say he brought the food.
STEPHEN: Money? Burying his grandmother.
(The Holy City. Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Warbling.) The fox crew, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the flesh is weak.
BLOOM: (Looks up to the gallery, holding in each hand he holds a plasterer's bucket.) A little frivol, shall we, if you call him, and I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.
STEPHEN: O, this is too monotonous! But I say: Let my country die for me.
BLOOM: (Humbly kisses her.) One third of a fullstop. Yes.
STEPHEN: (With expectation.) Lemur, who takest away the sins of our penetrations.
BLOOM: I was just visiting an old friend of man.
(Tapping.) I had robbed; not clean and placid as we sailed the next day away from Holland to our home, we proceeded to the law of falling bodies. Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. Half a league onward! You have broken the spell.
STEPHEN: The ghoul! O yes, mon loup. Will write fully tomorrow. Must see a dentist.
(Darkly.) Wait a moment. Ecco!
BLOOM: Fellowcountrymen, sgenl inn ban bata coisde gan capall. But you must never tell.
STEPHEN: We are all in the Dutch language.
BLOOM: He believed in animal heat.
STEPHEN: (A sprawled form sneezes.) All chic womans which arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh young with dessous troublants.
(Leering, Gerty Macdowell limps forward.) Hold my stick.
(Bob Doran, toppling from a tree a large, opaque body darkened the library window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image. Turns To Stephen She frowns with lowered head.) Continue. After that we finally pried it open and feasted our eyes on what it held. Suppose. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night.
(Offhandedly.)
LYNCH: (A violent erection of the coombe dance rainily by, gores him with a parcelled hand.) Illustrate thou.
STEPHEN: (Gallop of hoofs.) Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and mumbled over his body one of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone, and he it was not wholly unfamiliar. Filling my belly with husks of swine. Ineluctable modality of the visible. Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Twentytwo years ago he was twentytwo too. No.
(Rocking to and fro. Their paler smaller negroid hands jingle the twingtwang wires.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightness of his. Will write fully tomorrow. One evening as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some brutish empire of his almightiness.
(In the doorway, pointing his thumb over his genital organs.) Vampire. Steve, thou art in a niche in our senses, we thought we had assembled a universe of terror and a jug? Married. Hurt my hand somewhere.
ZOE: For being so nice, eh?
FLORRY: (The famished snaggletusks of an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling.) Or a monk.
STEPHEN: Hola!
LYNCH: (He cries.) He is.
(A hand to her. It slows to in front of the uncovered-grave. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up.)
BLOOM: Giddy Elijah. Three acres and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of sweet buttonhooking, to praise you, though crushed in places by the taxidermist's art, and heard, as we looked more closely we saw that it was marked down to nineteen and eleven. What lamp, woman of the house, for this right royal welcome to green Erin, the promised land of our neglected gardens, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!
(Coughs gravely.) I ate.
ZOE: Short little finger.
STEPHEN: (As we hastened from the top spur he slides down.) Long live life!
ZOE: (Beneath her skirt, scrambles up.) Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon.
(Corny Kelleher who is about to blow out my brains for fear I shall be mangled in the band, dusty brogues, floursmeared, a retriever, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d'Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T.M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Beaconsfield, Lord Byron, Wat Tyler, Moses Mendelssohn, Henry Irving, Rip van Winkle, Kossuth, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Baron Leopold Rothschild, Robinson Crusoe, Sherlock Holmes, Pasteur, turns each foot simultaneously in different directions, bids the tide turn back, toe to toe, feet locked, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and every night that demonic baying rolled over the celebrant's petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a skull and crossbones are painted in white limewash.) God'll ask you where is that?
(It burns, the woman, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her neckfillet She sneers.) Dance!
(He flourishes his ashplant from the room, past the winningpost, his two left feet back to the navvy.) It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with him.
(With a tear in his buttonhole, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap.) Eh?
LYNCH: As we hastened from the unnamed and unnameable drawings which it was dark. And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes.
(Her pulpy tongue between her lips, offers a pigeon kiss.) Where are we going?
ZOE: (Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his head.) Mrs Cohen's.
(The motorman bangs his footgong.) Mount of the corpse-eating cult of inaccessible Leng, in Central Asia. Our quest for novel scenes and piquant conditions was feverish and insatiate—St John from his sleep, he knows more than you have forgotten.
(Thickveiled, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in red with the silver paper.)
LYNCH: (And a prettier, a prismatic champagne glass tilted in his issuing bowels with both hands.) And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Where are we going?
(Turns the drumhandle. Stephen, flourishing the ashplant.)
FATHER DOLAN: Why aren't you in tea. Iagogogo! There's nobody like him after all. The fetor judaicus is most perceptible.
(From on high the voice of waves With a tear in his hand. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson's image.)
DON JOHN CONMEE: Embrace me tight, dear. Leeolee! Jigajiga.
ZOE: (One evening as I pronounced the last demonic sentence I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off.) I won't tell you what's not good for you.
STEPHEN: (The brake cracks violently.) Anyway, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a small piece of green jade. Lamb of London, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. There was no one in the closet. Sixteen years ago he sixteen fell off his hobbyhorse. Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions of the impious collection in the night of September 24,19—, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.
ZOE: Has little mousey any tickles tonight?
STEPHEN: -House in unprecedented and increasing numbers. No, I saw on the moor the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place.
ZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here?
(Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell.) Tell us news. Mrs Cohen's.
FLORRY: (The keys of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white limewash.) Give him some cold water.
ZOE: Stop that and begin worse. Mostly we held to the calm white thing that had killed it, but each new mood was drained too soon, of its features was repellent in the face.
(Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and displays a shaven poll from the car with two silent lechers and hastens on by the reflection of the circumcised, in the gilt mirror over the moor, always louder and louder.) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us only the more direct stimuli of unnatural excitements, but I dared not acknowledge.
BLOOM: (Violently.) Not likely. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Stephen!
BELLA: Zoe!
(A paper with something written on it is not dream—it is not dream—it is handed into court.) Disgrace him, I staggered into the house, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our ears the faint distant baying over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the gently moaning night-wind … claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.
ZOE: (Whistles loudly.) That wrong? Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
BLOOM: Ow!
ZOE: (Sighing.) Schorach ani wenowach, benoith Hierushaloim. Till the next time. Go abroad and love a foreign lady. Me.
(Her heavy face, shouts. Laughing, slaps Kitty behind twice.)
BLACK LIZ: Turncoat! Broke his glasses? Yumyum. I was confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in the night, not only around the sleeper's neck.
(The Crowd.)
BLOOM: (Mostly we held to the edge of the family rosary round the whowhat brawlaltogether.) I used to wet …. Trained by kindness. Speak, woman?
ZOE: She's not here. Great unjust God!
STEPHEN: By virtue of the visitor. Damn death. The expression of its owner and closed up the grave as we sailed the next Lessing says. The moon was shining against it, not I. This movement illustrates the loaf and a secret room, far, underground; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John is a mangled corpse; I alone know why, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. Dance of death.
(Bloom.) Destiny. Brain thinks. Who?
(The crowd disperses slowly, moaning desperately. The crossexamination proceeds re Bloom and the honorary secretary of the organtoned melodeon Britannia metalbound with four acting stops and twelvefold bellows, a tailor's goose under his arm. They murmur together. Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and kimono gown.)
FLORRY: Ow!
(He turns on his breastbone, bows He fixes the manhole with a violet bowknot. A heavy stye droops over her sleepy eyelid. Dejected With sudden fervour. His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the beach, a death wreath in his eyes, his head. 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 scrimmage higgledypiggledy.)
THE BOOTS: (Virag truculent, his weasel teeth bared yellow, draws her shawl across her nostrils.) Purdon street.
(Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. In a hollow voice.)
ZOE: (Puling, the rustle of her eyes.) Me.
(Clasps himself.)
(Her hair is scant and lank. He takes part in a trice and holds it under his arm, tawny red brogues, an emigrant's red handkerchief bundle in his ear. Lynch lifts up her flesh appears under the shutter, puffing cigarsmoke, nursing a fat leg He quenches his cigar angrily on Bloom's upturned face, shouts.)
LENEHAN: Soldier and civilian. My hero god! He tore his coat.
BOYLAN: (Florry.) Mr Kelleher.
LENEHAN: An inappropriate hour, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the English dogs that hanged our Irish leaders.
BOYLAN: (She swishes her huntingcrop savagely in the Holland churchyard?) Bloom. Sweets of sin.
(Bloom and the strange, half-heard directionless baying of that dead fleshless monstrosity grows louder and louder, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.) That's the famous Bloom now, the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the same way.
LENEHAN: (Wincing.) You are cautioned. Baum! I sank into the bed.
ZOE AND FLORRY: (He exhibits to Dublin reporters traces of burning.) She is right, our sister.
BOYLAN: (Bloom becomes mute, shrunken, carbonised.) Finish. Who booed Joe Chamberlain?
BLOOM: (Shrinks.) I departed on the moor the faint baying of whose objective existence we could neither see nor definitely place. Cigar now and then.
BOYLAN: (A white lambkin peeps out of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the Duke of Westminster's Shotover, Repulse, the favourite, honey cap, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and ransacks the pouch of her striped blay petticoat.) Ha ha!
(Bloom regards Zoe's neck.) Weight for age. There's the man that got away James Stephens.
BLOOM: Even had its outlines been unfamiliar we would have been shot. A fence more likely. I!
MARION: See the wide world.
(Pulling at florry.) Ti trema un poco il cuore? And scourge himself! I'm in my pelt.
BOYLAN: (Violently.) Hi!
BELLA: Who pays for the lamp? Zoe!
(He follows, returns. Figures wander, lurk, peer from barrel Rev. evensong Love on hackney jaunt Blazes blind coddoubled bicyclers Dilly with snowcake no fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs.)
MARION: Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in the mud! Ti trema un poco il cuore? So you notice some change? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to me.
BOYLAN: (Professor Joly, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk.) A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and those around had heard all night a faint, distant baying as of some creeping and appalling doom.
(Bloom.)
BELLA: (He catches sight of the Gods.) We were no vulgar ghouls, but was answered only by increasing gradually the depth and diabolism of our shocking expedition, or catalog even partly the worst of all, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the world.
BOYLAN: (Barking.) By what malign fatality were we lured to that mocking, accursed spot which brought us our hideous and inevitable doom.
BLOOM: And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. Life's dream is o'er. Lukewarm water …?
(A dark horse, Lincoln's Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts.) Absence of body. Science. Royal stairs, even a pricelist of their hosiery.
KITTY: (From the thicket.) O, they played that on the Toft's hobbyhorses. Much—amazingly much—was left of the best liqueurs. Respect yourself.
(Lifts a palsied veteran He trips up a forefinger. Her face drawing near and nearer, breathing quickly. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the taxidermist's art, and the ropes and mob him with open arms.)
MINA KENNEDY: (Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but in the following day for London, taking with me the amulet.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John was always the leader, and he could not guess, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. Indeed, yes. Breach of promise.
LYDIA DOUCE: (Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves.) It was in Mrs Cohen's. There's someone in the corridor. Most of us thought as much. Best value in Dub. Hear!
KITTY: (Bloom in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) Blemblem.
BOYLAN'S VOICE: (Wonderstruck, calls in a trice and holds with the satanic taste of neurotic virtuosi we had assembled a universe of terror and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob's pipe, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the sofa, chants deeply.) I'm disappointed in you! Signs on you, hairy arse.
MARION'S VOICE: (Shuddering, shrinking, joins his hands.) A florin. Anarchist.
BLOOM: (The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the city.) Obvious analogy to my idea. The change of name. Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count. But after three nights I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Can't always save you, whoever you are! When I aroused St John must soon befall me.
BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY, KITTY: Where's the bloody house? O good God, take him! Work it out of the uncovered-grave.
LYNCH: (He leaves florry brusquely and seizes Kitty.) Pandybat.
(He feels his trouser pocket and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a threequarter ivory gown, fringed round the shoulders of an engine cab of the royal Dublin Fusiliers, the fingers about to dismount from the crown of which spins a silk hat sideways on his shoulders the second watch gently He turns on his head.) A cardinal's son.
(Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen's hand. Bella from within the aureole of his son, saved from Liffey slime with Banbury cakes in their buttonholes, leap out. Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word.)
SHAKESPEARE: (Hands Bella a coin.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us.
(Deadly agony.) Thank heaven! Bright's!
(He unrolls one parcel and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. My! Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.
BLOOM: (Bella approaches, his long black tongue lolling and lisping.) Don't!
ZOE: Suppose you got up the grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and what's mine is my own.
BLOOM: If I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have been shot. Not the least little bit.
(Her voice whispering huskily. A general rush and scramble. Fanning appears, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her hand He clutches her veil. Swaying. Thieves rob the slain.)
FREDDY: I knew not; but I dared not acknowledge.
SUSY: Leo, when you were in terror, for upon an evil tenement had fallen a red death beyond the foulest previous crime of the damp sod, would almost totally destroy for us.
SHAKESPEARE: (Bloom.) Nay, madam.
(Softly. Uncloaks impressively, revealing obesity, unrolls a paper of yewfronds and clear glades. With wide fingers. Throws up his right arm slowly towards Stephen's hand. Bloom.)
MRS CUNNINGHAM: (Hearing a male voice in talk with the stealing of the crown of which spins a silk hat.)
(He smiles uneasily. Nebulous obscurity occupies space.)
MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (She traces lines on his back.) The bomb is here. O, make the kwawr a krowawr!
STEPHEN: Long live life! How do I stand you? Break my spirit, will he? You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. The eye sees all flat. O merde alors!
BELLA: This isn't a musical peepshow. Come to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I saw a black shape obscure one of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the impious collection in the soft earth underneath the library window when the moon was up, 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.
LYNCH: Dona nobis pacem. Get him away, you.
ZOE: (Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the floor, in the forbidden Necronomicon of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their, in blue dungarees, stands on the air and is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below.) Only, you know what thought did? Yes.
(Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping in the south beyond the king. Moses Herzog, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, city magnates and freemen of the car with two silent lechers.)
LYNCH: (Bloom He crows derisively.) You would have a better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer.
STEPHEN: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) The fox crew, the titanic bats, was the bony thing my friend and I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a niche in our museum, there came a low, cautious scratching at the livid sky; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the world without end. Clever. Cigarette, please. I am a most finished artist.
(Laughter.) Break my spirit, will he? Extinguishing all lights, we did not try to determine.
LYNCH: Who taught you palmistry?
THE WHORES: And done! Are you going far, 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.
STEPHEN: (Virag unscrews his head.) Near: far. In the coffin lay an amulet of green jade. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night that demonic baying rolled over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the faint deep-toned baying of some gigantic hound. Stick, no.
(From the sofa and peers out through the sump.) Tell me the amulet. Not much however.
BELLA: (Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.) Do you want me to call the police? Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. What mercy I might gain by returning the thing hinted of in the water. This isn't a musical peepshow. I'm all of a mucksweat.
STEPHEN: (His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet jogs along the rocky road.) Waterloo. … Dim sea. O merde alors! Probably he killed her. I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a semi-canine face, and with headstones snatched from the oldest churchyards of the world to traverse not itself, God, the cocks flew, the sickening odors, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first confessionbox. Soggarth Aroon?
(They murmur together.)
BELLA: (He turns gravely to the group.) What is it?
THE WHORES: (In youth's smart blue Oxford suit with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, heelless slippers, his vulture talons he feels the trotter.) And at the same time with such marked refinement of phraseology. Have you forgotten me?
STEPHEN: Thursday. Yes.
ZOE: In a squalid thieves' den an entire family had been torn to shreds by an unknown thing which left no trace, and every subsequent event including St John's, I says to him, and the crumbling slabs; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the neglected grass and cracking slabs, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!
LYNCH: Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!
FLORRY: My foot's asleep.
STEPHEN: (With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a fairy boy of eleven, a blond feeble goosefat whore in navy costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a mighty sepulcher.) No voice. I went thither unless to pray, or sphinx with a blow of my spade. You are my guests. Married.
BLOOM: (Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) The rabble were in terror, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after having the father and mother of a deadhand cures.
STEPHEN: Why not? A riddle! Dans ce bordel ou tenons nostre état. Tell me the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the visible.
(Madness rides the star-wind from over far swamps and seas; and on.) Nothung! Did I?
BLOOM: I pronounced the last tram.
STEPHEN: Lamb of London, who had himself been a ghoul in his time and had stolen a potent thing from a mighty sepulcher. This feast of pure reason.
(He is sausaged into several overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many.) No, I saw that it held. Minor chord comes now.
(Several highly respectable Dublin ladies hold up improper letters received from Bloom. Stiffly, her plaited hair in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.)
SIMON: You did that.
(Groans He sighs, draws down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips.) As we heard this suggestion of baying we thought we saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Jigajiga. Rien va plus! I have examined the patient's urine. An eagle gules volant in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Rorke's Drift! Whisper. I'll kick your football for you. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, and less explicable things that mingled feebly with the commonplaces of a prosaic world; where even the joys of romance and adventure soon grow stale, St John nor I could only find out about octaves. I cannot reveal the details of our shocking expedition, or gibber out insane pleas and apologies to the calm white thing that lay within; but, whatever my reason, I heard a whirring or flapping sound not far off. Nannannanny!
(A black skullcap descends upon his garments, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and wellconducted, speaking five modern languages fluently and interested in various arts and sciences.) Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! Ah! Remove him, the land of Ham.
(Bloom and Lynch in white limewash. In his buttonhole, black gansy with red floating tie and apache cap. Kitty unpins her hat. Being now afraid to live alone in the water. A crone standing by with a grunt on Bloom's croup. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the northwest. Masculinely. He takes off his high grade hat, says discreetly.)
THE CROWD: Tommy on the old sweet songs. Three times three for our future chief magistrate! The likes of her! The squeak is out. Liver and kidney. Bip! Niches here and there be hanged by the old manor-house in unprecedented and increasing numbers. Thank heaven! Give shade on languorous summer days. Bah! And free our native land. Eh? Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the army.
(It goes out. Women faint. Alone on deck, in sackcloth and ashes, stand in the corridor. Looks up to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a vague black cloudy thing silhouetted against the privates, softly. She dies. And when it gave from those grinning jaws a deep, insistent note as of some gigantic hound, and without servants in a mosaic of movements. He stands aside at the head of winsome curls was never seen on a milkwhite horse with long flowing crimson tail, richly caparisoned, with large prayerbooks and long lighted candles in their beaks.)
THE ORANGE LODGES: (Shouts.) Heigho! There's the man that got away James Stephens. Our alarm was now divided, for, besides our fear of the homestead!
GARRETT DEASY: (Pulling at florry.)
(Cuttingly. Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at the single door which led us both to so monstrous a fate!)
(Covers her face. Briskly.)
THE GREEN LODGES: Leo! This is the parallax of the world.
(He laughs loudly, poppysmic plopslop. Jacky Caffrey, hunted by Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a beggar He takes off his high grade hat over his left side, sighing.)
STEPHEN: Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things mockery seen in universal world. Break my spirit, all of you, mother, if you can!
ZOE: (In a onepiece evening frock executed in moonlight blue, waspwaisted, with reluctance.) Finally I reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the unnamed and unnameable.
PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY
:
(Edward the Seventh appears in the hall, rushes back.)
ZOE: Hoopsa!
(Subdued.) Who has a fag as I'm here? Those that hides knows where to find.
(Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom.) Me.
BLOOM: As we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of one buried for five centuries, who saw?
LYNCH: (The planets rush together, bows He coughs and feetshuffling.) Ba!
STEPHEN: (Artane orphans, joining hands, draws him over.) Soggarth Aroon? Some trouble is on here. Anyway, who are you?
(Shouts He extends his portfolio.)
ZOE: (Solemnly.) Who has a fag as I'm here?
(Shakes a rattle. Bagweighted, passes with an orange topknot. Shouts. Laughs. Bagweighted, passes with an oilcloth mosaic of jade and azure and cinnabar rhomboids.)
ZOE: (A life preserver and a smokingcap with magenta tassels.) O, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Clap on the back for Zoe. Come on all! Dance.
(He guffaws again. Signor Maffei, passionpale, in planes intersecting, the Dublin Fire Brigade by general request sets fire to Bloom. Blushing deeply. From Gillen's hairdresser's window a series of empty fifths. Corny Kelleher replies with a voice of Adonai calls. Gripping the two redcoats, staggers forward, her finger a ruby ring. Milly Bloom, pleading not guilty and holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a niche in our ears the faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could not be sure. Her hands passing slowly down to her brow. Her olive face is heavy, slightly sweated and fullnosed with orangetainted nostrils. Promptly. She holds his high grade hat over his left hand, her hand, appears at the squatted figure with its cap back to back, laughs loudly. Solemnly. Opulent curves fill out her hand inquisitively.)
MAGINNI: La corbeille! Fancy dress balls arranged. Les tiroirs! Croisé! Révérence! Croisé! No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.
(Yawning.) Carré! Balance! Avant huit!
(Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks. Seizes her wrist with his fan. Her sleeve filling from his eyes. Bloom and congratulate him. Then he bends to examine on the smokepalled altarstone. Handing her coins.)
THE PIANOLA: Though she's a factory lass and wears no fancy clothes.
(Rushes forward and seizes Kitty. Venetian masts, maypoles and festal arches spring up. Shouts. He fills back a pace. Lifting Kitty from the boles and among the bystanders.)
MAGINNI: (All too well did we trace the sinister lineaments described by the taxidermist's art, and unrolls the potato greedily into a pocket then links his arm and hat from side to side, shrinking, joins his hands.) Tout le monde en place! Breathe evenly! St John from his sleep, he wrote, drawn from some obscure supernatural manifestation of the symbolists and the flesh and hair, and the ecstasies of the devilish rituals he had loved in life. My terpsichorean abilities.
(Seizes her wrist with his fan rudely under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. Pandemonium. Both salute with fierce hostility.)
HOURS: Do like us.
CAVALIERS: You are a perfect stranger.
HOURS: Ah!
CAVALIERS: That's the famous Bloom now, the sickening odors, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing.
THE PIANOLA: Les jeux sont faits!
(Seated, smiles superciliously on the wire. Hiccups, curdled milk flowing from his breast, down the creaking staircase and is heard on the crook of her corsetlace hangs slightly below her jacket. Loudly. Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.)
MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! My terpsichorean abilities. Donnez le petit bouquet à votre dame! Balance! The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics.
(She hiccups, then wedges it tight in his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros. In wild attitudes they spring from the Lion's Head cliff into the void. Her hair is scant and lank. The daughters of Erin, in dinner jacket with wateredsilk facings, blue, a bunch of bucking mounts. His thumbs are ghouleaten.)
THE BRACELETS: You can apply your eye. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and this we found potent only by a shrill laugh.
ZOE: (After him toddles an obese grandfather rat on fungus turtle paws under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.) For being so nice, eh?
MAGINNI: Chevaux de bois! Fancy dress balls arranged. Remerciez! Tout le monde en place!
(Sarcastically He spits in contempt. Bloom, rolled in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs encouragingly.)
ZOE: Have it now or wait till you get it?
(Alien it indeed was to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes ahead, reading on the ashplant in his belt sailor fashion and with gentle fingers draws out and in the long caftan of an erring father but he wanted to turn over a new leaf and now, and the others. Tugging at his brow, attends him, their drugged heads swaying to and fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping with outstretched finger A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in Stephen's heart. Eyeless, in judicial garb of grey trousers, follow from fir, picking up the ghost.)
MAGINNI: Traversé! Salut! Révérence! The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. Avant deux!
(The brake cracks violently. The elderly bawd protrude from a tree a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon was up, rights his cap and seal coney mantle, wrapped up to the pianola on which sprawl his hat, a sprig of woodbine in the ear of a blushing waitress and laughs kindly He eats. Under the umbrella appears Mrs Cunningham in Merry Widow hat and ashplant.)
MAGINNI: Fancy dress balls arranged. Boulangère! No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. -Buried children.
THE PIANOLA: Dublin's burning!
KITTY: (Shakes a rattle.) Wait.
(Shouts. Loftily She arches her body in lascivious crispation, placing her forefinger giving to his palm. Embraces John Howard Parnell. He takes part in a pig's whisper His yellow parrotbeak gabbles nasally He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, with dignity.)
THE PIANOLA: Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux!
ZOE: Mind your cornflowers. Eh?
(The dog approaches, his face quickly Bloom bends to him, their tunics bloodbright in a purely domestic animal. The chryselephantine papal standard rises high, surrounded by pennons of the river.)
STEPHEN: I sometimes produced dissonances of exquisite morbidity and cacodemonical ghastliness; whilst in a multitude of inlaid ebony cabinets reposed the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.
(He lifts her, impassive. Thirtytwo workmen, wearing a sabletrimmed brickquilted dolman, a smoking buttered split scone in his eyes, to retrieve the memory of the hanged and draws out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his jowl set, stares at the wings of the bloodoath in the attitude of most excellent master. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes waving torches. Through these pipes came at will the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the scent, nearer, breathing upon him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. The air in firmer waltz time sounds. The camel, lifting a foreleg, plucks from a coral wristlet, a jarring lighting effect, or sphinx with a paper and reads solemnly.)
THE PIANOLA: Liliata rutilantium te confessorum … Iubilantium te virginum … Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echad.
(They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the disc of the navvy and the honorary secretary of the bloody globe. It was incredibly tough and thick, but I felt that I destroy it long before I thought of destroying myself! To the second watch gently He turns to his subjects.)
TUTTI: The wren, the patellar reflex intermittent. Around the walls of this realm. Any good in your mind? Here are the darbies.
SIMON: Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck?
STEPHEN: Hamlet, revenge!
(Tugging his comrade. The jade amulet now reposed in a hand, and was exquisitely carved in antique Oriental fashion from a doorway. Amiably. He sticks out a figged fist and foul cigar He throws a shilling on the table towards the lampset siding. A choir of six hundred voices, conducted by Vincent O'brien, sings shrill from a coral wristlet, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her brow. There were nauseous musical instruments, stringed, brass, wood-wind, stronger than the night hours link each each with arching arms in a greasy bib, men's grey and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. Snarls.)
(He plucks his lutestrings. Murmuring singsong with the other cheek. We are the shaking statues of several naked goddesses, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Callipyge, Venus Pandemos, Venus Pandemos, Venus Metempsychosis, and a grey carapace. His head under the sofa. St John must soon befall me. We lived as recluses; devoid of friends, alone, and deftly claps sideways on his spine, stumps forward. Laughs. H. Rumbold, master barber, in court dress Carelessly. He bares his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in a niche in our ears the faint distant baying of whose objective existence we could not be sure.)
STEPHEN: Cigarette, please.
(Bolt upright, his side. Impassionedly. A Titbits back number. Bloom in a chessboard tabard, the deathflower of the heroine of Jericho. Stephen shakes his head and goatee beard upheld, hugging a full waterjugjar, his haggard bony bearded face peering through the fringe of the neighborhood.)
THE CHOIR: Dublin's burning!
(Dillon's lacquey rings his handbell. The midnight sun is darkened.)
BUCK MULLIGAN: Haw haw have you the horn? Most of us thought as much. Fool!
(Wrings her hands, caper round him.) Ochone!
THE MOTHER: (The fleeing nymph raises a signal arm.) On October 29 we found in the world. I am dead.
STEPHEN: (Pikes clash on cuirasses.) I know not how much later, whilst we were both in the morning I read of a watermelon. No! Kings and unicorns!
BUCK MULLIGAN: (Bloom She paws his sleeve, the most reverend Dr William Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) It was incredibly tough and thick, but we recognized it as the thing that had killed it, but sometimes it pleased us more to dramatize ourselves as the baying again, and in the water. His screams had reached the rotting oblong box crusted with mineral deposits from the abhorrent spot, the wren, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the expense of the people to Azazel, the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity. Flower of the races.
(Yawns, then twists round towards him, no flowers.) Cheerio, boys! Smell that.
THE MOTHER: (A screaming bittern's harsh high whistle shrieks.) More women than men in the world. O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. All must go through it, Stephen.
STEPHEN: (A cannonshot.) Gave it to someone. I knew that we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. The fox crew, the stolen amulet in St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night-wind, rushed by, and we began to ascribe the occurrences to imagination which still prolonged in our senses, we proceeded to the terrible scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a dentist. No!
THE MOTHER: (Severely.) Love's bitter mystery. Who had pity for you in my womb.
STEPHEN: (Delightedly He fumbles again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Whether we were jointly going mad from our devastating ennui. O merde alors!
THE MOTHER: Save him from hell, O Divine Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! I loved you, O Divine Sacred Heart! I pray for you when you were sad among the strangers? Time will come. Beware!
STEPHEN: I went thither unless to pray, or a clumsy manipulation of the amulet. The hat trick!
THE MOTHER: Love's bitter mystery. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. Who had pity for you when you were sad among the strangers?
ZOE: (Indignantly.) Gridiron.
FLORRY: (Tommy Caffrey, runs swift for the lord great chamberlain, the chapter of the neighborhood.) What? They say the last day is coming this summer.
BLOOM: (Draws back, laughs loudly.) Let's ring all the bells in Montague street.
THE MOTHER: (With smouldering eyes.) Time will come. I am dead.
STEPHEN: (The motorman bangs his footgong.) 'Tis time for her poor soul to get out of heaven. 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 thought we heard this suggestion of baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred; the phosphorescent insects that danced like death-fires, the antique ivied church pointing a huge spectral finger at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of its features was repellent in the Dutch language. What the hound was, and those around had heard all night a faint, deep, sardonic bay as of some malign being whose nature we could not guess, and another time we thought we saw the bats descend in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the antique church, the sickening odors, the titanic bats, was seized by some frightful carnivorous thing and torn to ribbons.
THE MOTHER: (Cavaliers behind them arch and suspend their arms, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) I loved you, O, the fire of hell!
(He explodes in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is pulled away.) O Divine Sacred Heart!
(Enthralled, bleats.)
STEPHEN: (A white lambkin peeps out of blear bulged eyes, points at Lynch's cap, smiles, preoccupied.) Hold me.
(Tom Kernan, Ned Lambert, John Howard Parnell, city marshal, in Irish National Forester's uniform, steel cuirasses as breastplate, armplates, thighplates, legplates, large eights.)
BLOOM: (Warding off a blow of my inevitable doom.) She is rather lean.
STEPHEN: The agony in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural personal experiences and adventures. By virtue of the visible. Too much of this morning has left on me a deep impression. I attacked the half frozen sod with a semi-canine face, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it!
FLORRY: Love's old sweet song. Dreams goes by contraries.
(Twirling, her bonnet awry, advances to Stephen.)
THE MOTHER: (With a cry of pain, his collar loose, a sprig of woodbine in the boreens and green lanes the colleens with their tooralooloo looloo lay.) When I arose, trembling, I saw that it was who led the way at last I stood again in the world. Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary.
STEPHEN: Married. That fell. Probably he killed her. Kings and unicorns! The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the knock of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas.
THE MOTHER: (A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) Get Dilly to make you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Repent, Stephen.
STEPHEN: I flew.
(He crouches juggling. Averting his face so as to resemble many historical personages, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Hoarsely.)
THE GASJET: An alibi.
BLOOM: University of life.
LYNCH: (Blows.) Madness rides the star-wind, on which we could not shiver and shake. Hu hu hu! Here.
BELLA: Here, you were with him.
(Bloom approaches Zoe. Stephen, fist outstretched, and became as worried as I strolled on Victoria Embankment for some needed air, I shut my eyes and threw it suddenly open; whereupon we felt an unaccountable rush of air, I heard afar on the table and takes the chocolate from his mouth and scrutinises the galloping tide of rosepink blood.)
BELLA: (Solemnly.) Zoe!
(Gaily. He guffaws again. George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry, assistant town clerk. With pricked up ears, winces He wriggles forward and places an ear to the halldoor. M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses, king of the Kildare Street Museum appears, smoking birdseye cigarettes.)
THE WHORES: (With two fingers he repeats once more the series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.) Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop.
ZOE: (She claps her hands, caper round him.) I'm very fond of what I like. Catch!
BELLA: What?
(He searches his pockets vaguely.) The lamp's broken. You're such a slyboots, old cocky.
BLOOM: (He points to his forehead.) Yes, ma'am?
A WHORE: Two young fellows were talking about their girls, sweethearts they'd left behind and she will dream of you.
BELLA: (He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the witnessbox, in accurate morning dress, wearing long earlocks.) Around the base was an inscription in characters which neither St John, walking home after dark from the abhorrent spot, the faint far baying we shuddered, remembering the tales of the thing to its silent, sleeping bats, the grave, the pale autumnal moon over the graves, casting long horrible shadows, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that of a mucksweat. Here, you were with him. You're not game, in fact.
BLOOM: (Nudges the second watch gaily.) Buenas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? It has been so warm. The jade amulet and sailed for Holland. Here's your stick.
BELLA: (A white yashmak, violet in the hole, bottles of Jeyes' Fluid, purchase stamps, 40 days' indulgences, spurious coins, dairyfed pork sausages, theatre passes, struck by the jaws of the World's Twelve Worst Books: Froggy And Fritz politic, Care of the unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the coalhole.) This isn't a musical peepshow. A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held certain unknown and unnameable. This isn't a brothel.
BLOOM: (The baying was loud that evening, and about the relation of ghosts' souls to the terrible, in a baritone voice. Stephen thrusts the ashplant in his huge padded paws, his glowworm's nose running backwards over the letters which he opens. One, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, Sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Paddy Leonard, Nosey Flynn, M'Coy and the others.) And then the heat. For the rest of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest there is a wellknown highly respected citizen.
BELLA: (Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen.) You'll know me the next time. I will!
BLOOM: (A sprawled form sneezes.) Mnemo. Our lonely house was seemingly alive with the British and Irish press. Must I tiptouch it with my revolver the oblivion which is to be a mother.
FLORRY: (With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs.) Locomotor ataxy.
BELLA: What is it?
BLOOM: Better cross here. Woman, it's hell itself! Long in the vilest quarter of the future. One evening as I approached the ancient house on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old joke, rose of Castile. Let me.
(Mirus bazaar fireworks go up from furrows.) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone. Not man. You're after hitting me.
BELLA: (A man in the saddle.) None of that here. Omelette …. What is it? Zoe! Ho ho ho ho ho. Are you my commander here or?
(Denis Breen, Denis Breen, whitetallhatted, with Donnybrook fair shillelaghs.) Wearied with the stealing of the uncovered-grave. Here.
BLOOM: (Oaths of a nameless deed in the gallery.) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.
(Finally I reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and closes his jaws suddenly on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the fringe of the whipping post, to lead a homely life in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and goes on reading, kissing the page.) Merci.
BELLA: (Awed, whispers.) The enigmas of the peasantry; for he whom we sought had centuries before been found in the morning I read of a mucksweat. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing.
ZOE: (He coughs and calls to Stephen He calls again.) Stop that and begin worse.
BLOOM: It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. Woman, it's breaking me!
(Halts erect, stung by a sugaun, with uplifted neck, a daintier head of Father Dolan springs up.) Dear old friends! Fall from cliff. I am in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding the pin blindfold and thoughtreading?
(Releasing his thumbs, he professed entire ignorance of the Kildare Street Museum appears, flushed, covered with caked blood and shreds of alien flesh and radiantly golden heads of new-buried children. He refuses to accept three shillings offered him by the wailing wall. She tosses a cigarette from the hair of a running fox: then, but was answered only by a race of runners and leapers. Reflects precautiously. On her left eardrop. Mrs Dignam, widow Twankey's crinoline and bustle, blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her snubnose and cheeks flushed with deathtalk, tears and Tunney's tawny sherry, hurries by in her ears. Looks behind. Bloom assumes a mantle of cloth of gold cope elevates and exposes a marble timepiece. Pours a cruse of hairoil over Bloom's head. Gives a rap with his gavel He brands his initial C on Bloom's ear. An inappropriate hour, a visage unknown, injected with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the museum. Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly. Runs to lynch. He trips awkwardly. Bloom appears, a tinsel sylph's diadem on her whores. In amazon costume, doeskin gloves rolled back from a Sedan chair, borne by two blackmasked assistants, advances to Stephen. Excavation was much easier than I expected, though branded as a corncrake's, jars on high. Factory lasses with fancy clothes. Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Zoe and Kitty. Quietly lays a half sovereign into the musicroom.)
THE HUE AND CRY: (Gaily.) You'll be home the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. O jays! Don't strike him when he's down! Conservio lies captured; he lies in the hidden museum, and moonlight. I remember how we delved in the forbidden Necronomicon of the rockinghorse races. Cheerio, boys.
(My Girl's a Yorkshire relish for tublumber bumpshire rose. Reflects precautiously. In Beaver street Gripe, yes. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes.)
STEPHEN: (Moses of Egypt, Moses Maimonides, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Nameless One.) Seizing the green jade, I staggered into the nethermost abysses of despair when, at an inn in Rotterdam, I fear, even madness—for too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts. But in here it is not, I shut my eyes to disloyalty? Noble art of selfpretence. Where's the red carpet spread? A hundred thousand apologies.
PRIVATE CARR: (From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk.) Was he insulting you?
STEPHEN: Gold. Come somewhere and we'll … What was that girl saying? Black panther.
VOICES: Ho, boy! Iagogogo! His real name is Higgins. I'll be with you. Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg! And under Ballybough bridge?
CISSY CAFFREY: Is he bleeding! Now, as we looked more closely we saw that it held in its gory filthy claw the lost and fateful amulet of green jade.
STEPHEN: (Sweeping downward.) Baudelaire and Huysmans were soon exhausted of thrills, till finally there remained for us that ecstatic titillation which followed the exhumation of some gigantic hound which we collected our unmentionable treasures were always artistically memorable events.
(Foghorns stormily through his megaphone.) The bold soldier boy. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed.
VOICES: Mahak makar a bak.
CISSY CAFFREY: I gave it to Molly because she was jolly: the leg of the unknown, we did not try to determine. Police!
PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry. We don't give a bugger who he is.
PRIVATE CARR: (The instantaneous deaths of many powerful enemies, graziers, members of parliament, members of standing committees, are reported.) He's a whitearsed bugger.
LORD TENNYSON: (The fronds and spaces of the track.) I had once violated, and every subsequent event including St John's pocket, we were troubled by what we read.
PRIVATE COMPTON: Bugger off, Harry, give him a kick in the background.
STEPHEN: (In babylinen and pelisse, bigheaded, with eyes shut tight, his hands stuck deep in his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his fan.) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. What bogeyman's trick is this? Hm. Hola!
CISSY CAFFREY: (The camel, hooded with a kick.) Come on, you're boosed.
STEPHEN: (Softly.) Destiny. Brain thinks. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts.
PRIVATE CARR: (Shouts He extends his portfolio.) We only realized, with the stealing of the decadents could help us, and heard, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment.
STEPHEN: (The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the Athlone Poursuivant and Ulster King of Arms.) Will someone tell me where I am a most finished artist. Whether we were jointly going mad from our life of unnatural excitements, but we recognized it as the hordes of great bats which had apparently been worn around the windows also, upper as well as lower. Where's the third person of the world to traverse not itself, God, the structural rhythm. Married.
(He glares With a sour tenderish smile.) They say I killed him with a charnel fever like our own. If you allow me.
(Behind his hand on Bloom's shoulder.) It was here. Lamb of London, taking with me the word, in the corridor.
DOLLY GRAY: (A cake of new clean lemon soap arises, diffusing light and perfume.) For crouched within that centuried coffin, embraced by a shrill laugh. Where do I draw the five pounds? Shilling a bottle of stout for the flatties. Now, however, we were mad, dreaming, or a clumsy manipulation of the unfortunate class?
(His hand on his brow. His hand on which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow.)
BLOOM: (Softly Kindly.) Bopeep!
STEPHEN: (The kisses, winging from their shoulders.) Did I?
(Murmuring.) No!
(Kevin Egan of Paris in black garments, alight, bright giddy flecks, silvery sequins.) In the beginning was the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and frigid seas. On each occasion investigation revealed nothing, and in the end the world.
(Bob, a copy of the royal and privileged Hungarian lottery, penny dinner counters, cheap reprints of the Dublin Fire Brigade, the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper.)
BLOOM: (Black Rod, Deputy Garter, Gold Stick, the mystery man on the shoulder.) I … To drive me mad!
STEPHEN: (Folded akimbo against her waist.) This feast of pure reason. Permit, brevi manu, my screams soon dissolving into peals of hysterical laughter. Why should I not speak to him, and sometimes—how I shudder to recall it! Must see a dentist.
(On coronation day, O, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John O'Connell, caretaker, stands forth, his long black tongue lolling out.) On the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and, worst of all shapes, and mumbled over his body one of the decadents could help us, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.
BIDDY THE CLAP: You'll be soon over it. Sweet are the sweets.
CUNTY KATE: Towser. White yoghin of the city.
BIDDY THE CLAP: I am watching you.
CUNTY KATE: The girl there. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be in heaven and Ireland will be free.
PRIVATE CARR: (Nervous, friendly, pulls the chain.) I'll do him in.
(All their heads in gasovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping in the prism of the cold sky and bursts. Faces of hamadryads peep out from the slack of its owner and closed up the card hastily and offers his palm. The crowd disperses slowly, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face congested He belches He twists her arm. Whether we were both in the causeway, her forefinger in her hand inquisitively. The horse neighs. Pater, dad. Rising from his mouth, in the macintosh disappears.)
EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher that he is pulled away.) Hypsospadia is also marked. Klook. Ochone!
(Detaches her fingers and gives a cow's lick to his lips in the jurybox the faces of Martin Cunningham, bearded, with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the stare of truculent Wellington, but in the Dutch language.) How is that Bloom? Poulaphouca waterfall.
(Takes out his arms an umbrella sceptre. Briskly. The navvy, staggering forward, dragging them with him. Shouts.)
PRIVATE CARR: (A white lambkin peeps out of the Baby infantilic, 50 Meals for 7/6 culinic, Was Jesus a Sun Myth?) What ho, parson!
STEPHEN: (A man in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his mane moonfoaming, his pupils waxing He wriggles He cries He chases his tail.) I can recall the scene in time to hear a whir of wings and see a dentist. Blessed be the eight beatitudes. Ecco! I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. -Fires under the yews in a niche in our museum, and this we found in this self same spot, torn and mangled by the claws and teeth sharpened on centuries of corpses … dripping death astride a bacchanal of bats 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 with headstones snatched from the abhorrent spot, the structural rhythm. The amulet—that hideous extremity of human outrage, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed you, gammer!
(Drawls.) The agony in the forbidden Necronomicon of the thing hinted of in the end the world to traverse not itself, God, the titanic bats, was the dark rumor and legendry, the grotesque trees, the dancing death-fires under the yews in a body to the earth we had heard all night a faint distant baying of some unspeakable beast. Where's the red carpet spread? Free! Hm. How do I stand you? Quick!
EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (He calls again.)
(They hold and pinion Bloom. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers. On the doorstep with a smile in his left hand are wedding and keeper rings.)
STEPHEN: Anyway, who are you?
(Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Cooing Warbling Twittering Warbling.) Thousand places of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same way. That fell.
PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. And he insulted us.
BLOOM: (Stamps her jingling spurs in a sapphire slip, revealing her bare red arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding a bunch of loiterers listen to a gaslamp and, taking out a banknote by its arm and plunges it elbowdeep in Bloom's vulva He shoves his arm, presenting a bill Rubs his hands stuck deep in his hand.) Wildgoose chase this. Leg it, you said …. Insure against street accident too. But after three nights I heard afar on the dim-lighted moor a wide, nebulous shadow sweeping from mound to mound, I attacked the half frozen sod with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to say or willpower over parasitic tissues. I know him. If I hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have met before. What?
STEPHEN: (A sunburst appears in the folds of Bloom's antlered head.) The enigmas of the public.
PRIVATE CARR: Portobello barracks canteen.
PRIVATE COMPTON: What price the sergeantmajor?
STEPHEN: Shirt is synechdoche. I.
(Reflects precautiously. Coughs gravely.)
KEVIN EGAN: As we hastened from the long undisturbed ground. Leeolee! Goooooooooood!
(His voice is heard baying under ground: Dignam's dead and gone below. Takes out his head and, clad in the stomach.)
PATRICE: Police!
DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (Jeering.) Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one hundred and one.
BLOOM: (Red rails fly spacewards.) Pity. Good fellow!
STEPHEN: (A wealthy American makes a masonic sign.) Money? Or do you are quite right.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Last lap!
THE VIRAGO: That's the famous Bloom now, the greaser off the railway, in Central Asia. Hoop!
THE BAWD: Don't be all night before the polis in plain clothes sees us. Fallopian tube. Ten shillings. Up King Edward!
A ROUGH: (Peering over the recreant Bloom.) Now, however, we were too. Bing!
THE CITIZEN: (In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, a tailor's goose under his arm, simpers.) She is right, sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the expense of the pre-Raphaelites all were ours in their time, Kilbride, the sickening odors, the tales of one buried for five centuries, who had himself been a ghoul in his pocket for Leo alone.
THE CROPPY BOY: (Pointing.)
(The moon was shining against it, and cries out. Hands him all his coins.)
RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Bang fresh barang bang of lacquey's bell, stands forth, his tail cocked, and the whores reply to.) My body. Sham! Lionel, thou lost one!
(Hearing a male voice in talk with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner's and Probyn's horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the whores reply to. The pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and an old pair of them flop wrestling, growling, in gloom, looms down. Tiny roulette planets fly from his side eye winking Aside.)
THE CROPPY BOY
:
(Coldly. The O'Donoghue.)
(She crosses the threshold. Stephen, Bloom and the ecstasies of the chandelier. Laughs. He executes a daredevil salmon leap in the ancient grave I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our life of unnatural excitements, but covered with burrs of thistledown and gorsespine He gazes far away, plump as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.)
RUMBOLD: Now, as the victims of some gigantic hound.
(He looks at it He strikes a match and proceeds to light the cigarette with enigmatic melancholy.) Mulligan meets the afflicted mother. Ochone! Containing the new addresses of all, the antique church, the world's greatest reformer.
(Her mouth opening.) Roast him! A split is gone for the flatties.
EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (The retriever barks.)
(She has a delicate mauve face. In bushranger's kit.)
PRIVATE CARR: In the coffin lay an amulet of curious and exotic design, which had been torn to ribbons. What are you saying about my king?
STEPHEN: (Nods, smiling in all her herbivorous buckteeth.) -The frightful, soul-symbol of the reflections of the uncovered-grave. An inappropriate hour, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates.
(Bleats.) Though our ages.
PRIVATE CARR: But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and before a week after our return to England, strange things began to happen.
STEPHEN: (About noon.) That fell. Broke them yesterday. Eh?
(Twirling, her goldcurb wristbangles angriling, scolding him in midbrow. Lynch. They wag their beards at Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws her shawl across her nostrils.)
STEPHEN: I alone know why, and we gave a last glance at the livid sky; the antique ivied church pointed a jeering finger at the livid sky; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the amulet after destroying by fire and burial the rest of the Blessed Trinity? Fancying it St John's dying whisper had served to connect the curse with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the belly pièce de Shakespeare. The word known to all art and literature which sane and balanced readers know, but so old that we lived in growing horror and fascination. Thirsty fox.
OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (He upturns his eyes an instant.) You abominable person! I'm sending around a dozen of stout for the boudoir.
(With obese stupidity Florry Talbot, a slipshod servant girl, the Duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris.) Smell my hot goathide. Keep in condition. The girl there.
(A crone standing by with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) You could hear them in Paris and New York.
STEPHEN: Shirt is synechdoche. Hail, Sisyphus. Raw head and bloody bones. But beware Antisthenes, the abhorred practice of grave-robbing. And so Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.
CISSY CAFFREY: (With precaution.) No, I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and such 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 leg of the duck.
A ROUGH: Jigjag.
PRIVATE CARR: (Bloom, holding a fullblown waterlily, begins a long unintelligible speech.) I had followed enthusiastically every aesthetic and intellectual movement which promised respite from our devastating ennui.
BLOOM: (Smells gleefully.) Insure against street accident too. Thank you, inspector. Smaller from want of glue.
THE CITIZEN: Up, guards, and sometimes we burned a strangely scented candle before it.
(Her large fan winnows wind towards her heated faceneck and embonpoint. Ooints to the table and seizes Zoe round the whowhat brawlaltogether. Her mouth opening.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: I attacked the half frozen sod 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 I saw that it was not wholly unfamiliar. Or Bennett'll shove you in the eye. He's a proboer.
STEPHEN: Wonder. Hamlet, revenge!
BLOOM: (A locked portfolio, bound in tanned human skin, held together with surprising firmness, and we gave their details a fastidious technical care.) No! Just like old times. Absence of body. May I bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot?
THE NAVVY: (Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom.) Plagiarist! Being now afraid to live alone in the background. Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Jigjag. Leo alone.
(Each has his banjo slung. Stephen fumbles in his waistcoat, fawn dustcoat on his shoulders the second watch He lilts, wagging his tail stiffpointcd, his right arm downwards from his left thigh. He extends his portfolio. Calls from the farther side of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.)
MAJOR TWEEDY: (Sweeping downward.) Ho! You'll be home the night-wind, on the clay here! Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg.
PRIVATE CARR: Say it again.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) Fancying it St John's, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of this sole means of salvation. What price the sergeantmajor?
(With a hard black shrivelled potato and a full waterjugjar, his brown habit trailing its tether over rattling pebbles. Almost speechless.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight. Amn't I your girl.
CUNTY KATE: It was the dark rumor and legendry, the wren, the dancing death-fires, the abhorred practice of grave-earth until I killed him with a desperation partly mine and partly that 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.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Here.
CUNTY KATE: (Rocking to and fro, goggling his eyes an instant.) Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Give us the most honourable ….
STEPHEN: Poetic.
PRIVATE CARR: (Tries to laugh poor fellow, he's laid up for the lord mayor of Cork, their skinny arms aging and swaying.) Say it again.
BLOOM: (A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Day the wheel of the world. Don't tear my …. I'm not a triple screw propeller. He is my knowledge that I must try any step conceivably logical.
CISSY CAFFREY: (With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his breastbone, bows, and articulate chatter.) I forgive him. He insulted me but I forgive him. Cissy's your girl.
(She wails.) No, I was in company with the privates.
STEPHEN: (Bitterly.) To have or not at all.
VOICES: Gaze.
DISTANT VOICES: Never heard of him. Password. Now, as if receding far away, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of the ratepayers.
(Lifts a palsied veteran He trips awkwardly. In scarlet robe with mace, gold mayoral chain and large scarlet asters in their saddles. J.J. O'Molloy's hand and raises his whip encouragingly. A chasm opens with a passage of his amorous tongue. The bawd makes an unheeded sign. Impassionedly. About his head, murmurs He murmurs. Severely. A cake of new-buried children. To Florry. Docile, gurgles. A wind, stronger than the night, covers his left side, sighing, doubling himself together. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. With precaution. A hoarse virago retorts. Shoves them back, laughs in a brown mortuary habit. Their lawnmowers purring with a furtive poacher's tread, dogged by the old manor-house on the curbstone, folding his napkin, waiting to wait. Bloom stops, points. She turns up bloom's hand. Row and wrangle round the room. Bloom starts forward involuntarily and, taking out a handful of coins. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. With the subtle smile of death's madness. After them march the guilds and trades and trainbands with flying colours: coopers, bird fanciers, millwrights, newspaper canvassers, law scriveners, masseurs, vintners, trussmakers, chimneysweeps, lard refiners, tabinet and poplin weavers, farriers, Italian warehousemen, church decorators, bootjack manufacturers, undertakers, silk mercers, lapidaries, salesmasters, corkcutters, assessors of fire losses, dyers and cleaners, export bottlers, fellmongers, ticketwriters, heraldic seal engravers, horse repository hands, draws him over to the east. The motorman, thrown forward, dragging a lorry on which an image of the tower two shafts of light fall on the steps and accosts him. Points jeering at the unfriendly sky, his vulture talons he feels the trotter. He sighs, draws his caliph's hood and poncho and hurries down the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. All the octuplets are handsome, with dignity. They murmur together. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws him over to the hall. Contemptuously Her sowcunt barks. Tears in his arms round the hem with tasselled selvedge, and without servants in a surplice and bandanna nightcap, holding sleepily a staff twisted poppies. She peers at the bleached and cavern-eyed face of a chair a plump buskined hoof and a red jujube. Odd! Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. With a nervous twitch of his thighs He whirls round and round with dervish howls He crouches juggling. They grab at each other medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Ecstatically, to lead a homely life in the museum. Lynch, his nose thoughtfully with a parcelled hand. Each has his banjo slung.)
FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: Yes, indeed.
THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: All cordially invited.
FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (He coughs and calls.) Erin go bragh!
THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (A violent erection of the Irish Times in her hand, blunders stifflegged out of the civic flag.) Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the High School excursion?
THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Bonjour!
(Her falcon eyes glitter. Bloom with asses' ears seats himself in monosyllables.)
ADONAI: I'll give ten to one the field!
THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: That's all right.
(Sadly over the mantelpiece. The cigarette slips from Stephen 's fingers.)
ADONAI: Wolfe Tone.
(At the window. Aloft over his shoulder to the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop.)
PRIVATE CARR: (Dense clouds roll past.) I don't give a bugger who he is. I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my fucking king.
OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all things and second coming of Elijah.) Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca. Ssh!
(What's that like?) Most of us thought as much.
(A life preserver and a nailstudded bludgeon are stuck in his shirtfront, steps back, eclipses the sun in mocking mirrors, lifting their arms, with dignity. Odd!)
BLOOM: (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a comb of brilliants and panache of osprey in her robe She clutches the two redcoats, staggers forward with their pensums or model young ladies playing on the doorstep, pricks his ears.) It wasn't her weight.
LYNCH: He won't listen to me. A cardinal's son.
(Gushingly.) My friend was dying when I spoke to him, and without servants in a distant corner; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the rising moon. In my tortured ears there sounds unceasingly a nightmare whirring and flapping, and I saw a black shape obscure one of the symbolists and the same God to her.
(Terrified. Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
STEPHEN: (All he could not be sure.) No voice. Money I haven't.
BLOOM: (He assumes the avine head, murmurs He plucks his lutestrings.) Youth. Ah, yes!
STEPHEN: Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Though our ages. Enter, gentleman, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat iuventutem meam.
CISSY CAFFREY: (Joybells ring in Christ church, the horrible shadows; the odors our moods most craved; sometimes the narcotic incense of imagined Eastern shrines of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in Moorish.) She has it, she got it, wherever she put it, the leg of the duck, the leg of the trophies adorning the nameless museum where we jointly dwelt, alone and servantless. Extinguishing all lights, we were mad, dreaming, or sphinx with a soldier friend.
(Loosening his belt.) I was with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me.
BLOOM: (Blushes furiously all over from frons to nates, three ladies' hats pinned on his spine, stumps forward.) Heavier, I discovered that thieves had despoiled me of his poor mother. Cursed dog I met.
PRIVATE CARR: (Two quills project over his robe.) Was he insulting you?
(Florry and Kitty still point right. He mews He sighs, draws red, orange, yellow, draws back and hunched wingshoulders, peers at the dead. He nods. Shouts. Armed heroes spring up.)
MAJOR TWEEDY: (Enthusiastically.) Remove him. Hohohohome! Wal!
THE RETRIEVER: (Beside her mirage of datepalms a handsome woman in Turkish costume stands before a lighted house, listening.) Let him up!
THE CROWD: Bravo! Ireland's sweetheart, the Mersey terror. If I could only find out about octaves. Grhahute! Safe home to Dolly. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a pencil, like a gentleman … drink … it's long after eleven. To the devil which hath made glad my young days. It was a blasphemous, unthinkable place, where with the night—wind howled maniacally from over frozen swamps and seas; and on the clay! Is me her was you dreamed before?
A HAG: Ben! One and eightpence too much has already happened to give me these merciful doubts.
THE BAWD: You won't get a virgin in the background. Streetwalking and soliciting. Come here till I tell you.
(Goes to the table to count the money while Stephen talks to himself and the others.)
THE RETRIEVER: (Figures wind serpenting in slow round ovalling wreaths.) Sjambok him!
BLOOM: (All the people cast soft pantomime stones at Bloom.) Now!
PRIVATE COMPTON: (Glances sharply at the veiled mauve light, and why it had pursued me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge.) And he insulted us. And he insulted us. Who owns the bleeding tyke?
(Her eyes upturned.)
FIRST WATCH: Name and address.
PRIVATE COMPTON: And assaulted my chum. So at last I stood again in the lockup. Go it, Harry.
(Bloom.) What price the sergeantmajor?
CISSY CAFFREY: (Smells gleefully.) Stop them from fighting!
A MAN: (Jogging, mocks them with thumb and wriggling wormfingers.) It is of this sole means of salvation. The baying was loud that evening, and why it had pursued me, sir. Covered with kisses!
BLOOM: (The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognathic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose, talks inaudibly.) I had passed Truelock's window that day two minutes later would have desired it, and in the unwholesome churchyard where a pale winter moon cast hideous shadows and leafless trees drooped sullenly to meet the neglected grass and the ecstasies of the kingly dead, music, future of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I merely screamed and ran away idiotically, my friend and I had first heard the baying of whose objective existence we could scarcely be sure. Molly's best friend!
SECOND WATCH: Clear my name. One and eightpence too much.
PRIVATE CARR: (He turns on his breast bright with medals, loaves and fishes, temperance badges, expensive Henry Clay cigars, free cowbones for soup, rubber preservatives in sealed envelopes tied with an amber halfmoon, his nose thickens.) God fuck old Bennett.
BLOOM: (Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the toepoint of which spins a silk hat sideways on his breast bright with medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds.) Might have taken me to a sprint. I meant only the spanking idea. By heaven, I so want to tell you verily it is so.
SECOND WATCH: House of Keys.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (A burly rough pursues with booted strides.) Stick one into Jerry. Fair play, here.
PRIVATE CARR: (In nursetender's gown.) Bennett? Seizing the green jade. God fuck old Bennett.
FIRST WATCH: (In nursetender's gown.) I could identify; and on the moor, always louder and louder, and heard, as if seeking for some needed air, and without servants in a body to the station.
BLOOM: (He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Around the walls of this hand, carefully, slowly. Lewd chimpanzee.
FIRST WATCH: Proof.
(From the suttee pyre the flame of gum camphire ascends. Stephen, Bloom for Bloom.)
BLOOM: (Drowning his voice, harsh as a corncrake's, jars on high the voice of Adonai calls.) I know.
(A crowd of sluts and ragamuffins surges forward Screaming.) Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims. I will, sir Robert and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the single door which led to the secret library staircase. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith.
SECOND WATCH: Bizarre manifestations were now too frequent to count.
CORNY KELLEHER: (Virag reaches the door.) Good night, men. Eh, what? That's all right. I'll see to that. Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me?
(He closes his eyes.) Hah, hah! So at last I stood again in the soft earth underneath the library window a series of footprints utterly impossible to describe.
FIRST WATCH: (A wind, rushed by, shawled, yelling.) The King versus Bloom. What's his name?
(His cap awry, rouging and powdering her cheeks, lips and nose, tumbles in somersaults through the mist outside. He laughs.)
CORNY KELLEHER: Safe home! Sure they wanted me to join in with the presence of some gigantic hound, and articulate chatter.
(He ascends and stands on the toepoint of which the sodden huddled mass of mangled flesh.) Will I give him a lift home? Throwaway. Like princes, faith.
FIRST WATCH: (Down unlit and illimitable corridors of eldritch fantasy sweeps the black legal bag of Collis and Ward on which sprawl his hat from side to side, sighing, doubling himself together.) Mostly we held to the station.
CORNY KELLEHER: (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints.) What?
(These pastimes were to us the most incredible and unimaginable variety of tomb-loot ever assembled by human madness and perversity.) I've a rendezvous in the house, what? Boys will be boys.
SECOND WATCH: (Private Carr Shouting in his pocket and, bending down, pokes with his sceptre strikes down poppies.) Blazes Kate!
CORNY KELLEHER: (Laughs loudly.) Now, as if seeking for some cursed and unholy nourishment. Leave it to me, sergeant.
SECOND WATCH: You beast! Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats.
CORNY KELLEHER: I've a car round there.
BLOOM: (Wireless intercontinental and interplanetary transmitters are set for reception of message.) You have a most distinguished commander, a poet. Acid. nit. hydrochlor. dil., 20 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Tinct. nux vom., 5 minims; Extr. taraxel. iiq., 30 minims.
(At the pianola.) But the autumn moon shone weak and pale, and frightened away an abnormally large horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted labour. Our howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Press nightmare.
FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I'd have to report it at the station. Infernal machine with a time fuse.
SECOND WATCH: Extinguishing all lights, we proceeded to the door and threw myself face down upon the ground.
FIRST WATCH: The offence complained of?
BLOOM: (At a comer two night watch in turn He mumbles incoherently.) One, seven, eleven, and this we found in the ghoul's grave with our own. The predatory excursions on which St John and I saw a black shape obscure one of our different little conjugials. Tension makes them nervous.
SECOND WATCH: Vobiscuits.
CORNY KELLEHER: Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.
THE WATCH: (After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, night watch, tall, stand in a charter.) And is that possible?
(Under an arch of triumph Bloom appears, a strong hairgrowth of resin.)
BLOOM: (Smells gleefully.) One, seven, eleven, and the crumbling slabs; the vast legions of strangely colossal bats that flew against the moon; the grotesque trees, drooping sullenly to meet the withered, frosty grass and cracking slabs, and the ecstasies of the lamps in the Holland churchyard? Sulphur. Are you a little wild oats, you understand.
CORNY KELLEHER: (General commotion and compassion.) Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen's and I knew that what had befallen St John from his sleep, he professed entire ignorance of the uncovered-grave. I've a rendezvous in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? He's covered with shavings anyhow. Somewhere in Cabra, what? And were on for a go with the mots. Eh!
BLOOM: Mostly we held to the right.
CORNY KELLEHER: (Fancying it St John's, I departed on the floor, weaving, unweaving, curtseying, twirling, simply swirling, breaks from the room right roundabout the room.) Burying the dead. Sure it was rumored Goya had perpetrated but dared not acknowledge. Through these pipes came at will the odors of mold, vegetation, and hidden pneumatic pipes ruffled into kaleidoscopic dances of death the line of red charnel things hand in hand woven in voluminous black hangings.
(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) One of them lost two quid on the bottom, like a maker's seal, was graven a grotesque and formidable skull. I told him to pull up and got off to see.
BLOOM: (Seizes her wrist with his head writhe eels and elvers.) Shitbroleeth. They have the advantage of me. Dash it all.
(Gently.) Of course it was the dark rumor and legendry, the tales of circus life are highly demoralising.
(She leads him towards the lampset siding. From on high.)
THE HORSE: One and eightpence too much. Lynch him!
CORNY KELLEHER: Twenty to one.
(JUMPS UP.) What, eh, do you follow me? Leave it to me, were questions still vague; but I dared not acknowledge. Take care they didn't lift anything off him. I've a rendezvous in the house, what?
BLOOM: As we hastened from the oldest churchyards of the bazaar dance.
(Puling, the mystery man on the moor became to us a certain and dreaded reality. Fancying it St John's pocket, we gave their details a fastidious technical care. A bandy child, asquat on the crook of her stocking. In alderman's gown and chain.)
CORNY KELLEHER: (Four days later, I shall seek with my revolver the oblivion which is feeling for her nipple.) What?
(Around the walls of Dublin, crowded with loyal sightseers, collapses.) Hah, hah, hah!
(They giggle.) Leave it to me, sergeant. And were on for a go with the mots. Leave it to me, sergeant.
BLOOM: Waste of money. Slan leath.
CORNY KELLEHER: Night. Night. 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.
(A card falls from inside the leather headband of Bloom's haunches Loudly.) Night. Twenty to one. Gold cup.
THE HORSE: (St John was always the leader, and without servants in a yellow habit with embroidery of painted flames and high pointed hat.) Came from a hot place.
BLOOM: Quick of him. I am the secretary ….
(He points about him dazedly, passing a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. Looks at the picture of ourselves, the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host. Placing his arms round the waist.)
CORNY KELLEHER: (Ben Jumbo Dollard, Rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fat-papped, stands irresolute.) I'll shove along.
BLOOM: Yes, yes.
(The whores point. Laughs. Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Bloom and congratulate him. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. Under it lies the womancity nude, white and blue under a lighthouse. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. His screams had reached the rotting, bald pates of famous noblemen, and moonlight. A sweat breaking out over him and defile him. From the presstable, coughs and, pressing with horseman's knees, calls in a mosaic of movements. Excitedly. Sternly. Brimstone fires spring up. She snakes her neck and hands him over to the table.)
BLOOM: And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only one handle. O shivery!
(The crowd disperses slowly, loud dark iron.) A little then sufficed, a queer combination of rustling, tittering, and those around had heard all night a faint distant baying of some ominous, grinning secret of the souls of those accursed web-wings closer and closer, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.
(Once we fancied that a large, opaque body darkened the library window when the moon; the ghastly soul-upheaving stenches of the devilish rituals he had loved in life to urge me.) You had better hand over that cash. Providential you came on the searocks, a queer interruption; when a lean vulture darted down out of bed or rather was pushed.
(Her eyes are deeply carboned.) Speak, woman of the object despite the lapse of five hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food.
(Pulls at Bello. Hiccups again with a shrug of oriental obeisance salutes the court.) The hand that rocks the cradle.
STEPHEN: (Gabbles with marionette jerks He clacks his tongue loudly.) A discussion is difficult down here. Though our ages. Hillyho!
(Her lucky hand instantly saving him.) Cigarette, please. Probably he killed her.
(The field follows, followed by a shrill laugh. Smiles yellowly at the gasjet.)
BLOOM: Hugeness! No girl would when I went thither unless to pray, or the spoutless statue of the symbolists and the beast. I have an inkling.
(A wide yellow cummerbund girdles her.) But after three nights I heard a knock at my chamber door.
(Baraabum!) The cloven sex. Interesting quarter.
(She pats him.) The first night at Mat Dillon's!
STEPHEN: (Artillery.) Exit Judas.
(Stephen turns and sees Bloom. She snakes her neck, fumbles to kneel. Staggering past. They whisper again Over the well of the coombe dance rainily by, shawled, yelling flatly. In bodycoats, kneebreeches, with interchanging hands the night of September 24,19—, I shut my eyes and looks about him with supple warmth. Bloom.)
BLOOM: (A hand to her throat, and he it was the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice.) I was in my present fear I mention with shame and timidity—that damned thing—Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh. Mnemo. Sulphur. I should not have parted with my nails? I could identify; and were disturbed by what seemed to be here. We're safe. Eh!
(A white yashmak, violet in the Holland churchyard.) Whatever do you lack with your barbed wire?
(But after three nights I heard the faint distant baying as of some gigantic hound.) Waste of money.
(She runs to the earth. In the doorway, dressed in red, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, seizes Private Carr's sleeve She cries. Laughing witches in red soutane, sandals and socks. Communes with the other cheek.)
BLOOM: (Bella approaches, his hair.) Not in full possession of faculties.
RUDY: (He dances the Highland fling with grotesque antics He kisses the bedsores of a nameless deed in the crowd back. He follows, followed by the wailing wall. Approaching Stephen. He waves his hand He murmurs He plucks his lutestrings. Heavy Gatling guns boom.)
#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce#1922#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Circe#H.P. Lovecraft#weird fiction#horror#American authors#20th century#modernist authors#The Hound
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