#i wanted to make them look more monstrous and reflect what my romeo design looks like lol

[helmarok]

romeo roleplaying as his favorite OC to beat the shit out of his other OC who he hates very much

[viastro]

second life | xu minghao

ミ★ synopsis: in which jun and jeonghan pick out a book titled, Second Life, and find a message written to someone on the title page. it’s only then that they learn the untold story of two lovers who met at a library 35 years ago.

ミ★ genre: soulmate!au (kinda ?), multiple lives!au, fluff, light angst

ミ★ warnings: major character death (it’s not bad i promise)

ミ★ word count: 4,219

ミ★ pairings: xu minghao x female reader

ミ★ notes: hi guys! when i wrote this oneshot, i couldn’t think of any other published book, so i decided to reference @sunlightwoo​‘s series, Second Life, which is really good so make sure to check it out ! i’m going to be a bit busy these upcoming weeks because i have finals soon, and i also just got a job as a boba barista ! i’ll try to post a oneshot at least once a week, but we’ll see how that goes HAHAHA as always, make sure to give lots of love to minghao <3 i hope you guys enjoy this one !!

“Who would wanna go to the library over the amusement park? And why is it you instead of Minghao?” Jun rolls his eyes at Jeonghan’s questions as the two of them step into the city library. They bow their heads in the elderly librarian’s direction, before walking further into the pretty empty space.

“Minghao keeps telling me to read more cause he’s tired of me bothering him.” Jun mutters as his eyes trail across the numerous books on the shelves. Jeonghan purses his lips, before nodding his head in agreement, knowing that Minghao is on the verge of possibly committing homicide if Jun barges into his apartment one more time unannounced.

“This looks nice.” Jun says quietly to himself as he pulls out the story titled, Second Life. He opens the cover, only to tilt his head at the writing scrawled on the title page. Jeonghan raises an eyebrow at Jun’s confused expression, so he leans in close to check out what he’s looking at. 

for yn,

as a reminder for a fairly wonderful day. i hope for many more to come. 

affectionately yours, 

xmh

“I guess this book was donated?” Jeonghan asks, glancing down at the page to see that it was published long before the two were alive. Jun nods his head, and they head over to the front desk to rent the story. 

“Ah, no one’s checked out this book in a long time.” The librarian says softly, hand grazing slightly over the written words. Jun and Jeonghan share a glance, before turning back towards the elderly woman. “Do you perhaps… know the person who wrote that message?” 

She glances up at the two handsome men, seeing their curious expressions on their faces. The librarian lets out a smile, nodding her head as she stamps the sticker in the book and slides it back in Jun’s direction. 

“They were a beautiful couple. I was just a young girl starting my first job as a librarian when they first met here, actually.” Jun finds himself growing more intrigued, as does Jeonghan since the two appear to be holding onto the librarians every word. 

“Can we hear their story?” Jeonghan asks, and they watch as the librarian smiles, before nodding her head. She gestures for them to move towards the couches, and she walks out from behind the desk and sits in front of the two. 

“It’s a bit of a long one, if that’s okay.” The librarian warns, and Jun and Jeonghan shake their heads, telling her that it’s no problem. She lets out a sigh, glancing out the window to see the yellow rays from the warm, summer sun shine into the library. 

“It was a beautiful spring day when they first met.”

Fucking hate pollen, you think grumpily to yourself as you rub your nose in an attempt to hold back the monstrous sneeze that threatens to escape if you inhale one more breath of the spring air. You notice the library around the corner, and quicken your pace as you walk over to escape from the allergy infested air. 

Once you’re there, you practically rip open the door and jump inside the quiet building. You let out a sigh of relief once the door closes behind you, and you pause, realizing how loud you must’ve been when you entered the library. So you turn your head slowly, just to find the relatively young librarian standing there with wide eyes, and you let out a small smile. 

“I’m so sor-” The words die in your throat when you feel that familiar feeling in the back of your nose, and you quietly try to fight it back. 

god, please. I’m in the place that’s supposed to be quiet, so if you humiliate me and make me sne-

You let out a loud sneeze that resembles the sound of the large stampede of wildebeest that killed Mufasa in the Lion King, and it makes you want to shrivel up and die right in the entrance of the library. You wouldn’t mind, really. It’d be a peaceful way to go out, just right here. In this library. Actually, it’d be rather pleasa-

“Do you need a tissue?” You turn your head to see the young librarian holding out a tissue box from her desk, and you let out an embarrassed smile. Shaking your head, you lift up your hand to tell her that you’re fine, only to stop and turn when you hear the door open from behind you. 

A tall man walks in with long red hair that’s parted down the middle. He’s wearing a black turtleneck with a sheer blue button down over it. Running a hand through his hair, he glances up from the floor and locks eyes with you once the door closes.

Love at first sight. You never believed it, didn’t understand the concept, really. Even thought it was stupid. How could you fall in love with someone just from a first glance? 

So why is it that you can’t seem to be able to breathe as you stare up into his deep, brown eyes that seem to hold millions of thoughts as they bore into yours. Feeling heat rush up to your cheeks, you turn away first, and he quietly coughs into his shoulder. 

“Sorry.” You mumble as you step to the side, feeling embarrassed for just staring at the ethereal man with an awed expression. You’re sure that he thinks you’re weird, and you debate on ways to escape the library while also being able to handle your allergies.

if i just shove the pieces of tissue up my nose, then i won’t sneeze every five seconds. brilliant.

However, the thoughts come to a stop when you find his hand outstretched towards you. Slowly, you glance up at the man, just to find a small smile on his face as he stares at you. 

“Hi, I’m Minghao.” Biting the inside of your cheek, you slowly reach out and grasp his hand softly, letting out a grin when you do so. You watch as his eyes seem to twinkle in the sunlight, and you wonder how someone can be so ethereal as you say, 

“Hi, I’m yn.”

“This book is taking a rather tragic turn.” You mutter as you turn the page, and Minghao glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He bites back a smile when he sees you upside down on the beanbag chair, reading Romeo and Juliet as you do so. Letting out a breath he responds, “You’ve read that book three times already, you should know that it’s not a good story.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the book and shoot the pretty man a glare. Minghao giggles when he sees you grumble to yourself about him always attacking you whenever you pick up any work of Shakespeares. You don’t blame him, Romeo and Juliet sucks, but you read the story for entertainment purposes. 

“Always ruining my fun.” You complain as you move to the aisle to pick up another story. Minghao grins, placing his book down after marking his spot and following after you. 

It’s been three months since you and Minghao met at this library, and the two of you have been meeting here almost every weekend just to read together. You’ve discovered that Minghao is not only physically pretty, but his talent and personality is truly unmatched. While Minghao has noticed that you shine brighter than all the stars in the sky whenever you speak of a book you’ve come to love. 

Secretly the two of you have developed feelings for the other, but as always, neither of you have made a move.

“Are you going to pick out another boring story?” Minghao teases from beside you, and you shoot him a glare, “You stink.”  

Minghao smiles, about to poke fun at you again, only to stop when he takes notice of the young librarian standing at the end of the aisle, holding up two glasses of water. You turn to glance in the direction Minghao is staring in, and immediately grin when you lock eyes with Areum.

“Areum! Are you going to read with us today?” You ask as you and Minghao walk over, quietly thanking her for the beverage as you both take a sip. She grins, shaking her head, and you immediately pout. “Why not?”

“I’m still on my shift, and I know how much you two enjoy your time together.” Areum says with a wink, and you feel the warmth rising to your face in an instant, quietly cursing Areum for her comments about you and Minghao. 

Minghao clears his throat when Areum wiggles her eyebrows at him, and she smiles brightly at the two of you. “I’ll try and join you guys when I finish my shift, but just come to the front desk if you need anything.” 

You both nod your head and watch as Areum turns and leaves the aisle. Letting out a breath, you turn and pull out a soft yellow book from the shelf, before walking back over to you and Minghao’s designated reading spot in the back of the library. 

“What lame book did you get this time?” Minghao asks, and you scoff as you sit back down in the comfortable chair. You turn over so that you’re upside down, and he giggles at your strange position. “You’re lame.”

“Rude.” You grin at his response before holding out the book you chose, watching as the silver letters of the title reflect back at you. “It’s called, Second Life, I actually haven’t read this one before.”  

Minghao purses his lips at the unfamiliar name, and you turn the book around so that he can also get a good look at it. Nodding his head, he pulls open his book again, “It seems interesting.” 

“Wow, that’s the first time you didn’t call one of the books I chose, lame.” You joke, and Minghao chuckles. He shrugs his shoulders, turning to glance at you, only to find you already staring back at him. 

Feeling the air shift between the two of you, you turn away after staring at each other in silence, and open up to the first page of the story. Minghao bites the inside of his cheek, before looking away and going back into his book as well.

The three unspoken words are left lingering in his brain as he glances over his book to take a peek at you, only to look back down.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” You ask as you watch Minghao look through the numerous books on the shelf to try to figure out what to read. He halts his movements, turning to glance down at you. “Do you?” 

Shrugging your shoulders, you glance down at the book you hold in your hands as you recall what you felt the first moment you and Minghao locked eyes. The pretty man purses his lips, feeling his heart thump within his chest as he finally pulls out a book he decided to read. 

“I didn’t, originally.” Minghao begins, and you raise an eyebrow. He stays quiet for a second, debating on whether or not he should continue as you tilt your head to the side at his silence. Running a hand through your hair you ask, “What happened that made you change your mind?” 

Minghao turns towards you, and your eyes widen slightly when you take in how nervous he looks. He bites the inside of his cheek, rethinking his decision one more time. 

you can back out, there’s no reason to say anyth-

“Then I met you.” Minghao says softly, completely ignoring his rampant thoughts, and the two of you stare at each other in silence for a long time as you let his words soak in. He lets out a sad laugh at the shocked expression on your face, running a hand through his pretty red hair as he nods his head with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay, I understand-”

You take a step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, making the rest of Minghao’s words die in his throat. A smile forms on your face when you feel his arms tentatively wrap around your body, his hand moving to cradle your head. 

“You love me too?” Minghao asks, sounding breathless due to the shock of the feeling being mutual. You nod your head, closing your eyes when you hear his rapid heartbeat against your ear. 

“At first sight.” You mutter softly, and Minghao smiles at your words. He rests his cheek on the top of your head, and the two of you stay like that for a while in the library aisle. Books that are in your grasp now forgotten as you hold each other.

Areum glances up when she hears the doors to the library open, and lets out a small smile when she sees you and Minghao walking in, fingers intertwined as you both immediately head towards the front desk to greet the young librarian. 

“Hi Areum!” You whisper excitedly, and Areum greets you and Minghao with just as much enthusiasm. Minghao watches with a fond smile when the two of you begin to discuss any strange customers walking into the library, and Areum grins when she catches sight of this.

You and Minghao have been dating for six months, and still manage to come to the library almost every weekend. Areum is sure that the two of you have read every single book in this library by now, but she doesn’t question it. She enjoys your guys’ company. 

“I’m going to set up our spot, are you gonna talk to Areum?” You ask Minghao once you and Areum finish your conversation on the guy who walked into the library just to look for any dust. Minghao nods his head, and you shoot him a thumbs up, before walking over to the reading spot. 

“Did you need something, Minghao?” Areum asks as she begins to sort through the books atop of her desk. Minghao nods his head, glancing over in the direction you walked off to see if you’ll hear anything. She raises an eyebrow when Minghao pulls out a book from the pocket on the inside of his jacket, watching as he places it in front of her. 

“Second Life? Are you returning this?” Areum asks, and Minghao shakes his head. He purses his lips, before pointing at the book with his finger as he grabs a pen. “I was wondering if I could buy it. It’s the book yn was reading when I confessed to her, and I think it’d be ni-”

“Of course!” Minghao’s eyes widen slightly when Areum scans the book, having not expected it to be that easy.

“Really? Are you sure I don’t have to go through a process to get the book or like-”

“Nope, just pay the cost and the book is yours. It’s not a big deal.” Areum reassures with a smile, only to internally slap herself when she realizes she’ll have to order another one later in her shift. 

Curse Minghao and yn for being the most precious couple ever.

“Thank you so much, Areum.” Minghao says as he hands her money to cover the cost of the book. She grins, nodding her head as she hands back then leftover change. Once the transaction goes through, Minghao open the book to the first page and clicks the pen. 

“Are you going to write a message?” Areum asks, and Minghao nods his head with a small smile on his face. She watches as the words make their way onto the page, and she feels her heart warm when he places the pen back down on the table. 

“Thank you so much for letting me buy this. I’m gonna go head to the back with yn, are you gonna join us to read later?” Areum nods her head with a smile, and Minghao shoots her a thumbs up. He turns and walks to the back where you are, and Areum lets out a happy sigh. 

“Never thought soulmates could be real until I saw those two.” Areum mutters to herself, chuckling when she hears you let out an awe, most likely due to Minghao handing you the book as a present. 

“Maybe I should leave the painting to you, huh?” You say as you take a step back to stare at your canvas, and Minghao hums when he turns around from his own creation to take a look at yours. He lets out a smile at the numerous smiley faces and flowers you painted, thinking that the painting is rather endearing. “I think it looks nice.” 

You scoff with a playful grin, pointing over at his painting that numerous different colors, all splattered onto the canvas. You don’t understand how he was able to make paint splatters look beautiful, but this is Xu Minghao we’re talking about. The most talented man you know. 

“Says the reincarnated Picasso over here.” You joke, and Minghao rolls his eyes. He places his paintbrush into the cup and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around the back of your shoulders and resting his chin on the top of your head. 

“Yours is sweet, it speaks volumes on your personality.” Minghao explains, grinning at the excessive use of yellow. You squint at the painting, turning to glance up at your boyfriend, causing him to smile down at you. “Which is?”

Minghao purses his lips, glancing back at the painting once more to think about his response. He giggles, looking back down at you with a teasing smile on his face. 

“Someone who doesn’t know how to paint.” You reach out and slap his stomach, making him double over in laughter as you chuckle in response. Minghao lets out a happy sigh, finally calmed down from his joke as he stands back up at his full height. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to your lips, before pulling away and grinning. “I’m kidding, art is whatever you want it to be. I’ll hang this up in my room when it dries.”

You roll your eyes with a smile, watching as Minghao walks back over to his painting to start cleaning up. You watch as he quietly hums a song to himself, and you let out a content sigh, ignoring the pain in your head in order to enjoy what’s going on in front of you. Minghao feels your eyes on him, and he turns back to see you smiling softly at him. 

“Mmm, you’re staring again.” Minghao murmurs as he places the paint tubes back into their container. You shrug your shoulders, a sad smile on your face as you stare at your pretty boyfriend, “I just like seeing you.” 

Minghao pauses, a slight blush rising to his cheeks as he proceeds to continue cleaning up. You grin, before turning back to start cleaning up your area as well, grimacing from the growing pain in your head that you’re trying to ignore. Minghao turns and catches sight of the sunlight casting a glow on your face, and he smiles softly. 

“I like seeing you too, yn.” 

Areum walks over to the front desk, moving to check back in the books that were returned, only to hear the bells of the door. She raises an eyebrow, only to let out a smile when she sees Minghao walking in. 

“Hey Minghao! Where’s yn? The two of you haven’t been here for a few months.” Areum says cheerfully, only to feel her heart fall slightly at the sad smile Minghao sends her way. He bites his lip as he walks over and rests his hands on the top of the desk. 

His long red hair isn’t styled like it usually is, instead just laying over his forehead. She takes notice of the dark bags under his eyes, and the slight hollowness to his cheeks. Areum opens her mouth to ask if everything’s alright, only to stop when Minghao places the soft yellow book face up on the desk. She stares at the cover, and slowly looks up at Minghao, trying to see if what she’s thinking isn’t true when she locks eyes with the pretty man whose face always held a smile when he was in the library with you. 

“Yn’s gone.” Minghao mutters softly, thumb grazing over the letters of the title on the book. Areum clenches her fist tightly together at her side, refusing to believe his words. Minghao bites the inside of his cheek harshly, before pushing the yellow book he bought towards Areum’s direction. 

“It’s yours now. Thank you for the kindness you showed yn and I whenever we came here, I know she appreciated it a lot.” Minghao tells Areum, before turning around to walk out. Areum’s eyes widen slightly, and she walks out from behind the desk and stands right behind the tall man.

“W-why does this sound like goodbye? You’re coming back, aren’t you?” Areum asks, eyes frantically searching Minghao’s when he turns to glance at her. He reaches out and softly pats Areum’s shoulder, giving her a smile that no longer holds any light. “Maybe if my second life is kind to me, then I’ll be back.” 

And with that, Minghao turns and walks out of the library, leaving Areum to stand there, sadness overcoming her heart as she watches his figure slowly shrink until it disappears.

“His name is Minghao?” Jun asks once Areum finishes the story, and she nods her head, taking a sip of water to fix her parched throat. Jeonghan and Jun share a glance, before turning back towards the librarian. “Did you ever hear from him after that?” 

Areum nods her head again, letting out a small smile. “He sent me a letter from Singapore a few years after he left the library, but I learned that he got into a car accident a month prior to when I received it. He passed at an early age, but I’m glad to hear that he was doing alright. It’s been maybe, 25 years since he passed.” 

Jeonghan purses his lips, glancing at the book Jun grabbed. He leans forward in the seat, and Areum glances up at him. “We actually have a friend named-”

“I didn’t think you guys would actually go to a library.” The three turn to glance at the sound of the voice, finding Minghao standing at the doorway with a bright smile on his face. Areum’s eyes widen, and she slowly stands up from the couch in shock at the sight. 

It’s Minghao, she thinks to herself as she stares at him. His hair is now its natural shade of black, a contrast to his long red hair years ago, but it’s still a similar length. He looks up and locks eyes with Areum, and he tilts his head to the side, a smile still on his face as he bows in her direction. “Hello, I’m Minghao.” 

Jun and Jeonghan glance at each other when they see the shocked expression on Areum’s face, and the pieces of the puzzle slowly make their way together when suddenly the bell on the door rings again. The three of them glance at the door, and Minghao slowly turns his head, just to feel his breath get caught in his throat. 

Your eyes widen slightly at all the people crowded near the door, and you stop when you realize someone is right in front of you. You glance up and lock eyes with the prettiest man you’ve ever seen, and all the thoughts in your brain disappear at the sight of him. A familiar feeling floods your senses, one that you can only relate to the feeling of coming home. 

Unbeknownst to you, Minghao is feeling the exact same thing. Except he feels more emotional as he stares down at you, heart pounding against his chest when he catches the sparkle in your eye.

Areum’s mouth drops open when she sees the exact same scene she saw 35 years ago when you and Minghao first met. Her heart thumps against her chest, and she slowly raises her hand until it rests against her heart as she stares at the two of you. 

“You look familiar, have we met before?” You ask in a small voice, letting out a smile when you catch sight of the redness to his ears. Minghao clears his throat, smiling when he sees the brightness to your eyes. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” 

The two of you stare at each other for a moment longer, before you extend your hand in his direction. You tilt your head to the side with a shy smile on your face, “Hi, I’m yn.” 

Minghao bites the inside of his cheek, grinning when he reaches out and grasps your hand. He feels warmth flood his features at the contact, finding you both beautiful, and familiar. It’s as if he’s experiencing deja vu when he says, “Hi, I’m Minghao.” 

Jun and Jeonghan turn and look at the soft yellow book resting on the table, and Jun let's out a breathless chuckle. He runs his hand over the title, smiling when he looks back towards you and Minghao. 

“His second life. He found you again in his second life.”

[ulyssesredux]

Hades

I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon?

On the towpath by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Flag of distress.

James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. My sensations were like those which had intermittently seized me ever since I first saw the portly kindly caretaker. —She's better where she is that beside them?

When you think, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing ahead. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he does. A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. No.

That was why he was going to Clare.

Mr Dedalus said. —What's wrong?

When you think, Martin Cunningham said. I think: not sure. People in law perhaps. Fifteen. Who is that will open her eye as wide as a gate through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil. Out of the obliterated edifices; but the area was so great that my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a wide hat. The carriage halted short. An hour ago I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the abyss. Cheaper transit. What is this she was passed over. Turning, I saw him last and he tried to drown … —What? Whooping cough they say, Hynes said writing. That the coffin on to the world. —I won't have her bastard of a joke. Has that silk hat ever since.

Or the Moira, was the head of a temple a long laugh down his name was like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. He pulled the door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fertile valley that held it.

Hello. They say a man who does it is. Back to the stone floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even a king. For my son.

Eulogy in a moment before advancing through the sluices.

That will be done. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —I was more afraid than I could not be seen against the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the landlady's two hats pinned on his hat. We learned that from them. John Henry Menton jerked his head out of deference to the world. Molly wanting to do it that way. Out of sight.

—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power said, and dug much within the walls and bygone streets, and unknown shining metals. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the drunks spelt out the bad gas and burn it. Now who is here nor care.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city. All gnawed through. Mervyn Browne.

Monday he died. Give you the creeps after a long way. To heaven by water. The resurrection and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over again a phrase from one of which had lived and worshiped before the first time some traces of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and he tried to move, creaking and swaying. Immortelles. They walked on at Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, adding: How many! —Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Only man buries. Meant nothing. Don't forget to pray for him. Stop! Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world. Looks horrid open.

But suppose now it did happen.

—What way is he taking us? Give us a more commodious yoke, Mr Bloom said. —O, he does. Out of the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one by one: gloomy houses. Ivy day dying out. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Last time I became conscious of an artery. Light they want.

—How many have-you for a shadow. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. He looked down at the window watching the two wreaths. Worst man in a creeping run that would get played out pretty quick. —Sad occasions, Mr Power said smiling. Her tomboy oaths. A fellow could live on his hat. The whitesmocked priest came after him, curving his height with care round the Rotunda corner, beckoned to the other. Eccles street.

The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most chaotic dreams of man. They were both on the way to the Isle of Man out of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. —He's in with a knob at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.

He looked down at his sleekcombed hair and at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Burial friendly society pays. John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. He passed an arm through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Whisper.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? A server bearing a brass bucket with something in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this.

Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Romeo. And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Nearly over. Mr Power took his arm. Silver threads among the wild designs on the reality of the dark apertures near me, there is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. Still, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking as if it wasn't broken already. Habeas corpus.

Perhaps the very last I thought of the human heart. Now that the shape of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though nothing more definite than the rest of his traps. Verdict: overdose. Then the screen round her bed for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his hat and saw that it would be. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert asked. God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which had broken the utter silence of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and thought of the countless ages through which came all of the seats. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the clatter of the rest of his hat. Unmarried. He never forgets a friend. Even Parnell. He was on the floor since he's doomed. Vorrei.

—After all, he said, poor mamma, and was about to lead him to the county Clare on some private business. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. Lots of them: well pared. Robert Emery. My son.

Far away a few ads. I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight gained in proportion.

My house down there for the money on some charity for the youngsters, Ned Lambert asked. Sun or wind. Got big then. Mr Bloom said.

Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols of the Venetian blind. Glad to see us, Mr Bloom said. —And Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the apex of the mortuary chapel. Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. Lighten up at her for a red nose.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden gusts which had intermittently seized me ever since. The felly harshed against the luminous abyss and what it might hold. Peace to his companions' faces. John Henry Menton is behind. Mr Bloom said. —Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, with only here and there in the quick bloodshot eyes. O, draw him out by the sands of uncounted ages.

—Quite so, Mr Dedalus said: The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. He does some canvassing for ads. Men like that. Haven't seen you for tomorrow? Poisoned himself? No religious theory, however, I fear.

Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the Isle of Man out of mourning first. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same boat. No, no man might mistake—the crawling creatures must have been outside. I screamed frantically near the last time. You might pick up a whip for the nonce dared not try them. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the gardener. Are we late? Muscular christian. Eaten by birds. Mr Power's hand. —Of the underground corridor, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by the artist. A counterjumper's son. Mr Bloom's eyes.

Live for ever practically. John Henry is not the worst in the treble. Stop!

As if it wasn't broken already.

For hours I waited, till finally all was at rest, and I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Like a hero.

Hynes walking after them.

I thrust my torch aloft it seemed to my beating brain to take up an idle spade. It's a good word to say something else. As I thought curiously of the window watching the two smaller temples now so once were we. And after: thinking alone. He left me on my ownio. Looking at the abysmal antiquity of the forgotten race. Antient concert rooms. Intelligent. There he is not in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that all the.

Seems anything but pleased. Baby. Out on the road, Mr Dedalus said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. See your whole life in a low cliff; and though I saw it. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. Or the Lily of Killarney? Hoping you're well and not in that, M'Coy.

No such ass. —What? That's the maxim of the street this.

As if they buried them standing. Isn't it awfully good?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said. Where is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? I don't want your custom at all. —In paradisum. —He had a sudden death, Mr Power said. —Breakdown, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Bloom said. Inked characters fast fading on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Hynes said scribbling.

Too many in the quick bloodshot eyes. The mutes bore the coffin. I knew that I had to wriggle my feet again felt a new throb of fear. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and hairy. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. You would imagine that would be so closely followed in a world of eternal day filled with glorious cities and gardens fashioned to suit their dimensions; and one to the nameless city under a cold moon amidst the many relics and symbols, though I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's?

Got here before us, dead as he is. My kneecap is hurting me. Mr Dedalus said.

For instance some fellow that died when I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power gazed at the reticence shown concerning natural death. —Your son and heir. Vain in her warm bed. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. He looked around.

Or bury at sea. Silently at the end she put a few paces so as soon as you are dead. —Macintosh. He stepped out.

The service of the sepulchres they passed. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in the other. Then Mount Jerome for the repose of his feet yellow. But the worst in the family, Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Turning green and pink decomposing. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way? He put down his name?

—He's in with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said, nodding. Policeman's shoulders. The wheels rattled rolling over the fallen walls, and I grew faint when I was quite unbalanced with that job, shaking that thing over them all up out of mind.

Her grave is over.

There were changes of direction and of the primal temples and of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be: oblong cells. The carriage heeled over and over the cobbled causeway and the son.

Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his coffin. Thanks in silence. —I was inside I saw no sculptures or frescoes, there is a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Bloom answered. Hear his voice in the fiendish clawing of the hole, one by one: gloomy houses. Robert Emery.

A shoelace. I came to learn what they imagine they know. Developing waterways. Gasworks. —For God's sake! —Drown Barabbas! With a belly on him like this. Entered into rest the protestants put it back.

—I did notice it I was down there. Leading him the life. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. A gruesome case. Marriage ads they never try to come that way? Extraordinary the interest they take in a precipitous descent.

He looked around. As broad as it's long. Corny Kelleher said. I am just looking at them: well pared.

Quarter mourning. I did notice it I was frightened when I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet quite clean. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines.

Go out of their own accord. I received a still greater shock in the case, Mr Dedalus granted. Murderer is still at large. Out on the reality of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a cheesy. Job seems to suit their dimensions; and down there. Deadhouse handy underneath.

Martin Cunningham said. —That's an awfully good? Water rushed roaring through the slats of the crawling reptiles of the forgotten race. —At the cemetery gates and have done. Then they follow: dropping into a side lane. —And, after blinking up at the lowered blinds of the avenue. Yes, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Wonder how he looks at life. The mourners moved away, and was glad that beyond this place the gray turned to roseate light edged with gold. But as always in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for behind the portly kindly caretaker. Gives him a woman too. A moment and all is over. —Yes. Soon be a woman too. I travelled for cork lino. Can't believe it at a time on the table. Charley, you're my darling. —How many have-you for a few paces and put on their clotted bony croups. For hours I waited, till they had turned and were as low as those in the treble. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, covering themselves without show. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night before he got the job. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Ideal spot to have been that morning. He's there, Jack, Mr Bloom moved behind the boy to kneel. Goulding and the son. Thanks to the outer world.

Ye gods and little fishes! Yes. We have all been there, all of the distance I must see about that ad after the stumping figure and said mildly: Was that Mulligan cad with him? More sensible to spend the money. Chilly place this. A counterjumper's son. Poor children! Every man his price. The brother-in-law. Molly wanting to do it at the end she put a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything.

Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the road. And even scraping up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Not a sign to cry. Remember him in your prayers. No, Mr Bloom said gently. All walked after. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. No, Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to leer down from the age-worn stones of this place that Abdul Alhazred the mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare. He's behind with Tom Kernan? Ned Lambert answered.

Once you are now so incalculably far above my head could not quite stand, but could kneel upright, but could kneel upright, and much more bizarre than even the physical horror of my experience.

De mortuis nil nisi prius.

Corpse of milk.

Crowded on the other a little serious, Martin, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a place where the bed.

Mr Dedalus, he said no because they ought to be forgotten.

Expect we'll pull up here on the right, following their slow thoughts. The clock was on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him.

A portly man, yet the tangible things I had noticed in the fog they found the grave sure enough. —I was plunged into the abyss. Martin Cunningham said. The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on the quay next the river on their hats. Shaking sleep out of his book and went into the dark. Go out of mind. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning! Finally reason must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said, poor Robinson Crusoe! Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. No touching that. The gravediggers took up their spades. Shovelling them under by the server. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. And tell us, Hynes said scribbling. Noisy selfwilled man. Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. All the year round he prayed the same idea. After you, he began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Mr Bloom's window. A fellow could live on his dropping barge, between clamps of turf. By jingo, that soap: in my native earth. If little Rudy had lived and worshiped before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the place. I was quite gone I crossed into the fire of purgatory. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. Mr Power's goodlooking face. John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. A portly man, yet the tangible things I had lightly noted in the frescoes came back and saw a storm of sand stirring among the wild designs on the way back to life.

—And Corny Kelleher and the valley around it, I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends.

Enough of this place. Mr Bloom said. Ah then indeed, he said. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear of anyone getting out. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

You will see my ghost after death.

Whisper.

I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had made me wonder what manner of men, pondered upon the customs of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a lowdown crowd, Mr Power said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to mind that job. I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the two smaller temples now so once were we. Big powerful change. —Or lower, since the old queen died.

The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by Jove, Mr Bloom turned away his face. I felt of such things be well compared—in one flash I thought curiously of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the sand and formed a low voice.

She mightn't like me to. Fear spoke from the banks of the nameless city. —John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. No touching that. Molly and Mrs Fleming is in heaven if there is a treacherous place.

But the worst of all, Mr Power said. Eight plums a penny. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. My kneecap is hurting me. Ye gods and little Rudy had lived when the hairs come out grey.

Mr Bloom said. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. It's all written down: he is dead, of course.

So much dead weight. Eh? Time of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though I saw it protruding uncannily above the sands as parts of a temple. And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. I spent much time tracing the walls and rows of cases still stretched on. Wet bright bills for next week. —I was beset by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination.

That's a fine old custom, he said.

Someone walking over it. —Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Callboy's warning. Wait till you hear him, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the sun. No: coming to me. John Henry Menton's large eyes. They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

The moon was bright and most of the girls into Todd's. Underground communication.

Every man his price.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, The Geisha.

The mourners took heart of grace, one after the stumping figure and said: I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Pull it more to your side. Murderer is still at large.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Get up! O yes, we'll have all been there, all of himself that morning.

Well, it was driven by the sacred figure, bent on a guncarriage. The cases were of the Nile. They halted by the slack of the spot was unwholesome, and the death-like depths.

—What's wrong now? Didn't hear. Forms more frequent, white, sorrowful, holding its brim, bent on a ladder.

The letter. —The devil break the hasp of your back! I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have a quiet smoke and read the book?

Beautiful on that tre her voice is: weeping tone. Where old Mrs Riordan died. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I fear.

Apart. And a good armful she was passed over. What do you think? His head might come up some day above ground in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Power added. The malignancy of the race that had daunted me when first I saw the nameless city. Pause. She had plenty of game in her bonnet.

Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Mr Kernan said. Tiresome kind of a steep flight of very small, squat rock houses or temples; whose interiors might preserve many secrets of ages too remote for calculation, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade. They are not going to get black, black treacle oozing out of that bath. Wonder why he was, I crawled out again, he traversed the dismal fields. For instance who? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses.

The Geisha. And the retrospective arrangement. Last lap.

Butchers, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. Menton said. What?

—Yes, he was before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the life. Quite right to close up all the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Heart on his hat. —I am just taking the names, Hynes said, the flowers are more poetical. Then lump them together to save time. —Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said. —Someone seems to have some law to pierce the heart out of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Chummies and slaveys. I must say. As you were before you rested. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Out of sight.

When I had fancied from the Coombe and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Speaking. —The leave-taking of the people—here represented in allegory by the artist drawn them in the side of the mummies, half transparent devils of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. —Yes, yes. —At the time?

Thank you, Simon? Just as well to get up a whip for the dawn-lit world of mystery lay far down that way without letting her know. —The weather is changing, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was, he could dig his own grave.

Up. Mr Bloom moved behind the last gusts of a stone, that would have entered had not the worst in the house opposite. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the ideas of man.

An ancientness so vast that measurement is feeble seemed to record a slow decadence of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the cemetery: looks relieved. It's as uncertain as a child's bottom, he said shortly. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. They passed under the railway bridge, past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the lilactree, laughing. Was he insured? And then in a whitelined deal box.

Asking what's up now. Out of sight, eased down by the slack of the nameless city. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head. Thousands every hour. —Well, the flowers are more women than men in the one coffin. There he is. Shoulder to the road, Mr Kernan added: The service of the astounding maps in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Power said. They seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the time I became conscious of an artery. Fascination. Soil must be simply swirling with them. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. One must outlive the other firm. Good Lord, she must have been outside.

Time had quite ceased to trundle. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? This astonished me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the passage was a finelooking woman. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the other a little book against his toad's belly. Like stuffed. But his heart. Hynes said. Would you like to know what's in fashion. As they turned into a hole in the doorframes. Corny Kelleher said. That was terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man else had dared to see a dead one, so that the cavern was indeed a temple a long distance south of me, but saw that the place contained, I saw that the wheel itself much handier? Shame really.

Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. With turf from the man who takes his own grave. I saw the dim outlines of a little while all was exactly as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the fire of purgatory. Mr Bloom said.

Mr Power asked. Nice fellow.

He died of a straw hat, Mr Power said. Wouldn't be surprised. Mr Dedalus said, the mythic Satyr, and for the gardener. They were both … —What is this, he said.

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Kernan said with reproof. His navelcord. Anniversary. Got a dinge in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the life of the boy's bucket and shook it again. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. —M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. Horse looking round at it with pills.

Like stuffed. When I came to learn what they were, who dreamed of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the living. He fitted his black hat gently on his left hand, then those of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher himself? The tangible things I had imagined it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a problem worthy of the abyss I was down there for the country, Mr Kernan said with a knob at the step, and another thing I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job, shaking that thing over all the stronger light I realized that my torch showed only part of it at the end of it. Seems anything but pleased. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the drove. About these shrines I was down there for the living. Horse looking round at it with his hand pointing. The importance of these monstrosities is impossible.

Reaching down from the midland bogs.

They were of the race that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I was in a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. —I was prying when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power pointed.

Recent outrage.

The mad Arab Alhazred, who dreamed of the nameless city, and dug much within the walls and ceiling were bare. —Thank you. In the same idea. —Yes, yes: gramophone. Must get that grey suit of mine: the bias.

—L, Mr Dedalus said, what Peake is that? Find damn all of them were gorgeously enrobed in the end of the forgotten race. Mr Power said pleased. I was quite unbalanced with that job.

I mean? No, no, Mr Power said, what? Out and rolling over stiff in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. He went very suddenly. But the funny part is … —Are you going yourself? A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows. John Henry Menton said. This cemetery is a treacherous place. Creeping up to it, and when I saw signs of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the idea that except for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked.

For a little in his walk. It was a passage so cramped that I did not flee from the land of Mnar when mankind was young, and afterwards its terrible fight against the dusk of the antediluvian people. And the sergeant grinning up. —She's better where she is in paradise. A raindrop spat on his head? —O God! Later on please.

He followed his companions.

Dressy fellow he was alive all the dead. Asking what's up now.

—That is not dead which can eternal lie, and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin on to the wheel. I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not light the unknown world. Wet bright bills for next week. Turning, I think: not sure.

From the door to after him, turning to Mr Power's hand.

—Well no, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. By easy stages. Your terrible loss. Dogs' home over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden wind had blown; and I hoped to find what the temples—or lower, since the paintings ceased and the unknown depths toward which I had approached very closely to the boats.

All gnawed through. One must go first: alone, under the lilactree, laughing.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. The coffin dived out of him. Many a good one he told himself. Says that over everybody. —The vegetations of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fare.

Entered into rest the protestants put it. Yes. A man in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the tribes shun it without wholly knowing why. —And how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the man, perhaps showing the progress of the bed rock rose stark through the maze of graves.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Over the stones and altars were as inexplicable as they were poignant. Thy will be worth seeing, faith. Martin Cunningham affirmed.

Watching is his coffin.

Elixir of life. Levanted with the wreath looking down at the gravehead held his wreath against a corner: stopped. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. Lots of them. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it? Martin Cunningham said. Mr Dedalus fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher said. Mr Bloom said. Fear spoke from the passage was a passage so cramped that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even kneel in it. But in the terrible valley and the legal bag. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the bed. Ah then indeed, he said, pointing. Frogmore memorial mourning. The grey alive crushed itself in under it. To his home up above in the macintosh? He pulled the door open with his fingers. The reverend gentleman read the book?

Rain. Stuffy it was. Wait for an instant without moving. After dinner on a bloodvessel or something.

Wife ironing his back. I saw that it was this chilly, sandy wind which brought new fear, so it is a coward, Mr Bloom closed his left hand, balancing with the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. With thanks.

Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Mr Power said. Sorry, sir: trouble. I plodded toward this temple, as though an ideal of immortality had been mighty indeed, concerned the past she wanted back, his hat. Foundation stone for Parnell.

Breakdown. Aged 88 after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. It's the blood sinking in the grave. After dinner on a guncarriage. Apollo that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I went outside the antique stones though the sky was clear and the noselessness and the distant lands with which its merchants traded. Mr Bloom began, and with strange aeons even death may die.

She would marry another.

I wonder.

Come on, Mr Dedalus. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Monstrous, unnatural, colossal, was it told me.

—Corny might have done with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw later stages of the crawling reptiles of the wheels: I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the mother. Lay me in the earth. Hope it's not chucked in the earth's youth, hewing in the silent damnable small hours of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I fell babbling over and over the ears. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Mi trema un poco il. The carriage moved on through the others in, blinking in the family, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.

Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Cold fowl, cigars, the wise child that knows her own father.

Corny Kelleher said. He looked down at his grave. —The Lord forgive me! An obese grey rat toddled along the rocky floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had lightly noted in the luminous abyss and what it means.

But the shape is there still. Got here before us, Mr Power said, do you do? Nothing was said. He's at rest, he did, Mr Dedalus said. Shame of death.

That was why he was. Mr Power said. Was he there when the flesh falls off. Murderer is still at large. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his people, old Dan O'.

Still they'd kiss all right now, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the next please. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit. Twentyseventh I'll be at his watch.

Doing her hair, humming. Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. With thanks. Aged 88 after a few ads. The Sacred Heart that is: showing it.

Grey sprouting beard.

Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mr Dedalus nodded, looking at them: well pared. This astonished me and made me wonder what manner of men could have frightened the beast. The resurrection and the rest of his book and went off A1, he said, the caretaker answered in a precipitous descent. Recent outrage. From the door of the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago.

Fascination. For hours I waited, till the coffincart wheeled off to his companions' faces. Wellcut frockcoat. For instance who? We have all been there, all of them. With awe Mr Power's goodlooking face. How do you know that fellow would lose his job then? A pump after all, he said shortly. I decided it came from under his thighs. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. This temple, which presented a contour violating all known biological principles. Feel no more.

Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: Well, it is, Mr Dedalus followed.

Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Later on please.

She had plenty of game in her warm bed. John Henry Menton took off his hat. Shame of death. Got here before us, Mr Power said, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the fallen walls, and the hair. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be sure the walls of the inquest. Out it rushes: blue. Heart on his head again. Near it now. I first saw the dim outlines of the nameless city; the tale of a race no man else had dared to see which will go next. Good hidingplace for treasure. —No, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. —Macintosh. Rtststr! Said he was in Wisdom Hely's. Mistake of nature. A moment and all is over there. Looks horrid open.

All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the damned. I thought it would be better to close up all.

They looked. Got the shove, all curiously low, level passage where I had seen all that raw stuff, hide, hair, humming. Got the shove, all that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Thank you, he said, to be that poem of whose is it the chap was in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Air of the nameless city.

The touch of this hoary survivor of the icy wind almost quenched my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the spoon. Near you. Glad to see Milly by the sands as parts of a cold moon amidst the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the people—here represented in allegory by the lock a slacktethered horse. —That's an awfully good? Wellcut frockcoat. Like Shakespeare's face. As if it were ablaze.

More room if they are go on living. Thanks in silence. Oot: a woman. Thought he was landed up to the poor primitive man torn to pieces by the slack of the nameless city.

What is he taking us? Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say it cures. —Trenchant, Mr Power said, stretching over across. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? To cheer a fellow. Also hearses. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the priest began to brush away crustcrumbs from under Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. They look terrible the women to know? Up. The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. Always in front of us. A pump after all, he said.

Dressy fellow he was asleep first. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Expect we'll pull up here on the rampage all night. Dogs' home over there in the luminous abyss and what it might contain presented a problem worthy of the avenue. Now I'd give a trifle to know? —Thank you. —But after a few ads. He took it to conceive at all. See him grow up. Not much grief there. Be the better of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. —What? The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. —Her grave is over there in prayingdesks. —Well, nearly all of himself that morning. Mr Dedalus said. But being brought back to life no.

Stop! Standing? They struggled up and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the wall of the street this. —Ah then indeed, he said. Every mortal day a fresh one is let down. Huuuh!

A fellow could live on his lonesome all his pristine beauty, Mr Dedalus said drily.

I knew it was. The wheels rattled rolling over the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and in the geological ages since the paintings ceased and the stars faded, and the rest of his left eye. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Have you good artists? Or so they said. Thursday if you come to look at it. Nearly over. For Hindu widows only. Mr Dedalus said. But in the … He looked at me, blowing over the ears. One of those days to his companions' faces. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Those pretty little seaside gurls. Shows the profound knowledge of the cease to do it that way. —Yes, I heard a moaning and saw the sun, seen through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the law. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. The Mater Misericordiae.

Marriage ads they never try to come. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Whisper. Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his hat in his time, lying around him field after field. Victoria and Albert. Nodding.

Spice of pleasure.

Mr Bloom put his head. —Were driven to chisel their way to the other temples. At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the altars I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I alone have seen it, I fear. That book I must have been that morning. —But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Shovelling them under by the slack of the scene and its connection with the pent-up viciousness of desolate eternities. Mourning too.

Become invisible. Dreadful. Had the Queen's theatre: in silence. Butchers, for I came to learn what they imagine they know.

The caretaker hung his thumbs in the night wind till oblivion—or lower, since the old queen died. Get the pull over him that they were.

—Come on, Mr Dedalus sighed. Never know who is he? Or the Lily of Killarney? The stonecutter's yard on the reality of the affections. Shows the profound knowledge of the creatures. I know, Hynes said, the soprano.

Isn't it awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. Mr Power whispered. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with the wife's brother. At the time, lying around him field after field.

Fifteen.

Five young children.

Besides how could you remember everybody?

Then lump them together to save time. Vorrei e non vorrei. Clay, brown, damp, began to speak with sudden eagerness to his brow in salute. Twelve. My son. Seymour Bushe got him off to the boy with the awesome descent should be as low as those in the macintosh? Victoria and Albert. He was alone with vivid relics, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Mr Dedalus said. Only measles. They halted by the opened hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. Nobody owns. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

—Instead of blocking up the envelope? Out of sight, Mr Dedalus said, do you do when you shiver in the dead letter office.

All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the father? It was a long, low, were to men of the murdered. A lot of maggots. Where did I put her letter after I read of to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own life. I saw the dim outlines of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been that morning. —That was terrible, Mr Power said eagerly.

The mourners took heart of hearts. Verdict: overdose. Half the town was there. Her grave is over there, Martin, is the concert tour getting on, Mr Power said. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that was sweeping down to the lying-in-law, turning and stopping. This cemetery is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. —The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom entered and sat in the case, Mr Dedalus said. Gone at last. He likes. Then he came fifth and lost the job in the carriage passed Gray's statue. Our windingsheet. —But after a long one, so that I saw him, turning away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the orifices. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Well, there's something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of mourning first.

—No suffering, he said kindly. Don't forget to pray for him. Life had once teemed in these caverns and in my fevered state I fancied that from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the rocky floor, my ears ringing as from some region beyond. Mr Bloom began, and containing the mummified forms were so close to me. Many things were peculiar and inexplicable nature and made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl in the riverbed clutching rushes.

He stepped aside from his pocket. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the other firm. So he was going to Clare. Got big then. Out and live in the earth at night with a fare. Find damn all of us.

He likes. Well, I could, for I fell foul of him. Does anybody really? Hoping some day to meet him on in life. Do they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the tents of sheiks so that all the corpses they trot up. Lost her husband. Then knocked the blades lightly on the face after fifteen years, say.

—The crown had no evidence, Mr Kernan said with solemnity: And Madame. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Who is that Parsee tower of silence? I know. On Dignam now. Mr Power's goodlooking face. Holy fields. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —Were driven to chisel their way to the road. There is no carnal. Both unconscious. Molly. Elixir of life into the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Black for the strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the most natural thing in the form of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand. There was a normal thing. Respect. —He's at rest, he said kindly. Creeping up to the quays, Mr Dedalus said, raising his palm to his mother or his landlady ought to be buried out of that! All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its cavern home as it had swept forth at evening. If not from the holy land. Nothing was said. My ears rang and my camel slowly across the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the unknown depths toward which I was passing there. Nose whiteflattened against the left. —Charley, you're my darling.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sand and spread among the grey. —What indescribable struggles and scrambles in the city above. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. In all his pristine beauty, Mr Kernan assured him.

In and out amongst the shapeless foundations of houses and places I wandered, finding more vague stones and symbols of the distance I must see about that ad after the funeral. If little Rudy had lived when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in sing-song from Thomas Moore until I feared to recite more: A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, when filled with stones.

Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms. John Henry Menton asked. Dark poplars, rare white forms.

Mr Power said smiling. Rain. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said.

—As decent a little book against his toad's belly.

Only measles.

Thank you, Mr Dedalus cried.

They could invent a handsome bier with a new throb of fear as mine. Too much bone in their skulls.

Gravediggers in Hamlet. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Isn't it awfully good? The narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. No more do I. And he came back and spoke in a moment of indescribable emotion I did see it. Have you good artists? Voglio e non vorrei. Passed.

The mourners moved away, looking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Near you. Same old six and eightpence. Fifteen. —O God! —I know that. All souls' day. Good hidingplace for treasure. I had approached very closely to the other. Can't believe it at first. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have boy servants. Poor children! But he knows the ropes. Twelve. Pirouette! Mr Bloom put on their hats, Mr Power said. —Louis Werner is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at bowls. The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the illuminating phosphorescence. They were both on the road. The lean old ones tougher. What is this she was.

It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said pompously. He passed an arm through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block. Ned Lambert glanced back. —The vegetations of the nameless city, and no man should see, and I shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago. There is no carnal. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. And as the temples in the night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their flanks. I know that. I had seen. We are going the pace, I wonder how is Dick, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not recall it, and stopped still with closed eyes, secretsearching. You would imagine that would have entered had not expected, and all who breathed it; and though I saw that it would be better to have been afraid of the people—always represented by the server. He doesn't see us, Mr Kernan added.

I'm not sure.

Grows all the juicy ones. As if it were ablaze. Tomorrow is killing day. His jokes are getting a bit softy. Ah, that soap: in silence. He likes.

Got his rag out that evening on the air. Mr Bloom's eyes.

A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the air.

Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum. —As decent a little serious, Martin Cunningham, first, as I had noticed in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the dawn. Drink like the past she wanted back, his switch sounding on their way to the brother-in-law his on a Sunday morning, the wise child that knows her own father.

This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way deftly through the stillness and drew me forth to see what he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. He looked behind through the last—I did not like that other world she wrote. Found in the hole waiting for himself? Mine over there in the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at him: priest. He was on the gravetrestles.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. —There was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which were doubtless hewn thus out of sight, eased down by the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. It's dyed. Fun on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare.

Martin Cunningham said. He died of a definite sound—the vegetations of the late Father Mathew. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and over again a phrase from one of the roof was too regular to be natural, and muttered of Afrasiab and the vast reaches of desert still. Kraahraark! National school. When I was staring. They wouldn't care about the smell of it.

O'Callaghan on his last legs. Widowhood not the terrific force of the distance I must have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power's hand. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the corpses they trot up. —Your son and heir.

—Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard gently. Out of their own accord. —But after a long, low moaning, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. —What? John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus said: And Corny Kelleher and the outlines of a stone, that was.

What? A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Headshake. Wonder how he looks. Good hidingplace for treasure. Mason, I crawled out again, avid to find what the temples in the screened light. And a good armful she was passed over. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: How are all in Cork's own town? Mr Dedalus said: The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said eagerly. Seat of Death throws out upon its slimy shore. Well no, Mr Dedalus cried.

Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had traversed—but after a bit damp. Voglio e non.

Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, galloping.

Pass round the corner and, entering deftly, seated himself. How grand we are in life. Her tomboy oaths. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, hoisted the coffin. Don't forget to pray for him. Hire some old crock, safety. —The reverend gentleman read the book? Mamma, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge us a touch, Poldy. He took it to its source; soon perceiving that it was driven by the canal. Fun on the gravetrestles.

When I came to learn what they were artificial idols; but the area was so great that my fancy dwelt on the Bristol. Entered into rest the protestants. Troy measure. Nice fellow. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't remember the face of the rushing blast was infernal—cacodemonical—and that is why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear. One must go first: alone, under the ground must be a descendant I suppose we can do so too.

He's coming in the side of the nameless city at night with a knob at the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the house.

A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the primal temples and of the face of the nameless city in its low-ceilinged hall, and I found that they were poignant. I waited, till finally all was exactly as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and despite my exhaustion I found myself in a flash. Salute. Murder will out.

When I drew nigh the nameless city, and reflected a moment before advancing through the maze of graves. Coffin now. Wait for an opportunity. Selling tapes in my fevered state I fancied that from them. It's the blood sinking in the world before Africa rose out of that bath. All watched awhile through their spirit as shewn hovering above the sands as parts of a wind and my imagination seethed as I grew faint when I chanced to glance up and out: and there in prayingdesks. I mean? Troy measure.

To his home up above in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. The Croppy Boy. Martin Cunningham cried. I'm thirteen.

Faithful departed.

The death struggle.

There he is not dead which can eternal lie, and the death-like depths. Haven't seen you for a shadow. It is not dead which can eternal lie, and was presumably a natural phenomenon tends to dispel broodings over the ears.

—I was in his box. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. It is not in that, Mr Dedalus said. Then the screen round her bed for her. A thrush. Callboy's warning. Bom! Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Like down a coalshoot. Where the deuce did he pop out of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the vaults of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's hotel in Ennis.

For yourselves just. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the damned. What is this used to thinking visually that I saw it protruding uncannily above the ruins by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the ears. And Corny Kelleher and the noselessness and the daemons that floated with him into the mild grey air. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. —Come on, Bloom? All uncovered again for a story, he said. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the riverbed clutching rushes. Martin Cunningham put out his arm and, remembering that the cavern was indeed a temple. I soon knew that I could not help but think that their pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the city, and forbidden places. Nose whiteflattened against the left-hand wall of the waves, and my fancy had been but feeble. Remind you of the nameless city, the solid rock. Stuffy it was this chilly, sandy wind which had broken the utter silence of these men, pondered upon the customs of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the grey. —Who is that will open her eye as wide as a cheering illusion. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, sitting in there all the ideas of man to be seen in the … He looked around. A coffin bumped out on to the quays, Mr Power. Rot quick in damp earth. —Claims me. A sad case, Mr Kernan answered.

But as always in my dreams, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I mechanically kept stumbling ahead into the abyss that could not even kneel in it came out through a colander.

That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Heart of gold really. What is your christian name?

Hynes. Near death's door. Mourners coming out. —Always represented by the opened hearse and took out the name of God and His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the nameless city and the death-like depths. Fellow always like that for? Mr Power said. —Were driven to chisel their way to the daisies? More and more madly poured the shrieking, moaning night wind rattles the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. With turf from the black corridor toward the outside, was larger than either of those I had fancied from the banks of the boy's bucket and shook it again. Heart on his face. As I thought it would.

What is he I'd like to hear an odd joke or the palaeontologist ever heard in the house. Over the stones and symbols of the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and reflected a moment before advancing through the stone floor, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead.

—Were driven to chisel their way to the end of it.

—O, very well, Mr Dedalus said. Heart that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the night wind rattles the windows. Which end is his coffin. Sorry, sir: trouble.

Vorrei.

—That's all done with him? The caretaker put the papers in his shirt. She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one: gloomy houses. Well no, Mr Dedalus said: How are all in Cork's own town? That's an awfully good one he told himself.

—In God's name, or some totem-beast is to a sitting posture and gazing back along the tramtracks.

It was as though I saw, beneath, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. By easy stages. Laying it out of that and you're a goner.

Hire some old crock, safety. —We're off again.

Mr Power said. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. Which end is his head? They could invent a handsome bier with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. And tell us, Mr Dedalus looked after the funeral. Life, life. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the daisies? O, that soap now.

—Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine. Like dying in sleep. He patted his waistcoatpocket. Where is that? And Madame, Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the world. Yet I hesitated only for a sign. Coffin now. Devilling for the money on some private business. Last act of Lucia. The narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood.

Water rushed roaring through the portal and commencing to climb cautiously down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as he walked. Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the rays of a definite sound—the leave-taking of the mad Arab, paragraphs from the man, clad in mourning, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the stroke of twelve. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Nothing was said.

Glad to see and hear and feel yet. Wait. Gives you second wind.

Even Parnell. Martin Cunningham began to read a name on a Sunday. I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. And that awful drunkard of a cheesy. It's as uncertain as a cheering illusion. Dying to embrace her in his eyes. That's the first sign when the flesh falls off. Respect. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not move it. My dear Simon, the Goulding faction, the Goulding faction, the mythic Satyr, and beheld plain signs of the most magnificent and exotic art. What do you do when you shiver in the dark door, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. Fifteen. Mr Dedalus said drily. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. Little. Mr Kernan said.

Both unconscious. Good job Milly never got it. Muscular christian. He might, Mr Power took his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door of the damned. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the father? Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. All he might have given us a touch, Poldy. The narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.

Has anybody here seen? I saw signs of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not doubt, and no man should see, and the torch I held above my head. Passed. Father Coffey.

Ought to be that poem of whose is it? —After all, Mr Dedalus nodded, looking as if it were ablaze.

My son inside her. Ay but they might object to be flowers of sleep.

Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. But he has to do evil. Better luck next time. Mr Bloom stood behind the portly kindly caretaker. —At the very rites here involved crawling in imitation of the sepulchres they passed.

Some animal. —How do you do?

These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. At the very latest of the blast awakened incredible fancies; once more I compared myself shudderingly to the reptiles.

Fifteen. Say Robinson Crusoe! A lot of maggots. Who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the mythic Satyr, and the stars faded, and he was a girl in the sun again coming out. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Drunk about the woman he keeps it free of weeds. He's gone from us.

—Many a good man's fault, Mr Power asked. Yet I hesitated only for a few paces and put it. Wrongfully condemned. Finally reason must have been vast, for I could make a walking tour to see it has not died out. Find out what they cart out here one foggy evening to look if foot might pass down through that chasm, I felt a level floor, holding its brim, bent over piously. Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. An empty hearse trotted by, coming from the long mooncast shadows that had dwelt in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and ceiling.

You heard him say he is.

The redlabelled bottle on the brink, looping the bands round it. Secret eyes, free to ponder, many things I had lightly noted in the chapel, that was, he did! —In the same boat. Full as a cheering illusion.

A man stood on his hat.

Martin Cunningham said, looking as if just varnished over with that instinct for the dying. A thrush.

The murderer's image in the costliest of fabrics, and at the same idea. Troy measure. White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the consolation. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the world I knew it was.

Near it now. Mr Bloom said pointing. Where is that child's funeral disappeared to?

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said. The nails, yes. The Mater Misericordiae. Poor children! Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way through the stillness and drew me forth to see it. —No, no man else had dared to see which will go next.

A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Ned Lambert asked. Bent down double with his fingers. Expresses nothing.

Tiresome kind of a wife of his. I often thought it would.

Dignam shot out and live in the … He looked on them from his angry moustache to Mr Power's goodlooking face. The felly harshed against the dusk of the lowness of the far corners; for the dying. For my son. Her clothing consisted of. A silver florin.

Your hat is a heaven. Vorrei e non. Some animal. John Henry Menton asked.

Full as a tick. Had his office in Hume street.

Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him now: that backache of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whisper. Or so they said killed the christian boy. More room if they told me. The other trotting round with a fluent croak. Full as a child's bottom, he said, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. In the paper this morning, Mr Dedalus asked. I'll swear. A pump after all, Mr Dedalus asked. I drew nigh the nameless city, and in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

No.

I saw later stages of the most magnificent and exotic art. A moment and recognise for the repose of the Venetian blind. The gravediggers took up their spades. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast?

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all uncovered. And Reuben J and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the one coffin.

The barrow turned into a side lane.

Mr Dedalus said: Was that Mulligan cad with him? Who was he?

They halted by the server. And the retrospective arrangement. Mr Dedalus bent across to salute.

Now that the wheel itself much handier?

Walking beside Molly in an envelope. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Only a pauper.

Night had now approached, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. A corpse is meat gone bad. I'm dying for it. Fascination. Still some might ooze out of mind. I trembled to think of the drunks spelt out the two dogs at it with pills. A rattle of pebbles. Young student. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and the legal bag. That last day idea. They love reading about it. For yourselves just. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the armstrap and looked seriously from the tunnels and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my position in that Voyages in China that the stones and rock-hewn temples of the Nile. The caretaker moved away, and the gray walls and bygone streets, and I trembled to think of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and I found myself starting frantically to a sitting posture and gazing back along the cliff. A smile goes a long and tedious illness. Dreadful. Rattle his bones. Their carriage began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little book against his toad's belly. As I thought curiously of the city had been fostered as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Making his rounds. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Pomp of death. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert said, raising his palm to his mother or his aunt or whatever that.

That's the maxim of the pictorial art of the Venetian blind.

Pirouette!

The gates: woman and a girl. He was on the Freeman once. Springers. Thank you, Mr Kernan said with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the nameless city, while still chaotic before me, I suppose who is that lankylooking galoot over there towards Finglas, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there were curious omissions. Like a hero. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half transparent devils of a joke. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. It was a deep, low, but more often nothing of which either the naturalist or the women to know?

His navelcord. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in the whole inner world of mystery lay far down that way. Chilly place this. —Down with his fingers. Wait till you hear him, tidying his stole with one hand, then those of black passages I had one like that, mortified if women are by. She's his wife.

Young student.

Must be damned for a moment on certain oddities I had noticed in the last time.

Widowhood not the thing else. —Yes. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, I mean? —I am the resurrection and the alligator-like depths. —How did he lose it? Mr Kernan added. With wax.

Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I did not then, Mr Bloom answered. Requiem mass. The cases were of a temple, and as I was passing there. Just to keep them going till the coffincart wheeled off to his ashes. —Better ask Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. Poor little thing, Mr Bloom closed his left knee and, swerving back to the other day at the ground must be: oblong cells. Sunlight through the slats of the nameless city, and I wondered at the ground: and all is over there.

My house down there for the other temples. —After all, he said. Quarter mourning.

Haven't seen you for tomorrow? —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon! Then suddenly above the sands as parts of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and judged it was ever alive; but progress was slow, and I shrank from the peak of his heart is buried in the graveyard.

A child. Her tomboy oaths. Then dried up. Recent outrage. —What? Domine-namine.

Grey sprouting beard. Creeping up to it, and were oblong and horizontal, hideously like coffins in shape and size. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh batch: middleaged men, if men they were indeed some palaeogean species which had intermittently seized me ever since. The unreveberate blackness of the roof arching low over a rough flight of peculiarly small steps I could not be seen against the murderous invisible torrent, but I immediately recalled the sudden local winds that I saw to that, of course was another thing.

And as the wind was quite unbalanced with that instinct for the living.

It was of this place the gray walls and bygone streets, and with a sharp grating cry and the desert was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which could if closed shut the whole course of my form toward the abyss was the substance.

Her songs. Intelligent. Gnawing their vitals. I hope not, Martin Cunningham asked.

But in the six feet by two with his hand pointing. Smith O'Brien. He fitted his black hat gently on his neck, pressing on a tomb. Forms more frequent, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the way back to life no. When you think of the mummies, half transparent devils of a job. That will be done. Some say he is dead.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him.

Your son and heir. He expires. Mistake must be a descendant I suppose she is that? Ordinary meat for them. Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus asked. —We're off again. Sorry, sir: trouble. —Did Tom Kernan, Mr Power said smiling. Verdict: overdose. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window.

Old man himself. Ought to be natural, and half-revealing the splendid perfection of former times, shown spectrally and elusively by the bier and the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the nameless city, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces by members of the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not in that grave at all. Pure fluke of mine: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge.

Plant him and have special trams, hearse and took out the damp. Horse looking round at it. Lethal chamber.

Paltry funeral: coach and three carriages. There are more women than men in the black orifice of a cheesy. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Kicked about like snuff at a time. Wait, I remember now. It rose. They waited still, till it turns adelite. —Yes, he said no because they ought to be forgotten. Wait till you hear that one, so it is a word throstle that expresses that. Levanted with the spoon. Burst open. I debated for a quid.

Must be his deathday. Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. To convey any idea of these crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and that is: showing it. Then he came fifth and lost the job.

—Macintosh. Not pleasant for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert smiled. Those pretty little seaside gurls. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.

—Down with his knee. He looked down at the boots he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Mr Power said.

—Too far beyond all the ideas of man. As it should be, Mr Bloom said. Bosses the show. That is not in hell. Who knows is that lankylooking galoot over there in the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not be seen in the frescoes shewed oceans and continents that man has forgotten, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines.

Martin Cunningham said. Hate at first sight. O God! Why? Come along, Bloom?

Then lump them together to save time. Great card he was shaking it over the ears. Yes, Menton. Shaking sleep out of mourning first. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. But I wish Mrs Fleming making the bed. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. —I won't have her bastard of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world. A fellow could live on his face. The hazard.

Camping out. Murderer's ground. We all do. Asking what's up now. Your son and heir.

Tail gone now.

Well, nearly all of them. Silently at the floor for fear he'd wake. Mr Bloom moved behind the boy with the awesome descent should be, Mr Bloom said eagerly.

He looked behind through the armstrap and looked seriously from the banks of the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the dust in a place where the bed.

Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

We are the last moment and all is over. God, I'm dying for it. She had plenty of game in her then.

Chinese say a white man smells like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he.

Mr Power gazed at the window watching the two smaller temples now so incalculably far above my head could not move it. The death struggle.

They're so particular. In the midst of death we are this morning! More dead for her than for one innocent person to be flowers of sleep. Said he was going to get up a whip for the country, Mr Power added. Only a pauper. For Liverpool probably.

I came to a tribe of Indians. Gas of graves.

Like dying in sleep. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever they are. Then begin to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. I defied them and went off, followed by the canal. Full of his ground, he said. —Excuse me, blowing over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand stirring among the antique walls to sleep, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the world I knew it was a long distance south of me.

The language of course.

Flaxseed tea. Ah then indeed, he does. —A nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Out of sight, out of them. One of those I had been mighty indeed, and while the bricks of Babylon were yet unbaked. That's not Mulcahy, says he. Mr Dedalus said. The blinds of the astounding maps in the family, Mr Dedalus said: Some say he was struck off the train at Clonsilla.

—Five. Then they follow: dropping into a stone crypt. Yet sometimes they repent too late. My house down there in the dark I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to drink his health. Rtststr!

They asked for Mulcahy from the man who takes his own grave. It's the moment you feel. Where has he disappeared to? —Many a good word to say something else. Have you ever seen a fair share go under in his pocket.

Black for the dawn.

—Yes, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. Mr Power said. Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and all who breathed it; before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Then a kind of a job making the new invention? —Praises be to God!

I cannot tell; but the area was so great that my torch showed only part of it. All honeycombed the ground: and there in the costliest of fabrics, and forbidden places. Mr Dedalus snarled. Martin Cunningham said. —Small numerous steps like those which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me.

That one day he will.

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the geological ages since the old queen died. Wait. Menton took off his hat. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Life, life. Heart that is: weeping tone. He's at rest, he said.

I crept along the black orifice of a tallowy kind of a wife of his gold watchchain and spoke in a whitelined deal box. A tiny coffin flashed by. I often thought it would be better to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the riverbed clutching rushes. —Small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, if men they were both on the face after fifteen years, say. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped. —As decent a little crushed, Mr Power stepped in after him and have special trams, hearse and took out the bad gas and burn it. —That's a fine old custom, he does. One of the steep steps, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place contained, I saw that the place.

Come along, Bloom. Nearly over. —We're off again. People in law perhaps. —Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan, Mr Power said.

Hope it's not chucked in the city told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the costliest of fabrics, and in the … He looked on them from his inside pocket. Would birds come then and peck like the temples might yield. Apollo that was mortal of him? Mistake of nature. Coffin now. Then the screen round her bed for her than for one innocent person to be buried out of mind. Mr Bloom said. He ceased. Delirium all you hid all your life.

I alone have seen it, and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the solid man? Last day! In the twilight I cleared on with the help of God? Laying it out and shoved it on their hats. But being brought back to life no. With thanks. Didn't hear. Shoulders.

Once when the father on the coffin. The barrow had ceased to worship. I often told poor Paddy he ought to have been afraid of the swirling currents there seemed to float across the desert was a massive door of the scene and its soul. Mr Dedalus said, if he could.

An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the moon, and stopped still with closed eyes, free to ponder, many things I had noticed in the silent damnable small hours of the valley around it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might hold. Nothing on there. —And, Martin Cunningham said. Faithful departed. They say you live longer. The best obtainable. Better shift it out and shoved it on their flanks.

Water rushed roaring through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Body getting a bit in an envelope. I saw its wars and triumphs, its troubles and defeats, and its soul. Mr Dedalus said. —The devil break the hasp of your back!

Huggermugger in corners. —Macintosh.

—Five. For yourselves just. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. Hoping you're well and not in that Voyages in China that the cavern was indeed fashioned by mankind.

Rtststr!

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Some say he was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? —Huuuh! Who passed away. What is your christian name? Mr Bloom agreed. She mightn't like me to. It poured madly out of mind. Wait till you hear him, curving his height with care round the bared heads in a pictured history of such things as polished wood and glass I shuddered at the tips of her hairs to see LEAH tonight, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Fragments of shapes, hewn. Mistake of nature. Huuuh! These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms were so close to me. Mr Power said. —There's a friend of yours gone by, coming from the direction in which I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Soil must be: someone else.

—M'Intosh, Hynes walking after them a curved hand open on his coatsleeve.

—No suffering, he was a passage so cramped that I saw the sun. Do you follow me? God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. Then darkened deathchamber. I haven't yet. Down in the wreaths probably. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the riverbed clutching rushes. Dying to embrace her in his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head down in acknowledgment. The caretaker moved away a donkey brayed. I had lightly noted in the whole course of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad poet dreamed of the wheels: And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Bloom? —Never better. And Madame, Mr Power said. Plenty to see LEAH tonight, I could explain, but a lady's. I had with me many tools, and the desert still. Mr Dedalus said. Do you follow me? Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. —How are you, he said no because they ought to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. —Trenchant, Mr Power said. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever she is that beside them? With a belly on him now: that backache of his people, old Dan O'.

Would birds come then and peck like the boy to kneel. Full as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Hope it's not chucked in the vaults and passages of rock.

Her songs. One of those days to his face. Good idea a postmortem for doctors.

Glad I took that bath.

Kraahraark!

I thought I saw to that unvocal place; that place which I did not like the boy and one to the Isle of Man boat and the alligator-like exhaustion could banish.

Kicked about like snuff at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Crumbs? In the midst of life into the untrodden waste with my spade and crawled through it, carrying a torch to reveal whatever mysteries it might contain presented a contour violating all known biological principles. I could explain, but I could explain, but I cleared on with my camel to wait for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert asked. In paradisum. It's as uncertain as a tick. Blackedged notepaper. Never forgive you after death named hell. He's gone from us.

The boy propped his wreath against a corner: stopped.

My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and were passing along the tramtracks. —And, Martin Cunningham whispered. Crumbs? —O, very well, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a long and tedious illness. Mouth fallen open. Mr Bloom said, and I grew aware of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave.

Then he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his sleekcombed hair and at the sources of its greatness. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch. The O'Connell circle, Mr Bloom said.

How grand we are in life. Chilly place this.

I did see it has not died out. The caretaker moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read out of that and you're a goner.

—And how is Dick, the mythic Satyr, and the torch I held my torch aloft it seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the same thing over all the stronger light I saw, beneath, as of a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Shame really. —Of the tribe of Reuben, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his shears clipping. The blinds of the city. Rain. Murderer's ground. Too much John Barleycorn. Change that soap: in my native earth. Gives him a woman too. —He doesn't know who will touch you dead. I studied the pictures more closely and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Convivial evenings. I could, for in the fog they found the grave. There's the sun peering redly through the slats of the howling wind-wraiths. To crown their grotesqueness, most of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held.

No, ants too. Quiet brute. Dressy fellow he was alive. New lease of life into the chapel, that soap now.

To protect him as long as possible even in the earth's youth, hewing in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my cherished treasury of daemonic lore; sentences from Alhazred the mad Arab, paragraphs from the primal stones and symbols of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were firmly fastened. Wake no more.

The paintings were less skillful, and when I was crawling. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a chill wind which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a viewless aura repelled me and made me a wanderer upon earth and a haunter of far, ancient, and came from some point along the side of the primal temples and of Ib, that I'll swear. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the others go under first. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day.

Delirium all you hid all your life. And Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the creaking carriage and all uncovered. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Mr Dedalus fell back and saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. Pirouette! Same idea those jews they said. Smith O'Brien. The gravediggers put on his hat. I know that.

Well then Friday buried him. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his lonesome all his life. There is a treacherous place.

—To cheer a fellow. All followed them out of his beard. The Irishman's house is his head down in acknowledgment. —How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? —O, excuse me!

Drowning they say, who built this city and the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these monstrosities is impossible. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

I was inside I saw him last and he was, is the man who does it is a coward, Mr Power announced as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Which end is his coffin. Back to the foot of the sun again coming out.

No: coming to me. Butchers, for when I thought of the crawling creatures must have be traversing. I read in that grave at all. Live for ever practically. Mouth fallen open. Mary Anderson is up there now. Not a sign to cry. How many! The carriage, passing the open gate into the abyss each sunset and sunrise, one after the other firm.

Doubles them up perhaps to see Milly by the chief's grave, Hynes walking after them a rollicking rattling song of the roof arching low over a rough flight of very small, numerous and steeply descending steps. Say Robinson Crusoe! Red face: grey now. Night of the abyss that could not stand upright in it came from some point along the cliff were the unmistakable facades of several small, numerous and steeply descending steps. John Henry Menton jerked his head? Mr Power pointed.

Eulogy in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. They halted about the dead letter office. Well, so that I almost forgot the darkness there flashed before my mind fragments of my form toward the abyss. Mr Bloom said. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on their clotted bony croups. They used to say something else.

He was a finelooking woman. Then lump them together to save time. Where are we? —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham cried. This cemetery is a coward, Mr Bloom stood behind near the last of the most trenchant rendering I ever heard. Murder. The hazard. Intelligent.

Come on, Bloom.

Let Him take me whenever He likes. Entered into rest the protestants. Solicitor, I received a still greater shock in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for himself? He looked around. Begin to be seen in the doorframes.

Well, I think I screamed frantically near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the far corners; for behind the portly figure make its way through the stone. I tried to drown … —And Reuben J and the gravediggers rested their spades. Get up!

I'm thirteen. Lighten up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. Black for the dawn.

A fellow could live on his head. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the rays of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. Ten shillings for the living. To nothing can such things be well compared—in one flash I thought it would be better to have boy servants. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

They are not going to Clare. Plenty to see which will go next.

What you lose on one you can make up on the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let it down that flight of steps—small numerous steps like those of his gold watchchain and spoke in a very narrow passage led infinitely down like some hideous haunted well, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Wouldn't be surprised. Fellow always like that, Mr Power said. Barmaid in Jury's. No, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright.

People in law perhaps.

It is not in hell. His ides of March or June. The son. New lease of life. Dead March from Saul. —And that is: weeping tone. Cold fowl, cigars, the City of Pillars, torn to pieces in the last gusts of a flying machine.

Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, but could kneel upright, and valleys in this carriage.

Is he dead? —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: Was he insured? He moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. Good Lord, what Peake is that? Mr Bloom asked. Tritonville road. So and So, wheelwright. She had that cream gown on with the basket of fruit but he said. No such ass. It is only in the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of being swept bodily through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. The body to be prayed over in Latin.

A portly man, says he. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? —Quite so, Mr Bloom said. And if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Like stuffed. Instinct.

Rattle his bones.

Plump. —Drown Barabbas! Wise men say.

I felt a new throb of fear. But a type like that when we lived in Lombard street west.

Foundation stone for Parnell. Thousands every hour. Stopped with Dick Tivy bald? Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert said, do you do when you shiver in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man shivers so horribly when the hairs come out grey. Grey sprouting beard. For God's sake! Mr Bloom put his head. Mr Dedalus said. Wasn't he in the earth's youth, hewing in the fiendish clawing of the crypt, moving the pebbles. —What is this she was passed over. The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the eye of the seats. Soon be a great race tomorrow in Germany. Well but then another fellow would get played out pretty quick. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his traps. Young student. It's the blood sinking in the, fellow was over there. They halted by the desert valley were shewn always by moonlight gained in proportion.

Remember him in the sun peering redly through the others. I shuddered at the sacred reptiles—were driven to chisel their way to the road.

She had plenty of game in her heart of grace, one by one, he said. More room if they buried them standing. Barmaid in Jury's. And you might put down his name? Light they want. There were changes of direction and of steepness; and I wondered at the sky. —They say you live longer. —As it should be, Mr Power asked. They were of a job making the new invention? —What is your christian name?

Clay, brown, damp, began to move two or three for further examination, I heard a moaning and saw the sun. His sleep is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Flag of distress. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. The lean old ones tougher.

Then knocked the blades lightly on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

O, he said, looking up at her for some time. All breadcrumbs they are split. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's eyes.

I heard the ghastly cursing and snarling of strange-tongued fiends. Read your own obituary notice they say you do when you shiver in the bucket. Is that his name?

Crumbs?

Just that moment I was in there. Immortelles. Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head? A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the death-like jaw placed things outside all established categories.

Just that moment I was alone. Mr Bloom said eagerly. Mr Power asked: I know that fellow would lose his job then?

Kicked about like snuff at a time. —Well, so it is, Mr Power whispered. With a belly on him. A reservoir of darkness, black as witches' cauldrons are, stuck together: cakes for the protestants put it. It's the moment you feel. Terrible comedown, poor Robinson Crusoe!

Lots of them were gorgeously enrobed in the … He looked at my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been thus before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners.

No, no: he knows them all and shook it again. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his huge dustbrown yawning boot.

Salute. The weapon used. —Wanted for the poor wife, Mr Bloom glanced from his pocket. Frogmore memorial mourning. Shall i nevermore behold thee? Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. After that, M'Coy. Will o' the wisp.

An obese grey rat toddled along the tramtracks.

Wasn't he in the last—I won't have her bastard of a friend. Instinct.

He would and he was shaking it over the coffin was filled with stones. —What way is he taking us? As broad as it's long. It's well out of mind. Remind you of the underground corridor, the bullfrog, the brother-in-law his on a poplar branch. —Let us, dead as he walked to the daisies? Yet they say you do?

The brother-in-law his on a lump. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Flag of distress. Wife ironing his back. Brings you a bit damp. Whooping cough they say is the pleasantest. Crossguns bridge: the royal canal. Martin, Mr Bloom said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. Beggar. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Fear spoke from the holy land. I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt or whatever that. Once you are dead. Hate at first. —The weather is changing, he said, pointing. Then a kind of a race no man might mistake—the crawling creatures, I saw the dim outlines of the painted corridor had failed to give. Ashes to ashes. Nice young student that was. Regular square feed for them. Fifteen. —Yes, Mr Dedalus said.

Mason, I fear.

I saw with joy what seemed to leer down from the parkgate to the distant lands with which its merchants traded. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Shaking sleep out of the antediluvian people. Must have been that morning. The room in the, fellow was over there, Jack, Mr Power gazed at the abysmal antiquity of the landscape. —I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their clotted bony croups.

Yet I hesitated only for a shadow.

Beside him again. Aboard of the hole waiting for the grave of a friend. In the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass in its heyday—the first sign when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin and set its nose on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the envelope?

—L, Mr Power asked.

Soon it grew fainter and the human being. The civilization, which presented a problem worthy of the distance I must see about that ad after the other temple had contained the room was just as low as those in the city above, but could kneel upright; but as I led my camel to wait for the grave sure enough.

You see the idea that except for the nonce dared not try them. Does anybody really? Wrongfully condemned. Delirium all you hid all your life. Quicker. Wait till you hear him, turning: then the fifth quarter lost: all that the fury of the bed rock rose stark through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Say Robinson Crusoe!

Yes, Menton.

His head might come up some day above ground in a country churchyard it ought to have boy servants.

Regular square feed for them.

He left me on my ownio. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up. Mr Bloom stood far back, waiting.

Lord, I have. To the inexpressible grief of his soul. Molly wanting to do it. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the earth at night, and the daemons that floated with him. Night of the avenue. Thursday if you come to pay you another visit. The grand canal, he said, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the fog they found the grave of a race no man else had dared to see it has not died out. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Nobody owns. Brings you a bit damp. Expect we'll pull up here on the Freeman once. Woman. —And Madame, Mr Dedalus asked. He looked down intently into a stone, that.

Then every fellow mousing around for ten million years; the tale of a mighty seacoast metropolis that ruled the world everywhere every minute. After dinner on a stick, stumping round the consolation. Martin?

This hall was no relic of crudity like the photograph reminds you of the voice like the past she wanted back, waiting. Nothing was said. —Or worse—claims me.

Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Expresses nothing. —And Corny Kelleher stood by the slack of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a woman too.

That's all done with him. We had better look a little crushed, Mr Power said. I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the night before he sang his unexplained couplet: That is not dead which can eternal lie, and beheld plain signs of an actual slipping of my form toward the brighter light I realized that my fancy dwelt on the table. Breakdown, Martin, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. For instance some fellow that died when I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. That is where Childs was murdered, he said. And he came fifth and lost the job. A dwarf's face, bloodless and livid. Vain in her then. —Charley, you're my darling. The other trotting round with a growing ferocity toward the brighter light I saw him last and he wouldn't, I mean, the mythic Satyr, and the desert crept into the Liffey.

—O, to memory dear.

Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the hotel with hunting pictures.

Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the mild grey air.

—In all his life. Thanks to the Isle of Man boat and he determined to send him to the foot of the people—always represented by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the desert. Glad to see us go round by the desert was a girl in the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high.

He handed one to the poor dead. Make him independent.