#or boohoo he should have saved himself while he was alive

[sleepyjim2]

legit the Only thing stopping me from dyin right now is that i know i wldnt be respected by my family after 😭

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

Fic: Io non ci credo, alle giraffe (FINAL CHAPTER)

So, you can find this chapter on AO3 as well (together with the sappiest epilogue you could ever imagine) and I do hope it lives up to your expectations. It mostly did, to mine. I agonized over writing this fic, but I nearly cried now that it’s over.

This wasn't quite what he had in mind, when he had tried to picture the afterlife. The few times he did that, whilst attending the funerals of some old relative, Martino had conjured up a field of barley. An eternal sunset. A light breeze.

Loved ones, lost too early, ready to show him the ropes and teach him how to haunt his friends for the rest of their lives.

"Boohoo! Poor Marti wanted a welcoming committee in a lovely bucolic setting…" said a grating voice in a harsh and judgemental tone.

Where did it come from? Who was speaking? There was nothing around him. No one.

Only darkness.

"Instead of you've got me. This." The stranger continued. "Because we've got to be predictable, don't we? Unimaginative. But do you know what? Screw you, man. I can do better."

Then he heard a loud, snapping sound and had to shield his eyes from a bright blinding light.

"Are you still there?" Marti asked to his unknown companion.

They didn't sound like a particularly pleasant person, but… Anyone, even Marco - Emma's brutish brother - would do...

'Beggars can't be choosers' as his dad used to say.

"Unbelievable!! You're still quoting him. As if that man ever said anything worth repeating…"

Uhh, this guy sure had some serious beef with his father… and could read his thoughts, apparently? No wonder why the stranger was so grumpy, given that he had been bombarded by flashes of Marti kissing Nico for the last… day?

Week? It was hard to keep track of time when they only thing that existed was you, and your immense loneliness.

"No!! That's not my division, you've got somebody else covering that. I'm in charge of rage, disdain, frustration, resent and pettiness. Yeah, yeah. I do most of the work around here." The more Marti listened to him talking, the less sense he made.

Where were they? Who was he? Where was he hiding?

"I'm not hiding. I'm right behind you."

What? How was that possible? He must have been joking, because Marti would have noticed if… Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A hand that was too familiar in weight and texture. He turned, finally, to face himself.

He looked battered, exhausted, dishevelled. His eyes were red, and teary. His shoulders hunched, as though he had been carrying the weight of the word for quite some time. Wow. It was a lot to take in. Did he really-

"Let me stop you there. Yes, this is how you sound to other people and how they see you. They are used to it, by the way, so they don't find it as unpleasant as you do. Next? Are you alive? Yes? No? How should I know, when I am literally something you made up?"

So, basically, Martino could only hope that he wasn't stuck here, with the worst of himself, forever.

"The worst, huh? Wait until fear, jealousy and paranoia show up... Not to mention the good old self-preservation instinct, aka what you usually refer to as 'common sense', who's gonna bore y-"

"Okay, okay. I get it. No need to get so defensive." Damn, someone here was a bit too sensitive to criticism!

Okay, alright. Perhaps this guy wasn't the bottom of the barrel, maybe some people even found his fiery disposition and charming, but…. it couldn't be all that his friends - and Nico; his sweet gentle dorky Nico -  saw in Martino.

He had plenty of good, in him… so where was it?

"Ooh! That's the attitude you need to get out of here… Know your worth! Fight for it!" Anger goaded him on, suddenly mellowing out and becoming a lot more amiable.

"Lend an ear to your heart, be true to yourself…" Martino rebuked, not quite as sarcastic as he would have been a couple of days before.

"... and when you do, you'll hold the key to open all doors, yeah. Starting from that one" his grumpy companion said, pointing at the portal that just appeared out of nowhere.

"Don't. Save it. We are nowhere, therefore…" Marti shushed him, rolling his eyes and smiling. It was kind of endearing to realise how predictable he could be. Comforting.

"Stop stalling and go through that damn door. Someone's waiting for you."

Who? Could it be… ? Well there was only one way to find out.

As he stepped over the threshold, everything changed.

He could have sworn that the air was filled with the smell of his mother's freshly baked cinnamon rolls, which she hadn't been making for nearly a decade. The sun shine brightly in a cloudless blue sky, but it didn't burn skin. A pleasant warmth was spreading through him, while Marti relieved the bone crushing hugs, the forehead kisses, the most gentle touch upon his own lips and all those casual loving gestures he had taken for granted for far too long.

He knew where he was. The Emerald Fields, and idyllic place on the outskirts of Eterna. A city 'where all wishes come true', according to legends. His father - merchant for a living, myth-buster for 'the greater good, the improvement of society as a whole' - had proved them to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors… Quite ironic that a man so obsessed with honesty and transparency had the guts to… No. Forget it.

It was unacceptable: he wouldn't any unresolved issues he had with his dad spoil this memory.

Of the last time it truly felt invincible, invaluable. Unique, in all his untapped potential. Carefree.

He didn't mind being alone, here… not that he was. Obviously, he wasn't. Deer and and fawns had materialise beside him, stubbornly nudging Martino towards the lake.

Playfully splashing water with his feet, with a flower crown in his auburn hair, sat the person who had been waiting for him. Not Niccolò, unfortunately. Or Gio.

"I suppose you'll have to settle for me." He said, silently asking Marti to sit next to him with an eloquent look. Welcoming, rather than threatening.

There was an aura of 'now tell me all about your troubles, my friend… share the weight with me and maybe they won't seem half as bad..' surrounding him, which normally Martino would've labelled as patronising - unless it came from Giovanni. Normally.

FlowerBoy tapped the plank on his right, for emphasis, thanking Marti when you finally took a seat on the creek.

"I'm glad you two parted on good terms. He got us through some awful times, you know? You call him 'anger', but he is 'pride'. Which, in itself, is not so bad. Life has hardened him, made him constantly ready for a fight, but… what you see as a flaw, indeed, is one of your biggest strengths. Loyalty. Perseverance. Spite… I can't take the credit for those - especially the latter, which has repeatedly spurred you into action. It comes from loving yourself, sure, but with a slight disdain for others and their shitty opinions."

Woah. Martino hadn't being ready for the lecture on his own negative feelings from… His hippie self?

"You seem nicer, though." Clean-shaven, soft-spoken, well-rested and well-dressed.

A stark contrast from the guy he had met first.

"I generally am. Enough to make people stay, most of the time. Draw them in, however? Avoiding to wax lyrical on how the universe now revolves around them, and keeping a shred of dignity as if I wouldn't gladly have them on every available surface?" Huh? Were they still talking about his family and friends?

"Sorry, I got a bit carried away. The most recent developments with Ni… That's all very new to me. Never had I experienced something so intense. It's exciting and scary. Fascinating and confusing. Anyway, the point is: I'm cheesy. Sappy. Shamelessly so. He gives us an edge, turning mushiness into good-natured banter."

An interesting take, undoubtedly, but… kind of pointless? It did offer a new perspective on parts of himself he hadn't been overly fond of, still… In the grand scheme of things, what was the purpose of these talks? Where was the conflict, and the revelation that came with it?

"Not every tale needs to feature a dragon's slayer, or a fearless knight battling orcs. Lessons can be learnt without suffering."

All he needed to do was listen, basically? Could it be that easy? Wasn't it such a cop out?

"Easy, you say. And yet you haven't been able to achieve such an easy task in all these years. You refuse to. Shut up. You weren't talking? Well, you were thinking. Given them - dreaded common sense, fear and self-pity - too much attention."

Empty your mind. Find the sound that resonates within your soul. Amplify it. That's your spark.

Martino had never progressed past that stage, at the Academy, much to the Mentors' bafflement. He'd supposed they couldn't believe what they were seeing… that an individual with no magic at all co-

"SHUT UP!!"

Right. Right. No more thoughts. Hear the waves sloshing against the creek? The breeze blowing through the grass? The pitter-patter of deer hooves? Great. Cancel them out. Your breath is deafening, now, isn't it? It's all you can hear, and that's not particularly interesting…

"Don't give up, Marti please." Whose voice was it?  His mom's?

"Come on, man. Wake up." Gio's?

"Going from sleep deprived to lethargic? Really? Since when are you the 'go big or go home' kind of guy?" Eva's?

"Are you trying to impress someone, hun? You don't need to. One would think you hung the stars and moon from the way he looks at you…" Filo's?

"Marti, you can't go without seeing Luca's latest master-" Oh, how he had missed Elia's laughter. "masterpiece, yeah, that you've inspired."

"Don't fret. It doesn't matter how long it takes, but come back to me when it's over, okay? I'll be waiting. I'll always be waiting." Nico's. 

Wait. How could that be possible. Shouldn't he… No, no, no. Marti, no. Don't get lost, don't let logical reasoning lure you in. Take care of that later, okay? Okay.

Silence, please… There. You have it. The complete absence of s-

"LET ME OUT!!" A young boy yelled, thumping repeatedly from under the thick ice layer it was now covering the lake.

Was it some kind of ruse, a deceit it was supposed to ignore to reach a higher level of consciousness?

"HELP ME!!!" Thud. Thud. Thud. "PLEASE!!!" Thud. Thud. Thud.

Screw it. Too bad if he wasn't supposed to intervene: he was going to, regardless of the consequences.

Deprived of any tool that could help him with the rescue, it soon became clear that's the only way he could smash the ice was by jumping on it. And once he inevitably plunged into the freezing water, it would be just a matter of minutes before hypothermia kicked in and killed them both.

It didn't matter.

"HOLD ON!!!" Jump. Jump. Jump. "I'M GONNA GET YOU HOME. GONNA GET BOTH OF US HOME!!! "Jump. Jump. Jump. "ALIVE!!!"

Crack. He did it!

Seize the kid and get out. Survive.

"Thanks. I'm sorry I cursed you." The boy said, creating a bubble around them. "I… I didn't mean… It backfired… I…"

"... didn’t want to be alone anymore. You aren’t, you understand? I’m the one who’s sorry. You just wanted to be heard. Acknowledged. Remembered.” Martino couldn't recall the last time I took in the world around him with wonder, grateful to be alive and getting to see a rainbow. The first snow. The low tide. Shooting stars. The dancing curtains. Sunrises and sunsets. Niccolò.

"You really like him, don't you? Me too… He's cool… and he was the first one who saw me. Saw all of us, really… and still chose to stay."

Enough with the chit chat. The promises he'd only made, all that he had never allowed himself to be… No more words were needed to reconcile.

Much better to embrace them. Swim back to the surface. Rise.

********************************** Messy black curls. Full, red, pouty lips. Insanely long lashes. Lithe fingers, adorned with huge rings. More beautiful than Martino ever recalled. “You look like shit.” He mumbled, lazily stroking his hair.  “And you’re heavy. Doze off somewhere else, please.” “Marti?” Oi! He had no business breaking his heart with that note of desperation in his voice. Or with the tears in his eyes. He shouldn’t be allowed to cry. Not on his watch.

“Marti, Marti, Marti…”  He didn’t seem able to say or do anything else, for a while. Only kiss him, and repeat his name like a mantra. Eventually, he calmed down. “Look who’s talking, by the way.” Niccolò retorted, rolling his eyes. “I don’t accept criticism from ‘Mr. Death-Warmed-Over’, sorry.” “And from whom would you accept it, huh? Your husband?” Marti teased, hoping he wasn’t being too cheeky. “Mh. Maybe. I wouldn’t say yes to a proposal that came from a bedside, when he’s still hazy from a long sleep and doesn’t quite know what he’s saying.” Niccolò answered, kissing his knuckles reverently. “I do know…” Martino huffed, taking comfort in the fact that Nico hadn’t utterly turned him down. “... nonetheless, you deserve a better proposal. I get it. And you’ll have it. I’ll ride a giraffe, if that’s what is required for you to say yes, okay?” “Okay. I’ll be waiting for it, then.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against Martino’s. “Choose my wedding dress, in the meantime. Unless you’d want me to wear a suit.” “You could wear a gunny sack and I wouldn’t dream to complain, Ni.” “What if I showed up naked, then?” Niccolò moved to the side, brushing his lips against his ear and neck. “Well, it’s not a sight I’m really so willing to share with everyone out there, but I suppose that if that’s what makes you happy…” “Forget it, then. We should be both happy on that day. We’ll be.” And they were. Living fully - though not always happily  - ever after.

[ulyssesredux]

Aeolous

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

It was about a foot square, and had made, saw the group of giant elms among which an ancestor had oddly vanished a century. That gave him that none could tell if he got paralysed there and no mistake!

―Carter had years before.

―What is it?

Daresay he writes him an odd gift of prophecy which, if aught that the satisfaction of one moment is the newspaper in four clean strokes.

―General Bobrikoff.

VIRGILIAN, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Then he began once more the writing of books, which only a mockery; and reacted unusually to things which, though he was in a westend club. Then one night his grandfather had told him that idea, Mr Nannetti, he comes, pale vampire, mouth to my mouth.

RHYMES AND LIKEWISE— WHERE?

And yet he died without having entered the land of Egypt and that the imagination or the Parable of The Plums. —Very much so, professor MacHugh said.

―Must require some practice that. Dare it.

―The gray old scholar, as if the wrinkles of long years had fallen upon the brisk little Cockney. Silly, isn't it?

He wondered how it would look, for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and again. He raised his head.

Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said quietly, turning. —Just another spasm, Ned Lambert went on.

―And with a reflective glance at his toecaps.

―-Well, J.J. O'Molloy said to be, J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford said more calmly.

―Nearing the end of his newspaper. Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus, staring from the inner door.

YOU CAN YOU CAN DO IT!

His new novels were successful as his old ancestral country around Arkham.

―

-What is it? Lenehan announced gladly: He said of it sourly: Very smart, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. —O, for the Congregational Hospital. —Just a moment. Myles Crawford said, is it? House of keys. Once a gap in the papers and then bent at once but slowly from J.J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and walked abreast.

―-How do you find a pressman for you. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

Ned Lambert asked. All that long business about that brought us out of their scientific discoveries. Their names are Anne Kearns has the most matches? —Nulla bona, Jack, he said.

Might go first himself. It wasn't me, I suppose it's worth a short par. And dogs barked as the door to.

―Believe he does that job.

―A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh said grandly. Pyatt!

Pause. He went into the logical relations of things as they are, and with the rustling tissues. O dear!

Hail fellow well met the next.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

―He danced back to the left along Abbey street.

That is, Red Murray whispered. Get a grip of them.

Miles of it in your head, that went under with the blade of a stuck pig or dyspeptic plowman in real life is after all.

―

Same as Citron's house.

―It was revealed to me.

Afternoon was far gone when he read this scroll, and they are, and Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but I shall ask him when I was present. We were only thinking about it, Stephen said. Professor MacHugh turned on him today. Is that Canada swindle case on today?

Lenehan announced gladly: F to P is the maxim: time is money. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —Racing special!

LOST CAUSES, FLO WANGLES-FOR THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS.

Our Saviour? And Madam Bloom, Mr Crawford? —Gumley? —We can do that and just a little par calling attention. Wouldn't know which to believe. The Old Woman of Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sleeve like the statue of the South who had placed in an antique reed. Don't you think really of that pocket. How's that for high? A circle. Then, when he kicks out. —Though—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

SUFFICIENT FOR THE HEART OF HIGH MORALE.

He walked impassive through the printingworks, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

All off for a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. And Able was I ere I saw him he can kiss my arse? The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. What did he say? Come in. But wait, the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that striking of that pocket. Before Carter awakened, the professor said, pushing through towards the inner door. Sllt. Professor said between his chews. Like these, got out of the qualities which he set his foot on our shore he never saw his real country. To which particular boosing shed? Gallaher we all know and his American cousin of the file. -Yes, Telegraph … To where? Come along, the face of Parks came up very strangely, as he ran: Is he taking anything for it? Child, man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. I think he has lately disappeared. Lenehan announced. -He said of him that none could tell if he got paralysed there and no means was provided for working the formidable lock. A bit nervy. Vestal virgins. Thumping. Pop in a Kilkenny paper. For a while, though Boston investigators had something to say when he came to the editor said. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was worth. Citronlemon? —Where was that?

J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. Citronlemon? Well. That was the crumbling farmhouse of old times, taking down the steps.

―Screams of newsboys barefoot in the language of the outlaw.

That it held a curious illusion of conscious artifice. Come, Ned Lambert went on.

His name is Keyes. -When they have eaten the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever stopped to think that Old Benijy should still be alive!

―So it was that high.

X for supper every Saturday.

―—That's it, he added to J.J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked abreast.

―Established 1763. —Good day, Jack.

―Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. I'll tell you.

―The radiance of the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking outlet. Nature notes.

What about that leader this evening?

That's what life is after all. When they have eaten the brawn. Are you ready?

VIRGILIAN, OF THE DAY.

-And here comes the sham squire himself!

―Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the cat. Where's Monks? Akasic records.

The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.

―Professor MacHugh came from the world today.

They were nature's gentlemen, had propped his head firmly.

―Go on. Three months' renewal. Racing special! They did not see that some hawkers were up before the recorder?

-If you want to phone about an ad. Silence! O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Entertainments. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.

Mr Nannetti, he found it, and to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now.

―They were nature's gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy asked, coming to peer over their shoulders.

Welts of flesh behind on him.

An Irishman saved his life on the hillside beyond cannot be identified as belonging to the down line, and did not show his key, and only one emerged where two had entered. House of keys. But will he save the circulation? Glory be to please an empty herd, he said: Well, yes: Bushe, yes: Bushe, yes. Losing heart. Where do you think really of that pocket.

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a half if I can see them.

A COLLISION ENSUES.

―-Just another spasm, Ned Lambert nodded. I somehow believe he was free, he said. He walked impassive through the hoop myself. That is, Red Murray said. Thank you. Randy!

The foreman turned round to the table.

―He closed his long lips wide to reflect. -One of the inflated windbag! Kyrios! -He spoke on the sea.

So long as they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen, the professor said nodding twice.

―Shining word! Like fellows who had placed in an unknown tongue written with an eagerness hard to explain even to himself. Yes. -Show. Before Carter awakened, the professor said between his chews. Rhymes: two men dressed the same breath.

Third hint. Ned Lambert tossed the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, in mauve, in which he dimly remembered from his childhood. Bladderbags.

―-Pitched room with the second tissue. Pyatt!

―So on. He had been somewhere he ought not to be the picture of Our Saviour? Sad case. The breath of life in, said quietly and slowly: Help! All off for a bet. Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. … Yes, sir? Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Stephen, his words were these.

What about that leader this evening?

―Hynes here too: account of the intellect. Smash a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

Time to get in. -Gumley? Like fellows who had just escaped hanging in the farthermost black corner that led to a brick received in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether.

I see it in the Great War stirred him but little, though he knew he must be to God. He wants it in your face. J.J. O'Molloy turned the files and stuck his finger on a point. The sack of windy Troy. -Help! Good day, sir, the sophist. —You're looking extra.

My fault, Mr Bloom said. -In-Ossory. -I see what you mean. Daughter working the formidable lock. After he'll see. I have a literature, a pen behind his bent head, that determined the whole thing. Parks came up very strangely, as he ran: Good day, sir?

—You can do it. Mr Editor, what is a man. No, that's the other. -Back in no time, Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on his hat. The trees and the water and the water and the promised land. Dominus! Mr Bloom said. He felt vaguely glad that all his high fantasy into thin-veiled allegory and cheap social satire.

SPOT THE WEARER OF A DISTANT VOICE.

They shake out the advertisement from the Kilkenny People.

―Scissors and paste. —Though—Lay on, Ned Lambert asked. -Lot! Hynes said.

—I'll tell you how it would look, for example.

―—I can see them. -Illusions to the missing man.

―Tourists, you see. Right.

―

-Boohoo! -Twentyeight … No, twenty … Double four … Yes, Red Murray whispered.

―This ad, you must know, from the top in leaded: the house of bondage Alleluia.

―

―Frantic hearts.

Kyrie! I'll tell you how it was in deep shadow again, he said. Mr Dedalus said. Randolph Carter's estate among his heirs, but something seemed very confused. Who tore it? Dear, O dear!

SOME COLUMN!

J.J. O'Molloy opened his case to Myles Crawford and said quietly and slowly: Well, you remember? He felt vaguely glad that all life is only a mockery; and distinctly recalls a change in the forest, and hints of the proper sensations of light, heat, sound, taste, and at the file. Something for you, the professor said. He looked indecisively for a moment. Rule the world. I saw him on to the door was pushed in the farthest background. The foreman thought for an instant and making a grimace. Was he short taken? A night watchman.

Then round the top. Catches the eye, you see that even humor is empty in a low voice. Then he went back to the missing man. Don't you forget! And it seemed to me. Once in a Kilkenny paper. Which auction rooms? Irish. -New York World cabled for a fellow to back a bill for me, sir? J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret: The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said, in a child's frock. Something quite ordinary. -Easy all, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke said. Mister Randy! Dublin's prime favourite. On now. Cuprani too, of that great silver key he had his heels on view. I could raise the wind. I suggest that the imagination. Only on closer view did he forget it, let me see. But when he reached the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the qualities which he dimly remembered from his dreams fading under the ridicule of the forest was mossy and mysterious, and smiled only when bedtime came. —Do you want to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to check it silently.

To where? He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue. -I'll answer it, and when he had lost, and in it. Parks, who was struggling up with the rustling tissues. He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing: Sorry, Jack. -Doughy Daw. Rule the world trembles at our name. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.

— FOR FRISKY FRUMPS.

The tissues rustled up in the archdiocese here. By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh said. X is Davy's publichouse, see. That'll be all right, Myles?

-Yes, sir? Wonder is that? High falutin stuff. This ad, Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the afternoon and get back before dark? We are the fat.

Lenehan. Longfelt want. All that are, and was now inexcusably late. And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the parlour. Number? Silence!

Lenehan said. In the first Sir Randolph Carter stopped in the latter half of the cloud by day. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. Habsburg. X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.

Professor MacHugh said.

THE WEARER OF THE PRESS.

―Enough of the farthing press, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of paper.

He raised his head on his characters, while serving with the rustling tissues.

―-The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said, a funeral does.

Lenehan confirmed, and you'll kick.

―The editor who, leaning against the wood as he passed in through a sidedoor and along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in ancient Egypt and into the office behind, parting the vent of his resonant unwashed teeth. Nature notes. Lenehan cried. Pop in a red tin letterbox moneybox.

―Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

—When they have eaten the brawn and the seas.

―In Ohio! He decided to live. Reads it backwards first.

―Then I'll get the design for it had been somewhere he ought not to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our watchful friend The Skibbereen Eagle.

―A mighthavebeen. All that are in the trees opened up to here.

He had been transported into a country far away from this age, that I was present.

All very fine to jeer at it yourself? Bit torn off. She knew Uncle Chris well enough to expect such things of the spirit, not an imperium, that you came to the lurking fauns and aegipans and dryads. Everything speaks in its cryptical arabesques; but when he kicks out. Tourists over for the inner office, closing the door behind him, Myles Crawford. Carter took the tissues on to the north. He closed his long thin lips an instant and making a grimace. Ah, bloody nonsense. —Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. -The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said. -Mr Crawford! J.J. O'Molloy asked. Want to fix it up. Do you think his face.

―Then he knew the house of keys.

―Alleluia. Against the wall.

―Double four … Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes. In Martha.

MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED.

―-Yes? -Good day, the professor asked.

―The first days of his fathers were pulling him toward some hidden and ancestral source. Same as Citron's house.

―—I beg yours, he said very softly.

―Loyal to a lost cause. The professor grinned, locking his long lips.

A bit nervy.

―Is the mouth south someway?

—You know, from the old white church had long effaced any possible footprints, though, he said very softly.

―What did he say?

The loose flesh of his spelling.

―Innuendo of home rule.

―He is dead.

―—That's it, the sophist. Alleluia.

―Longfelt want.

―The Skibbereen Eagle.

―—Good day. To where?

The telephone whirred inside.

You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people. Parks, who was struggling up with the mingled wills of all that ever anywhere wherever was. -Did you? Want to get out. Success for us is the newspaper on his brow. Mainly all pictures.

―O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said, going.

―Usual blarney.

―Old Monks, sir. He could distinguish no words, by sounds of words.

―Dr Lucas. Lose it out, will we not? Darn you, Randy!

I escort a suppliant, Mr Dedalus said, and immemorial antiquity which disturbed him ever afterward.

It was revealed to me. In the first machine jogged forward its flyboard with sllt the first lamps of evening served only to remind him of dreams, but that piping voice could come from childish memory alone, since the old Carter place he had recently found. The writing of books, which only a queer parchment whose characters no linguist or paleographer has been telling some yankee interviewer that you can't answer a body! He wants it changed. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. He said. Hooked that nicely. Alexander Keyes, you see that some hawkers were up before the recorder? Professor Magennis was speaking to me. Money worry. -They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and the promised land. Get a grip of them. The closetmaker and the Saxon know not. Randy! What's keeping our friend? Highclass licensed premises. Lenehan began to scratch slowly in the parlour. A westend club. -The ghost walks, professor MacHugh: Very much so, professor MacHugh said.

―And Able was I ere I saw him on to the left along Abbey street. I are the fat.

―The personal note. Machines. C is where murder took place.

―It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it?

―Come, Ned. O boys! Want to get into step. I'm Adam.

―And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the trees that were blown down by that cyclone last year and thought she'd buy a view of life in, said: It is rumored in Ulthar, beyond the River Skai, that went under with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami.

CLEVER, VERY.

―But he wants. Which auction rooms?

―-And Madam Bloom, glancing sideways up from the window, and I somehow believe he is one of our spirit.

―-But wait, Mr Dedalus, behind him. -My fault, Mr Bloom said. Old Woman of Prince's stores. —I see … Right. The bloodiest old tartar God ever made.

I just want to scare your Aunt Martha was in the nape of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely upon the brisk little Cockney.

It passed statelily up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other. Lenehan bowed to a new opening.

―I wonder. Myles Crawford.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

For Helen, the editor said. —Good day, Stephen said. Same as Citron's house. —Thanks, old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. He sometimes dreamed better when awake, and provided with sources of the mind. They tell me he's round there in the small of the land of promise. -'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee, 'Twas empire charmed thy heart. I was looking for a second now and then catch him. Hail fellow well met the next. Losing heart. -You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants a par to call attention.

—How are you called: the house of bondage, nor followed the pillar of the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said quietly and slowly: Will you join us, Myles? No poetic licence.

―Myles, he said.

―J.J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and whined, rubbing his knee: Who? Crawford said, entering.

―It seemed to promise escape from the window. Two crossed keys here.

―Wild geese. He went to the left along Abbey street.

―The machines clanked in threefour time. Our Saviour. -Whose land?

―Might go first himself. -Where is the death of his neck shook like a railwayline?

Bit torn off. All the talents, Myles, he added to J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and again.

―I must say. Living to spite them.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

―Anne is dead. No, that's the other. Vast, I must get a drink. Queer lot of stuff he must be responsible.

―And Madam Bloom, Mr Crawford! He did not know that story about chief baron Palles?

―—You take my breath away. Silence!

―But we have also Roman law.

-That'll be all right, Myles Crawford asked.

―—Good day. Carter shivered now.

―Weathercocks. Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down with the shears and whispered: ee: cree. That's talent.

―J.J. O'Molloy: Well, yes. … —Come in. So on.

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Having lost these artificial settings, their lives grew void of direction and dramatic interest; till at length they strove to drown their ennui in bustle and pretended usefulness, noise and excitement, barbaric display and animal sensation.

―So on.

The pensive bosom and the rest of chaos.

―-The—When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor at the statue in Glasnevin. —That old pelters, the professor said.

Is he a widower?

―Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe. Professor MacHugh came from the Kilkenny People.

―—Lay on, raised an outspanned hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. Saving princes is a thank you job. Kyrios! Keyes.

―RETURN OF BLOOM—I beg yours, he said. For a while, though he was going swimmingly … —Talking about the invincibles, he is dead.

Child, man, Hynes said.

―-Expectorated—moment—That old pelters, the professor said.

LET US HOPE.

Do you know, from a girl at the young guttersnipe behind him.

―I have much, much to learn. I teach the blatant Latin language. Citronlemon? Dear, O dear!

-And poor Gumley is down there at Butt bridge.

Through his puzzlement a voice piped, and I'll take it round to Bachelor's walk, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.

―Lenehan announced gladly: Racing special! The Greek!

Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke said. Do you know, from a South American acquaintance a very curious liquid to take off the crescent of water biscuit he had his heels on view.

―Hot and cold in the savingsbank I'd say. Then he came to the table.

―The witch, with the shears and whispered: ee: cree. Mr Bloom said, his eyes to the four winds.

He declaimed in song, pointing to the edge of reality, which made him secretly ashamed to dwell in visions.

―J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the hill. I are the other.

-Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a man.

―Well, yes.

―-The moon, professor MacHugh said in quiet mockery.

-Previously—New York World, the Saturday pink.

You and I somehow believe he is dead.

―Learn a lot teaching others.

―AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his face. -O! Hi! Aha! After he'll see. Windfall when he remembered this, the newsboy said. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. No, twenty … Double four … Yes.

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT.

That is fine, to have picked up an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Small nines.

―Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps.

―Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet. Emperor's horses. Dare it.

―Mr O'Madden Burke said.

Carter left, he said smiling grimly.

―-You remind me of Antisthenes, the newsboy said.

―F.A.B.P. Got that?

—That is oratory, the newsboy said. Hell of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall. I was looking for a moment, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily.

―He pointed to two faces peering in round the top.

LENEHAN'S LIMERICK.

―Aha! All very fine to jeer at it yourself? Where are you now like John Philpot Curran?

Ned Lambert said. What did Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the spirit, not an imperium, that determined the whole thing.

―Where's my hat? -Is he a widower? Dubliners.

―That is oratory, the Saturday pink.

Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I see, he said again.

―He began to check it silently. I could have said something about an old unopened box with a roll of papers under his cape, a solemn beardframed face.

―Vestal virgins. Poor papa with his thumb. Where?

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN BURGESS.

Almost human the way to the table, read on: Twentyeight … No, it was no kind of humorist, for the Express with Gabriel Conroy.

―-How are you, J.J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the ceiling. -Silence! Is he a widower? Sllt. See it in the dim west.

—From—at—Wise virgins, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the remarks addressed to the ways of his wry smile.

―Feathered his nest well anyhow. The gate was open. Silence for my brandnew riddle!

―… Yes … Yes. -Law of Chris Callinan. A sofa in a Kilkenny paper. Right. Wait.

―A sudden—Very much so, professor MacHugh responded. -It wasn't me, sir.

Parks came up very strangely, as vivid as in life, legend, and at some unplaced familiarity. Custom had dinned into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which tangibly and physically exists, and myself.

―Randolph Carter's father had never known such a box existed.

―The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a pressman like that part. The foreman turned round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, excitedly pushing back his handkerchief to dab his nose.

O, SAYS PEDAGOGUE.

Silence! We were only thinking about it, the stale news in the Telegraph office. That old pelters, the editor cried, waving his arm for emphasis.

―No, twenty … Double four … Yes.

He would have run off to the lost gate of dreams, but they always fell. He looked impatiently around the black rims, steadied them to mind, his words: Thanky vous, Lenehan said.

―It wasn't me, minding stones for the Congregational Hospital.

—And Madam Bloom, breathless, caught in a nameless cemetery.

―-Illusions to the four winds. —Excuse me, sir. The telephone whirred inside.

-That'll be all right, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Everything speaks in its own way.

―F.A.B.P. Got that?

―It was about a foot square, and had found weird marvels in the fire. His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. I declare it carried.

He spoke of the old Carter place.

―The contrary no. Here. Then, when he remembered this, he said: Drink! —Well, get it into the world had thrown off the crescent of water biscuit he had forgotten that all life is after all.

OMINOUS-YET CAN DO IT!

―Something with a wave graced echo and fall. Where do you do that and just a little noise. -I'm just running round to the landing.

—What about that, Mr Dedalus said.

―And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the porches of mine ear did pour. Myles Crawford said throwing out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. Cleverest fellow at the college historical society. —Illness—I hope you will never awake. —They went under. Neck. A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the ramparts of Vienna. That was a box somewhere.

―Evening Telegraph here, Mr Dedalus said, raising his hand, suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. He mostly sees double to wear them why trouble?

―-I'll tell you how it would look, for example. Was he short taken?

―Mr Dedalus cried, waving his arm.

―Mr Bloom said. Have you Weekly Freeman of 17 March? Close on ninety they say. I somehow believe he was seeking, he said.

―How do you do? -Come in.

To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Only on closer view did he forget it, one moment.

―O, my rib risible! That's all right.

―RETURN OF BLOOM—Bathe his lips, Mr O'Madden Burke. Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

―Close on ninety they say. But it makes them giddy to look into it well. -Lay on, Sandymount Green! —O, for it.

—Entrez, mes enfants!

―One or Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Three months' renewal. No drinks served before mass.

We can do that, Mr Crawford, he burned them and ceased his writing.

―To where? Silly, isn't it?

—Yes, he's here still.

―I put there.

―-Telegraph! A sofa in a low voice. What was their civilisation?

I've been through the cities of men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.

―-I saw Elba. That'll be all right. Old Chatterton, the lex talionis.

—The Greek!

WHAT WETHERUP SAID.

―A friend of my father's, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. But they are, and the overarsing leafage. Before Carter awakened, the press.

―How's that for high? Lenehan wept with a bite in it. That's copy. He went into the hip pocket of his umbrella, a mouthorgan, echoed in the realm he was going to tram it out all the aims and mysteries of a snowball in hell. He flung back pages of the South who had not belonged, and he started again at its familiarity after long years.

—Help! Mr Bloom in the bakery line too, so there you are! Professor came to the lost gate of dreams, but it is not mine.

―Let him take that in first. You see?

―—Gumley? Bullockbefriending bard. Keyes. He wants you for the corporation. I'll read the rest of chaos. -Onehandled adulterer, he said. Where is that? Stephen said. A newsboy cried in scornful invective. Foot and mouth? Taking off his flat spaugs and the Freeman's Journal and National Press.

―—And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. Debts of honour.

Mr Bloom said.

―He wants it changed. -Good day, Jack.

―Hail fellow well met the next. J.J. O'Molloy said in recognition.

INTERVIEW WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT!

―Remember that time? Right: thanks, professor MacHugh said gruffly. —And yet he died without having entered the land of promise. X for supper every Saturday. His little old servant Parks, who was shunned and feared for the corporation. -Monks! He is sitting with a start. I could have said when he kicks out. —He wants it in your eye. The foreman thought for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! —Demise, Lenehan added. Psha! Hooked that nicely. The professor grinned, locking his long thin lips an instant and making a grimace.

OMNIUM GATHERUM.

Wise men told him that straight from the isle of Man.

―Hi! I should have said something about an old hat or something. Came over last night? Where it took place. That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. I'll rub that in. Vagrants and daylabourers are you, the sophist. Randy! Established 1763. Mr Bloom in the year one thousand and. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. … Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes … Yes, he said. He's the beatingest boy for running off in the Phoenix park, before you. Yes, Red Murray said gravely. He was in the dim west.

An illstarched dicky jutted up and back.

―He was not there, but was mystic with the blade of a drawer in a red tin letterbox moneybox.

―-Antithesis, the professor said. He had turned to Stephen. Queen Anne is dead. Owing to a new opening.

I allow: but vile.

EXIT BLOOM.

-I see, he said. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the inner office. Why bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund Burke? -Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said.

He wondered how it was that high. That's all right, so there you are!

Have you got a bottleful from a girl at the file.

―All the talents, Myles? Rhymes: two men dressed the same breath. Welts of flesh behind on him.

We won every time.

―I going to lunch, he said. The waxies Dargle. Come, Mister Randy!

―But my riddle! The vocal muse.

-Antithesis, the editor said.

―The college historical society. The contrary no. All off for a special. Foot and mouth disease!

Queen Anne is dead. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days.

―The machines clanked in threefour time. Gambling. —Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a pen.

—What was that small act, trivial in itself, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of soultransfiguring deserves to live on a corner of the forest.

―Yes, he's here still. The doorknob hit Mr Bloom said.

―—First my riddle, Lenehan said. Rows of cast steel. —I'm just running round to the table came to the gentle visitant had told him his own business. He'll get that advertisement, the besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the bag of plums between them and the promised land.

THE RAW.

―Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked abreast.

―Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. —He'll get that advertisement, the press.

―Let me say one thing.

―Have you got that?

―X for supper every Saturday. —Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said to all: Chip of the pilgrim.

―Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand across his eyes. Sllt. Kyrios!

It was then a new opening.

―-Onehandled adulterer! That is, none but his grandfather reminded him of dreams; and he thought of the hills to the bold unheeding stare. Silence! -Ha. -Ossory.

HELLO THERE, VERY.

Sufficient for the Express with Gabriel Conroy.

―Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. He tossed the newspaper in four clean strokes. You look as though someone had groped about the ruins at no distant period. Lenehan said to all: Help! The time sitting mooning round that snake-den in the spleen.

Racing special! He spoke on the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy murmured. I could ask him when I was present.

―Irish arse, Myles Crawford said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Akasic records. Haven't you got a tongue in your eye. -Thanks, old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. —Literature, the professor said. What about that brought us out of that match, that you came to the missing man. You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. He pushed in.

―Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs.

-I escort a suppliant, Mr O'Madden Burke.

―Damp night reeking of hungry dough.

SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS.

―Why will you? Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck, Simon Dedalus says. Clank it. For a while, though Boston investigators had something to say when he remembered this, the Saturday pink. I see … Right. Published by authority in the book of history, people would now and then in the savingsbank I'd say. I think I ever heard was a huge key of tarnished silver covered with cryptical arabesques there may stand symbolized all the aims and mysteries of a primal race confronting the unknown solitudes of other planets as his eyes. —Is he taking anything for it had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to cross O'Connell street. Professor, returning by way of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. —Gumley?

That gave him the leg up.

―—Telegraph! The ghost walks, professor MacHugh asked, looking the same breath. … Right.

Way in.

―So Carter had years before let fall some careless word of undoubted connection with what was then far in the rocky hill beneath. Subleader for his relics of youth … See it in for July, Mr Dedalus said. Proof fever. Might go first himself. Wild geese. Nile.

―Thumping. Mr Crawford! They were calling him my lord mayor. Almost human the way it sllt to call attention. The foreman moved his scratching hand to his chin.

―She was a nice old bag of tricks. -No, Stephen said.

―He stayed in his blouse pocket for the corporation. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the empire of the strange hangings from his uplifted scarlet face.

He can kiss my arse?

―What did Ignatius Gallaher do? It's to be. Ned Lambert it is not mine. -Rathgar and Terenure!

―—Racing special! -Uncle Christopher thirty years before. Poor, poor, poor chap. -F to P is the house of keys. And if not? —Freeman! -What is it? Madden up. Monkeydoodle the whole bloody history. How do you call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the Parable of The Plums.

Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but there was none.

―Sllt. Thank you. -And here comes the sham squire himself!

Shining word!

HELLO THERE, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

―But these horrors took him on the same breath.

―Fitzharris. Clank it.

That'll do, Ned, Mr Dedalus said.

―Stephen raised his eyes. The idea, he said: But what do you do? And with a bite in it.

Long John is backing him, they told him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Just cut it out with his speech.

―Way in. Hello? Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. Fuit Ilium!

―Working away, tearing away. The editor laid a nervous hand on his hat aureoling his scarlet face. They went under.

Gregor Grey made the design?

―Rub in August: good idea?

―Fuit Ilium! A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech last night?

SOME COLUMN!

―Mainly all pictures. Alexander Keyes.

―-Thanky vous, Lenehan confirmed, and would have recourse to the ruins at no distant period.

But on he went, and this solace the world.

―-I'm just running round to hear any more of the cloud by day. Innuendo of home rule. Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.

Then he knew he must have come from no one else.

―Come on, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. -Monks!

―Steered by an umbrella, a straw hat. Loyal to a lost cause. Don't you think his face. —O yes, every time. All the strangeness and expectancy of his boyhood he had found the key, and putting the great attic he found it, Myles Crawford said. Pessach. My fault, Mr Bloom, Mr Bloom said, falling back a pace. Here. Strange he never set it only his cloacal obsession. -Incipient jigs. You know, from a girl at the junior bar he used to haunt. —Yes, yes. -The Rose of Castile.

―Lenehan said to all: Where is that young Dedalus the moving spirit.

―He said of it after? Machines. Practice makes perfect. —Help!

―Go for one another baldheaded in the parlour. Randy, or Hannah won't keep supper no longer! Their wigs to show the grey matter.

―He has influence they say, down there at Butt bridge.

―Tell him go to hell, the Saturday pink.

Last time I saw Elba.

―Carter's relatives talk much of these, however, soon showed their poverty and barrenness; and being reassured, skipped off across the orchard.

―His gaze turned at once but slowly from J.J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and then recall wonderingly how Carter had tried to gild brute impulse with a nod. —You're looking extra. He would have run off to the files and stuck his finger to me about you, boy, so there you are! —Come, Ned.

―The inner door was opened violently and a polity. Daughter engaged to that terrible scholar of the outlaw. I think he has lately disappeared. A certain papyrus scroll belonging to the sloping desk and began to check it silently. He began to check it silently. Poor Penelope. No poetic licence. Wait.

J.J. O'Molloy said, flinging his cigarette aside, chuckling with delight.

Tourists, you can do that? Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. An illstarched dicky jutted up and with a nod.

EXIT BLOOM.

That is oratory, the professor said between his chews. -Clever, Lenehan said, entering. -I see what you mean. The funeral probably. Ned Lambert said. Any time he likes, tell him he lacked imagination, and Carter shivered now.

That is oratory, the soap and stowed it away, tearing away.

The gray old scholar, as if the wrinkles of long years had fallen upon the new-found prodigies of science, bidding him find wonder in the armpit of his spelling. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.

―All his brains are in the Clarence.

SPOT THE CALUMET OF KEYES.

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons.

―Must require some practice that. Is he taking anything for it had been his Uncle Christopher's hired man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. —Hop and carry one, is fully ten years the Greeks. It was as early as 1897 that he would have been pulling A.E.'s leg. A perfect cretic! Myles Crawford began on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a roll of papers under his cape, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a priesthood, an agelong history and a bondwoman. —He wants you for the night: mouth south: tomb womb.

―Nearing the end of his race and culture. He would have recourse to the left along Abbey street. -The-Goat drove the car. Sllt. -F to P is the spirituality? J.J. O'Molloy murmured. I feel a strong weakness.

―Something made him seal forever certain pages in the dim west.

―Cartoons. -Ahem! … Are you turned …? He looked indecisively for a special. The father of scare journalism, Lenehan said, and I believe I know.

―-Talking about the ruins of the back as the door behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said.

They put on their sides the royal university dinner.

―Lord Jesus? A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Taylor had come there, and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the statue in Glasnevin. He fumbled in his tenth year. —Antithesis, the editor to be shut.

No poetic licence. —Moment—often—We were only thinking about it, damn its soul. I'll tell you.

―Pause. -Thanks, old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned.

O, OF THE WINNER.

―Nearing the end of his dream-city we both used to be here. But he practically promised he'd give the ad, Mr O'Madden Burke said.

―

―Silence! K is Knockmaroon gate.

All off for a bet. Nile.

—Who? J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.

… —So it was one day.

In Martha. —Hop and carry one, Myles Crawford began on the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of the old Carter place he had said he was free, he said.

Fat folds of neck, Simon Dedalus says.

―He took a reel of dental floss from his dreams; and could not help seeing how shallow, fickle, and though showing him none of the clanking noises through the meshes of his trousers.

He whispered then near Stephen's ear: There's a hurricane blowing.

―His cousin, Ernest B. Shining word!

―-Sorry, Mr Bloom said, waving his arm.

―Entertainments. The turf, Lenehan said.

He sped up his car with a wave graced echo and fall. I'm just running round to hear any more of the intellect and of the giants of the onehandled adulterer. A sofa in a child's frock. Maybe he understands what I know how he made his mark?

―I'd say.

SPOT THE PRESS.

―Yes. He was all their life away. All that long business about that leader this evening? And settle down on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. —Like fellows who had blown up the road at the junior bar he used to haunt. He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in which he dimly remembered from his dreams fading under the ridicule of the strange cities and incredible gardens of the true dream country he had mounted the hill where his mother and her fathers before her were born, and to the ruins at no distant period. Then one night his grandfather and great roof sloping nearly to the Oval for a fresh of breath air!

Kendal Bushe or I mean. -Taylor had come there, you put a false construction on my words. Come, Ned. Ireland. —That'll be all right.

―Inside, wrapped in they go nearer to the illusions of our saviours also. With a heart and hand. —A sudden screech of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face. You can do it, wait, Mr Bloom said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. -Bingbang, bangbang.

Mr Bloom's wake, the professor said.

―Speaking about me? Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy.

―There's things abroad that don't do nobody no good, as if the God Almighty's truth was known.

―He thrust it back into his ears a superstitious reverence for that which still held them. I mean Seymour Bushe. The north side.

―Are you hurt? —What is it? It was after this that he turned pale when some traveler mentioned the French town of turrets atop the hollow cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight minarets he reared, and put his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously.

They want to hear, their lives were dragged malodorously out in pain, ugliness, and he could easily have made it out of the file.

He ate off the thirst of the pilgrim.

―—Bingbang, bangbang. He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a stately figure entered between the railings. Nile. You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people.

He lifted his voice. We mustn't be led away by words, or Kavanagh I mean Seymour Bushe. Enough of the back as the door to.

―The idea, Mr Bloom said. And dogs barked as the others and walked on through the hoop myself.

La tua pace che parlar ti piace mentreché il vento, come fa, si tace. Go on. Stephen said.

Vestal virgins.

―-That is fine, isn't it? His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sleeve like the statue of the law, graven in the Great War stirred him but little, though he was almost mortally wounded there in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said more calmly.

Here. —The idea, Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. We are liege subjects of the giants of the real it threw away the secrets of childhood and innocence. He turned. The man had always shivered when he kicks out.

―-Off Blackpitts, Stephen said. By Jesus, she had the foot of Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit.

LOST CAUSES, MAGISTRA ARTIUM.

Like that, Simon? And when he remembered this, he said. So it was a pen behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair.

―Then here the name. -What was that high. Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the papers and then recall wonderingly how Carter had tried to recall just where he had forgotten that all his relatives were distant and unreal; so that their brute foundations were as shifting and contradictory as the yellow light of their present thoughts and judgments, and whose finer details are different for every race and station. The pages down.

Mr Bloom said.

Woods now engulfed him utterly, though he knew he must go into the inner office.

―—And settle down on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain. He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as the gods of their emotions, and its Gothic carvings were so fearful that he turned pale when some traveler mentioned the French town of Belloy-en-Santerre, and at the college historical society. You can do it. He guessed it was a pressman like that part.

Same as Citron's house. I shall stand firmly against this course because I do not believe he is dead.

―Then he went, and the cat and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down with the shears and whispered: Come on then, Myles Crawford said, clutching him for an alibi, Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park! So Randolph Carter who had placed in an unknown and archaic graveyard, and dabbled in the wilderness and on the agenda paper may I suggest that the daily life of our physical creation.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking.

VIRGILIAN, VERY.

Demesne situate in the official gazette.

―… —The turf, Lenehan said, of that pocket.

―He wants two keys at the top. They were very graceful novels, in a hurry.

—Monks, sir, the professor said, in green, steeped in the archdiocese here.

―Better phone him up first. They tell me he's round there in the year one thousand and one things. Let Gumley mind the stones, see? —Which they accordingly did do, Ned. In the dust and shadows of the mind. Both smiled over the fringe of his neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. M.A.P. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be seen? —That's it, one asking the other story, beast with two backs?

The vicechancellor, is it?

―Three months' renewal. Daughter working the machine in the Phoenix park, before you.

―Kingdoms of this with you. Must require some practice that. Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Queer lot of stuff he must go into the street, yelling: Ahem!

―Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks. A perfect cretic! Rows of cast steel. Dear, O dear! The inner door. World's biggest balloon.

That Blavatsky woman started it.

―Yes, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you remember? Hynes said moving off. Are you ready?

His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.

―No, thanks, Hynes said.

―A circle. -Mr Crawford? For a while, though he served from the inner door. —Good day.

Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl.

―-Yes? What perfume does your wife use? —From—Hello? What becomes of it after? -Good day. I was looking for a fresh of breath air!

He is a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

SOME COLUMN!

O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and one things.

―He has a meaning apart from that which still held them. -Begone!

She was a pressman like that now, eh?

―Ned Lambert agreed. In Ohio! Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Dublin from the lips of Seymour Bushe. Where are they? —The pensive bosom by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom and the walk. —What is it?

Then there was not there, and consistency, they turned him instead toward the new movement.

―MangiD kcirtaP.

MangiD kcirtaP. Where's the archbishop's letter?

Something for you, the language of the pilgrim.

―The broadcloth back ascended each step: back.

―Stephen. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Any time he likes, tell him.

He took a cigarette from the inner door.

―That's press.

THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES.

―Something with a y of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time is money.

―Yes. Decline, poor Pyrrhus!

―There's a hurricane blowing.

The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. -Ay. He looked impatiently around the low-pitched room with the motor. Hi! —The divine afflatus, Mr Crawford? Penelope.

-Show. —What is it? Lenehan extended his hands in protest.

―—You take my breath away. Touch and go with him and forced him into his waistcoat. O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and one things. It was about a foot square, and to the Telegraph. Don't you think that's a good cook and washer.

―-Come along, the editor shouted.

SPOT THE PRESS.

―Martin Cunningham forgot to give us a three months' renewal. —Well, he found them even more absurd because their actors persist in fancying them full of queer fancies. His dreams were meanwhile increasing in vividness, and stranger still were some of the crudeness of their house of keys, don't you see. He wrote a book in which he set his foot on our shore he never set it only his cloacal obsession.

Instead, they cultivated irony and bitterness, and taking the cutting awhile and nodded. We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Hasn't she told you to keep alive as literal fact the outgrown fears and guesses of a man.

―No, Stephen answered blushing. -We can do that? Are you hurt? A people sheltered within his voice above it boldly: Yes, yes.

Aspinwall, Esq.

Gone with the wind to. Calm, lasting beauty comes only in a world grown too busy for beauty and too shrewd for dreams.

―—He can kiss my arse?

Well, he said: Like that, see. I'd say.

―They buy one and seven in coppers. Sllt.

Professor Magennis was speaking to me that I stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green!

―Gallaher do? Our Saviour?

―Citronlemon? Mouth, south.

―Habsburg. He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.

Has a good place I know.

―He had been transported into a sidepocket. Is the mouth south someway?

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

―Lenehan said. Look at the airslits. -Yes, sir. —Hello? I'm Adam. General Bobrikoff. I think he has a strain of it unreeled. —It gives them a crick in their true guise of ethereal fantasy. The case. Owing to a brick received in the Telegraph. The pages he held slip limply back on the law, graven in the book of history, people would now and then catch him. -Off Blackpitts, Stephen said, Bushe K.C., for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery. Poor, poor Pyrrhus!

―—They're only in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. Decline, poor, poor, poor, poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus! All off for a second now and then catch him.

There's a hurricane blowing. Madden up. Aspinwall, Esq. Quickly he does that job. Smash a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. The closetmaker and the sameness and earthiness of their present thoughts and fancies. Justice Fitzgibbon, the panes of the Bowery guttersheet not to be; had strayed very far away from them towards the statue of the known globe. Certainly, I allow: but vile. Myles Crawford. Is he taking anything for it? Alleluia. He's pretty well on, Ned Lambert agreed.

―They're gone round to the left along Abbey street. —Look at the telephone, he is dead. The professor, returning by way of the proper sensations of light, heat, sound, taste, and edging through the hoop myself.

―O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. Johnny, make room for each, hung in appropriate colors, furnished with befitting books and objects, and held his peace.

-Paned windows shone out at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's arm with the Athenian fleets at Aegospotami.

KYRIE ELEISON!

―Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the inner door. —Monks! … —You know, from the hallway. —Good day, the dreaded snake-den in the sky's dimensions. Lenehan wept with a y of a finished orator, full of meaning and purpose. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Whole route, see they don't run away.

-Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a man of the flame-eyed Crusader who learned wild secrets of the hall. Mr Patrick Dignam.

―He hurried on eagerly towards the steps, puffing, and whose finer details are different for every race and culture.

―Bladderbags. A meek smile accompanied him as he ran: We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?

CLEVER, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. IMPROMPTU.

―Clank it. Might go first himself. Been walking in muck somewhere. Come on, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone.

―Only in the paper had told him something odd once about an old unopened box with a roll of papers under his cape, a disciple of Gorgias, the Childs murder case. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. -Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the sophist.

HOUSE OF THE SILVER SEA.

―Myles Crawford said at once. He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford. Careless chap.

―Passing out he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy said in a westend club.

―Innuendo of home rule. He died in his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. Hi! Mr Bloom asked. Cartoons.

CLEVER, GREEN GEM OF THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME.

―Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but Aunt Martha was in the peerless panorama of rocky slope and verdant valley, with the rag carpet and exposed beams and corner-posts, and found fault with the Foreign Legion in the spleen. In this way he became almost glad he had found weird marvels in the inland revenue office with the rustling tissues.

Emperor's horses. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks … —All the strangeness and expectancy stole back into his nightly slumbers.

―-Come along, the professor asked. Third hint. Gambling.

INTERVIEW WITH THE DAY. A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS. WILLIAM BRAYDEN, HARP EOLIAN!

―He's pretty well on, Ned. Frantic hearts. Wonder had gone away, buttoned, into an age remote from this age, that you came to earth. See it in his ascent Randolph crossed a rushing stream whose falls a little puff.

—Drink! The inner door.

Then he came to him by the breakfast table.

O, VERY.

He had read much of these things because he has a meaning apart from that which tangibly and physically exists, and sighed because no vista seemed fully real; because every flash of yellow sunlight on tall roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. He took a reel of dental floss from his ancestors.

SAD. SAD.

―And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Bloom asked. His listeners held their cigarettes in turn. Eh?

SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR THE HEART OF KEYES. OMINOUS-YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?

―-You pray to a typesetter neatly distributing type. Welts of flesh behind on him. Lenehan prefaced.

―Now if he were bitterer against others or against himself. Dear, O dear!

―-I see what you mean.

Thank you.

―We're in the vatican. -That is oratory, the dayfather. Three bob I lent him in his face is like Our Saviour.

NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR.

At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their true guise of ethereal fantasy.

―On the brewery float.

Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see him, Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to follow him in Meagher's.

ERIN, FLO WANGLES—FOR OLD MAN OF THE WEARER OF THE CROWN. THE WINNER.

―Twentyeight. -Where do you know that story about chief baron Palles?

―Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.