Basic Hamlet
Source: transcription of NLI MS NLI.8A, 8B, 8C, 1-33 by Danis Rose and John O’Hanlon
(https://jjda.ie/main/JJDA/U/ulex/k/k11d.htm) brought into line-fall, minutely proof-read
against the NLI digital images, and XML-TEI-tagged by Hans Walter Gabler. From the state
of transcript representation of the draft manuscript so achieved, TUSTEP procedures of text
data processing were devised and applied to stripping all manuscript revision and addition
layering. This yielded the draft’s base layer of composition here offered. The page-linenumbering is true in the page numbers, though approximate in the line numbers due to the
elimination of revisions/ additions. The hypothesis for isolating the base layer of NLI MS NLI.8
has been that this draft re-uses core text from the Hamlet version of 1916 which is lost, but
which Joyce’s correspondence at the time testifies to. Nonetheless, however, MS NLI.8 from the
latter half of 1918 is a chapter draft for episode nine (Scylla & Charybdis) of Ulysses. In the
page-line numbering, two type fonts alternate: ‘Bookman Old’ is used for text distictly probable
to descend from the Hamlet version of 1916, ‘Times New Roman’ for text likely enough freshly
composed for episode nine of Ulysses.
1.01| <p>
1.02| --And we have those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister, the quaker
1.03| librarian said, have we not? A great poet on a great brother
1.04| poet. A soul confronted with a task beyond its
1.05| powers, torn by conflicting doubts.</p>
1.06| <p>He made a step uneasily on creaking
1.07| bootsole and stepped backward creaking
1.08| on the solemn floor.</p>
1.09| <p>An attendant opening the door made
1.10| to him a noiseless sign.
1.11| --Immediately, he said, creaking to go.
1.12| For Goethe is always The dreamer who
1.13| comes to grief against hard facts. One
1.14| always feels that Goethe's words are
1.15| true. True in the larger sense</p>
1.16| <p>Zealous, bald, urbane he hasted
1.17| twicereakingly towards the att his summons: bald
1.18| --And Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen
1.19| said, was alive fifteen minutes
1.20| before his death.
1.21| --Have you your six medical students, John
1.22| Eglinton's carping voice asked, to write
1.23| Paradise Lost at your dictation. I feel you
1.24| would want one more for Hamlet. The
1.25| mystical seven.</p>
1.26| <p>Glittereyed his ||left blank|| skull turned
1.27| from his greenshaded desklamp to the face,
1.28| bearded in shadow, holyeyed. He laughed
1.29| low: laugh learned in Trinity: laughed
1.30| unanswered.
1.31| Flow over them with your waves
1.32| And with your water, Mananaan
1.33| Mananaum Mac Leir</p>
1.34| <p>Stephen, seated between, met
1.35| the returning eyes. He holds my follies
2.01| hostage. Cranly's eleven true men to
2.02| free this land. He beats for them now
2.03| in Wicklow glens. I gave him my
2.04| soul's youth, night by night. God
2.05| speed. Good hunting.</p>
2.06| <p>Folly. Persist.</p>
2.07| <p>Mulligan has my telegram.
2.08| -- Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton
2.09| said, have yet to create something
2.10| which the world will set beside Saxon
2.11| Shakespeare's Hamlet. The peatsmoke
2.12| is exhilarating, George Moore says.
2.13| We want men not wraiths and
2.14| spooks.
2.15| -- What is a ghost? Stephen asked. Is it not
2.16| -- All these questions are purely academic,
2.17| Russell said from his shadow. For
2.18| professors of the university. I mean
2.19| if Hamlet is Shakespeare or James
2.20| I or Essex. Art has to show us ideas,
2.21| formless spiritual essences. The
2.22| supreme question about a work of
2.23| art is h out of how deep a life
2.24| does it spring. The action and the
2.25| actors are shadows in time, their
2.26| thoughts are actions in eternity. The
2.27| painting of Gustave Moreau is
2.28| the painting of ideas. The deepest
2.29| poetry of Shelley, the words of
2.30| Hamlet, bring our minds into
2.31| contact with the eternal realities.
2.32| The rest is schoolboy speculation of
2.33| schoolboys for schoolboys.
2.34| -- The schoolmen were schoolboys at
2.35| first, Stephen said. Aristotle
2.36| himself was Plato's prize
2.37| schoolboy at first.
2.38| -- We hope he is so still, John
2.39| Eglinton said maliciously. I can
2.40| see him quite proud of it too. </p>
2.41| <p>He laughed again towards
2.42| the now smiling bearded face.
2.43| Formless spiritual essences. Father,
3.01| Son and Holy Breath. I am the fire
3.02| on the altar. I am the sacrificial
3.03| butter. Masters of the Great white
3.04| lodge. The Christ's bridesister, moisture
3.05| of light, born of a virgin, repentant
3.06| Sophia departed to the plane of
3.07| buddhi. Mrs Cooper Oakley saw
3.08| H.P.B's elemental.</p>
3.09| <p> O, Fie! Fie! You naughtn't
3.10| to look, missus, when a lady's a
3.11| showing of her elemental.</p>
3.12| <p> Mr Best entered, tall, young,
3.13| mild, light. He bore in his hand
3.14| with grace two books, new, bright,
3.15| large, clean.
3.16| -- That model schoolboy, Stephen said,
3.17| would no doubt find Hamlet's
3.18| thoughts on the immortality
3.19| of his soul as shallow as Plato's.</p>
3.20| <p>John Eglinton said
3.21| sharply:
3.22| -- I confess it makes my blood
3.23| boil to hear anyone compare
3.24| Plato and Aristotle.
3.25| -- Which of the two would have
3.26| banished the creator of Hamlet
3.27| from his commonwealth?,
3.28| Stephen asked. </p>
3.29| <p>Mr Best came forward
3.30| simply and said towards his
3.31| colleague.
3.32| -- Haines is gone, he said.
3.33| -- Is he? John Eglinton said.
3.34| -- I was showing him Jubainville's
3.35| book. He's quite interested,
3.36| don't you know, about Hyde's
3.37| lovesongs. I couldn't bring
3.38| him in. He's gone to Gill's
3.39| to buy a copy.
3.40| -- The peatsmoke works wonders,
3.41| John Eglinton said.</p>
3.42| <p>We feel in England that
3.43| we have. An Iri The penitent
3.44| thief. An Irishman must
4.01| think like that I daresay.</p>
4.02| <p>Gone. I smoked his cigarette.
4.03| -- People do not know how dangerous
4.04| lovesongs can be, Russell said darkly.
4.05| The movements which work revolutions
4.06| in the world are born out of the
4.07| dreams in a peasant's heart
4.08| on the hillside. For them the earth
4.09| is not an exploitable ground
4.10| but a living mother. The rarefied
4.11| air of the academy and of the
4.12| political arena produces only
4.13| the sixshilling novel, the
4.14| musichall songs. France produces
4.15| the finest flower of corruption
4.16| in Mallarmé but the desirable
4.17| life is made known only to the
4.18| poor of heart, the life of
4.19| Homer's Phaecians.</p>
4.20| <p>Mr Best turned his inoffensive
4.21| face from these words to Stephen
4.22| -- Mallarmé, don't you know, has
4.23| written those wonderful poems.
4.24| There's one about Hamlet. He
4.25| says he walks reading in the il se promene, lisant au livre
4.26| de lui-même, don't you know, the
4.27| reading the book of himself He says describes a
4.28| performance of Hamlet in a
4.29| French provincial town. They
4.30| advertised it.</p>
4.31| <p>His gracious hand
4.32| wrote tiny signs in the
4.33| air:
4.34| Hamlet
4.35| ou
4.36| Le Distrait
4.37| pièce de Shakespeare</p>
4.38| <p>He repeated to John
4.39| Eglinton's new frown:
4.40| -- Hamlet, don't you know,
4.41| or the absentminded
4.42| Pièce de Shakespeare, don't
5.01| you know. It's so French. The
5.02| French point of view. Hamlet or
5.03| -- The absentminded beggar, Stephen
5.04| said.
5.05| -- Yes, I suppose it would be, John
5.06| Eglinton laughed. Excellent people,
5.07| no doubt, but distressingly
5.08| shortsighted in some matters.
5.09| -- More than one Hamlet has put off
5.10| black for khaki, Stephen said.
5.11| -- He changes his inky cloak for
5.12| khaki in act five, Stephen
5.13| said.
5.14| -- A khaki Hamlet, why not? Stephen
5.15| said. He kills nine lives for his
5.16| father's one, Stephen said. A khaki
5.17| Hamlet, as Mr Balfour has it,
5.18| doesn't hesitate to shoot And
5.19| the stage in act five is a
5.20| model concentration camp.
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-- He insists that Hamlet is a
ghoststory, John Eglinton
said for Mr Best's behoof.
I am thy father's spirit
doomed for a certain term to walk the night
Like
the fat boy in Pickwick he
wants to make our flesh
creep.</p>
<p>Hear, hear, O hear!</p>
<p>My flesh hears, creeping,
hears.</p>
<p>If thou didst ever....
-- What is a ghost? Stephen said
with tingling energy. One who has
faded into impalpability through
death, or through absence or and
through change of manners,
through that oblivion which
death and absence bring. Elizabethan
London lay as far from Stratford
as corrupt Paris lies from this city
in our day. Who is this ghost,
a sablesilvered man returning to the
world that has has forgotten him? Who
is King Hamlet?</p>
<p>John Eglinton shifted his
spare body, leaning back to hear.</p>
<p>Lifted him.
-- It is this hour of the day, Stephen
said, begging with a swift glance
their hearing, in Shakespeare's London.
We are in his Globe theatre on the
bankside. The flag is up. The
bear Sackerson growls in the
bearpit hard by. Sailors who
sailed with Drake chew their
sausages and stand with the
groundlings. The play begins.</p>
<p>An actor enters, clad
in the cast-off mail of a buck
of the court, a wellset man
with a deep voice. It is the ghost,
King Hamlet. The actor is
Shakespeare. And Shakespeare
speaks his words, calling the
young man to whom he
speaks, by name
Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
and bidding him to list. To his
6.28| son he speaks, to his son the
6.29| prince, young Hamlet, and
6.30| to his son Hamlet Shakespeare
6.31| who has died in Stratford that
6.32| his namesake may live
6.33| for ever.</p>
6.34| <p>Is it possible that that
6.35| actor, a ghost by absence, in the
6.36| vesture of the elder Hamlet,
6.37| a ghost by death, speaking his
6.38| own words to his own son,
6.39| (for had Hamlet Shakespeare
6.40| lived he would have been
6.41| then a young man of twenty)
7.01| is it possible that he did not draw
7.02| the logical conclusion of those premises.
7.03| I am the murdered father; you are
7.04| the dispossessed son: your mother is
7.05| the guilty queen.
7.06| -- But this prying into the family secrets
7.07| of a man, Russell said impatiently,
7.08| is interesting only to the parish
7.09| clerk. I mean we have the plays.
7.10| I mean when we read the poetry
7.11| of King Lear what is it to us
7.12| how the poet lived? As for living,
7.13| Villiers de l'Isle said, our servants
7.14| can do that for us. This peeping
7.15| and prying into a the greenroom
7.16| gossip of the day, whe the poet's
7.17| drinking habits, the poet's
7.18| debts.</p>
7.19| <p> By the way that pound he
7.20| lent you. You spent most of it
7.21| in Georgina Johnson's bed.
7.22| Do you intend to pay it back?
7.23| O, yes. When? Now? Well, no.
7.24| When then? Paid my way. I
7.25| paid my way. He doesn't
7.26| want it. Said now. Hold
7.27| on: he comes from the
7.28| north. Six months ago. Molecules
7.29| change completely. I am another
7.30| I now. Other I got pound.
7.31| But I, soul, form of forms,
7.32| am I by memory under
7.33| everchanging forms. A.E.I.
7.34| O.U.</p>
7.35| <p> -- Do you mean to fly in the face
7.36| of the tradition of three centuries?
7.37| John Eglinton asked. Her ghost at
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least has been laid for ever. She
died, for literature I mean before
she was born.
-- She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after
she was born. She saw him into and out
of the world. She suffered his first embraces,
she bore and bred his children and she
closed his eyes in death.</p>
<p>John Eglinton looked into
the glowing tangled wires of his lamp.
-- The world believes that Shakespeare made
a mistake, he said, and got out of it
as quickly as he could.
-- Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of
genius makes no mistakes. His errors
are volitional and are the portals of
discovery.</p>
<p>Portal of discovery opened. The
quaker librarian came in softcreakfooted,
assiduous, bald and eared.
-- A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is
not a useful portal of discovery, one
should imagine. What useful discovery
did Socrates owe to Xanthippe.
-- Ask him, Stephen said. He called
himself a midwife.
-- But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's
quiet accent said forgetfully.
Yes, we seem to forget her as
Shakespeare himself forgot her.</p>
<p>His face went from
the brooder's beard to the
carper's skull, to remind, to
chide most kindly, then to the
halted bald head of the quaker
librarian, guiltless though
maligned.
-- I suspect, Stephen said, he had as
good a memory. He brought a
memory in the wallet of his
mind as he trudged to Romeville,
to London, whistling The girl I
left behind me. The book in
which he sang it lay in the
bedchamber of every light-oflove in London. A shrew! Is
Katharine illfavoured? Had the
sensual poet who wrote Venus and Adonis,
do you think, his eyes in his back that
he chose of in all Warwickshire the ugliest
9.04| doxy to lie with withal? He was chosen more
9.05| than a chooser. The goddess who bends
9.06| over the boy is a young, ripe and
9.07| ardent woman who forces in a
9.08| cornfield a lover, younger than
9.09| herself.</p>
9.10| <p> -- Ryefield, Mr Best said.</p>
9.11| <p>He murmured then with blond
9.12| delight for all who should would hear:
9.13| Between the acres of the rye
9.14| These pretty countryfolk would lie</p>
9.15| <p>Paris: a wellpleased pleaser.</p>
9.16| <p>A tall figure in homespun rose
9.17| from its shadow and pulled out a
9.18| sensible watch.
9.19| -- I am afraid I must go.
9.20| -- Are you going, John Eglinton asked.
9.21| Are you coming to Moore's
9.22| tomorrow night. Piper is coming.
9.23| -- Is Piper back? Mr Best asked.</p>
9.24| <p>Peter Piper pecked a peck of peck pick
9.25| of peck of pickled pepper.
9.26| -- I don't know if I can. Thursday Thursday. We
9.27| have our meeting. If I can get away in
9.28| time.
9.29| --Are you Is it true that Geo</p>
9.30| <p>Their room in Dawsons chambers.
9.31| Isis Unveiled. Their Pali book we
9.32| tried to pawn. Bowlegged Bowlegseated
9.33| Crosslegged among his worshippers
9.34| he sits and broods, an Aztec
9.35| logos., mahamahatma, functioning
9.36| on astral levels, mahamahatma.
9.37| Engulfer of souls. Hesouls and shesouls,
9.38| shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing
9.39| cries, they wail bewailing.
9.40| In quintessential triviality
9.41| For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt
9.42| -- There is a rumour that we are
10.01| to have a literary surprise, Mr Best said. the quaker
10.02| librarian said. amiably and earnestly.
10.03| Mr Russell, rumour has it, has gathered
10.04| together a sheaf of our younger
10.05| poets' verses. We are all looking
10.06| forward.</p>
10.07| <p>He glanced anxiously in the
10.08| cone of lamplight where three faces,
10.09| variously lighted, shone.</p>
10.10| <p>Stephen looked upon his
10.11| black hat and ashplant hung on
10.12| the ashplant. My casque and sword.
10.13| Listen.</p>
10.14| <p>Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts
10.15| is doing the commercial part. Longworth
10.16| promises to give a column on it in the
10.17| Express. I lived Colum's Drover. Yes, he has
10.18| that queer thing, genius I think.
10.19| Yeats liked his phrase as in wild earth
10.20| a Grecian vase. Did he? I hope
10.21| you'll be able to come tonight.
10.22| Malachi Mulligan is coming
10.23| too, Moore says. Did you hear
10.24| Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore
10.25| and Martyn? She says Moore is
10.26| Martyn's wild oats. Awfully
10.27| good, isn't it? Moore doesn't
10.28| seem to think much of Colum
10.29| I mean, he says Does he not?
10.30| I hope you'll have good success
10.31| with your fledglings.</p>
10.32| <p>Now your very best manners.
10.33| -- Thank you very much, Stephen said.
10.34| You will give the letter to Mr Norman.
10.35| -- O, yes, Russell said. If he considers
10.36| it important it will go in.
10.37| -- I understand, Stephen said. Thank
10.38| you.</p>
10.39| <p>Synge has promised me an article
10.40| for Dana too. Do you think we are going
10.41| to be read? They want you to have
10.42| part of it in Irish. I hope you will
10.43| come round tonight. Bring Starkey too.</p>
10.44| <p>The quaker librarian came away
10.45| from the leavetakers. Blushing his
11.01| mask said:
11.02| -- Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.</p>
11.03| <p>He creaked to and fro and, covered
11.04| by the outgoing noises, said:
11.05| -- Do Is it your idea, then, that she was
11.06| not faithful to the poet?</p>
11.07| <p>Stephen gazed at the alarmed face
11.08| before him. Inner light he too seeks. A
11.09| zealous lollard. Why did he come to me?
11.10| Politeness or an inner light? His Christ
11.11| in leather hose hiding in hollow treefork
11.12| from persecutors, walking lonely in the
11.13| chase. Women he won, whores of
11.14| Babylon, justices' wives, wives of innkeepers.
11.15| And in New Place a dishonoured
11.16| body, once sweet as cinnamon,
11.17| now her leaves falling all, bare,
11.18| frighted of the grave.
11.19| -- There is no reconciliation, Stephen
11.20| said, unless there has been a
11.21| sundering.
11.22| -- So you think....</p>
11.23| <p>The door closed behind the outgoer.</p>
11.24| <p>A sudden rest filled the
11.25| discreet vaulted cell where a
11.26| vestal's lamp burned. Coffined
11.27| thoughts lie around, in mummy
11.28| cases, embalmed in languages. Once
11.29| quick in the live brains of men
11.30| they lie still. The itch of death is
11.31| in them yet. To speak in my
11.32| ear their maudlin story and
11.33| urge me to their will.
11.34| -- Certainly, John Eglinton said,
11.35| of all great men he is the
11.36| most enigmatic but that
11.37| he lived and suffered. A shadow
11.38| hangs over all the rest.
11.39| -- But Hamlet is so personal,
11.40| isn't it, Mr Best said. I mean
12.01| a kind of private paper, don't you know,
12.02| of his private life. I mean, I don't care about
12.03| who is killed or...</p>
12.04| <p>He rested his notebooks on
12.05| the edge of the desk. Private papers.
12.06| Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim im
12.07| mo sagart.
12.08| -- He is still doomed for a certain term
12.09| to walk the night of criticism,
12.10| Stephen said ., if that be fame.</p>
12.11| <p>John Eglinton horsed
12.12| a knee impatiently, saying
12.13| -- I was prepared for paradoxes from what
12.14| Mulligan told me but I must say
12.15| if you want to r shake my
12.16| belief that Shakespeare is
12.17| Hamlet you have a stern task
12.18| before you.</p>
12.19| <p>His glinting eyes glanced
12.20| sideways at Stephen from under
12.21| stern wrinkled brows. Basilisk
12.22| eyed. E quando vede l'uomo
12.23| l'attosca. Messer Brunetto, I
12.24| thank thee for the word.
12.25| -- As we weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen
12.26| said, from day to day
12.27| so does the artist
12.28| weave and unweave his image. And
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as the mole on my left shoulder is
where it was when I was born
though all my body has been
woven of new stuff time after
time so fro the ghost of unquiet
father the image of the unliving
son looks forth. At his age I
shall see myself as I sit here
today but by reflection from
that which then I shall be.</p>
<p>Got round that neatly.
-- But I feel Hamlet quite young,
Mr Best said youngly. Even his
bitterness might be
the reflection of the father
but the passages with Ophelia is surely
the son.</p>
<p>Has the wrong sow by the ear. But
what harm.
-- That is the last mole to disappear,
Stephen said laughing.
-- If that were the sole birthmark of
genius, John Eglinton said, it would be
a drug in the market. The plays
of Shakespeare's last years which
Renan admired so much breathe
a different spirit.
-- The spirit of reconciliation, the
quaker librarian said appeasingly.
-- There is no reconciliation, Stephen
said, without a sundering. Tragic
events darken the period of Othello,
Lear and Hamlet but that those
events did not cast the deepest
shadow is shown by the way in
which their shadow lifted and a
way to.
Who and what is it that softens
for awhile the heart of a man,
of Pericles, shipwrecked in the
storms of a life's bitterness?
A baby girl. Marina.
-- The affection of sophists for the apocrypha
is a constant quantity, John Eglinton
said detectively. The highroads are dreary
but they lead to the town.</p>
<p>||unreadable|| Bacon, dry and
musty. Cypher jugglers. Shakespeare is
Bacon's wild oats. What town is he
bound for or the yogi, A E the yogi,
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Magee-John Eglinton? East of the
sun: westward of the moon: to Tirnan og. Booted and staved.
How many miles to Dublin,
Threescore and ten, sir.
Will we be there by candlelight?
-- Mr Brandes places it as the first play of the
closing period, Stephen said. Marina
-- Does he? John Eglinton said. What does Mr
Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as I
believe his name is, say of that play?
-- Marina, Stephen said, the child of seastorm,
Imogen, ||left blank||, Miranda, a
childish wonder, Perdita, that which
was lost. That which was lost in
youth is reborn strangely in his wane
of life: his daughter's child. But
who will love the daughter if he
has not loved the mother? I don't
know. But will he not see in her
recreated and with the memory of his
own youth added to her the images
which first awakened his love?</p>
<p>Do you know what you are
talking about? Love, yes. Amor vero
aliquid alicui bonum vult, undea
et ea quae concupiscimus ----- A man of genius above all whose own
image is to him, morally and
materially, the Handmaid of all
experience. He will be touched
by that appeal as he will be
infallibly repelled by images of
other males of his brood in
whom he will see grotesque
attempts on the part of nature
to foretell or to repeat himself.</p>
<p>The quaker librarian said,
his forehead blushing : benignly:
-- I hope Mr Dedalus will develop his
theory for the instruction of the
public. And we ought to mention
another Irish commentator, Mr
Frank Harris. His articles on
Shakespeare in the Saturday
were surely brilliant. Oddly
enough, he too draws for us an unhappy
relation with the dark lady of the sonnets
Mary Fitton. The favoured rival is the
young earl of Pembroke. I own that if
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the poet is to appear as rejected such
a rejection would seem -- what shall
I say? -- our notions of what ought
not to have been.</p>
<p>Having shaped the words
felicitously he held his head meekly
among them, an auk's egg,
prize of their strifes. A faint benign
smile appeared on his mask,
pleased his thought and p^$.pr--</p>
<p> -- That may be too, Stephen said. There is a
saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes
to quote. Beware of what you wish in
youth for in middle life it will be
granted you. No wealth of words or
richness of experience will make the
him who was overborne in a
cornfield, excuse me, a ryefield
a victor in his own eyes ever. No
later undoing will efface the
first. He may allow it to enflame
and darken his understanding
of himself. In youth he thinks
to put miles between himself
and it. No assumed dongiovannism
will save him. That goad of the
flesh will drive him into a
new passion -- its darker
shadow -- darkening after a
moment of flame his own
understanding of himself. A like
fate awaits him and both
rages like whirlpools
commingle. But the later
rage is a fever of the blood which
tortures but does not strike mortally
the soul. Under the apparent dialogue
and diatribe the speech is always
turned elsewhere, backward.
He returns, unsatisfied by his the creations
he has piled up between himself
and himself, to brood upon his
wound. Imogen the ravished is
Lucrece the undeflowered. There
are no mangods in our time. Shakespeare
passes towards eternity,
in undiminished personality,
unvisited by the eternal wisdom
we heard about just now, unscathed by
untaught by the laws he
16.17| has exemplified. His beaver
16.18| is up a but he will not speak
16.19| or stay. A ghost, his words are
16.20| for the night of mourning in
16.21| which heard only in For the night
16.22| of despair, as the wind around
16.23| Elsinore's rocks, or the sea's
16.24| voice, and only by him who is
16.25| ||left blank||, the son
16.26| Consubstantial with the father.
16.27| -- Amen!</p>
16.28| <p>Buck Mulligan's ribald.</p>
16.29| <p>His ribald face, sullen
16.30| an for an instant, Buck Mulligan
16.31| came forward blithely towards a
16.32| greeting of smiles., greeting gaily
16.33| with t his doffed Panama.</p>
16.34| <p>He has my telegram.
16.35| -- A most interesting discussion, the
16.36| quaker librarian said. Mr Mulligan,
16.37| I am sure, has his theory too.
16.38| All sides of life should be
17.01| represented.</p>
17.02| <p>Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled.
17.03| -- Shakespeare? he said. </p>
17.04| <p>A sudden sunny smile rayed
17.05| into his relaxed features.
17.06| -- To be sure, he said. The chap that
17.07| writes like Synge.</p>
17.08| <p>Mr Best turned to him:
17.09| -- Haines was here, he said. He'll meet
17.10| you after at the D.B.C. He's gone to
17.11| buy the Lovesongs of Connacht, don't
17.12| you know. I was showing them to him.
17.13| -- Here? Buck Mulligan asked.
17.14| -- No, Mr Best said.
17.15| -- Shakespeare's fellowcountrymen, John
17.16| Eglinton said, are rather tired of
17.17| our brilliancies of theorising.
17.18| -- The most brilliant of all , Mr Best
17.19| is that story of Wilde's, don't
17.20| you know, Mr Best said, lifting
17.21| his brilliant notebook. That
17.22| picture of Mr W.H where he
17.23| proves the sonnets were written
17.24| by Mr William Hughes.
17.25| -- For Mr William Hughes, is it not?
17.26| the quaker librarian said.
17.27| -- I mean, for Mr William Hughes,
17.28| Mr Best said. Of course it's all
17.29| paradoxical, don't you know,
17.30| Hughes and hews and hues,
17.31| the colours. But it's so typical
17.32| the whole theory the way he
17.33| works it out. It's the essence
17.34| of Wilde, don't you know. The
17.35| light touch</p>
17.36| <p>His glance touched their
17.37| faces lightly. as he smiled, a
17.38| blond ephebe. Essence of Wilde.
17.39| Tame essence of Wilde.</p>
18.01| <p>You're very witty today. The three
18.02| whiskies you drank with Dan Deasy's
18.03| ducats? Brillianting before a
18.04| plump of pressmen. Beware. Irish
18.05| humour wet and dry. Beware.</p>
18.06| <p>Buck Mulligan looked with grave</p>
18.07| <p>Buck Mullig</p>
18.08| <p>
18.09| -- Do you think it is only a paradox? the
18.10| quaker librarian asked. The scoffer is
18.11| never taken seriously even when he
18.12| is serious.</p>
18.13| <p> They talked.</p>
18.14| <p>Buck Mulligan's again heavy
18.15| face eyed Stephen awhile. Then,
18.16| shaking his head, he came forward.
18.17| He drew a folded telegram from his
18.18| pocket, read it with his mobile
18.19| lips, smiling with new delight.
18.20| -- Telegram! he said. Wonderful
18.21| inspiration! Telegram! </p>
18.22| <p> He sat on a corner of the
18.23| unlit desk near Stephen, reading
18.24| with delight.
18.25| -- The sentimentalist is he who
18.26| would enjoy without incurring
18.27| the immense debtorship for
18.28| a thing done. Dedalus. Where did
18.29| you send it from? College Green.
18.30| Malachi Mulligan, the Ship,
18.31| Middle Abbey Street, Dublin. O, you
18.32| lovely mummer! O, you priestified
18.33| Kinchite! Signed: Dedalus. Haines
18.34| got the pip when Connery brought
18.35| it in. And we waiting for
18.36| pints apiece the way we could,
18.37| and you to be sending telegrams
18.38| the way we to have our tongues
18.39| out a mile long like drouthy
18.40| clerics do be lapping their
18.41| pussful.</p>
18.42| <p> Stephen laughed.</p>
18.43| <p> Buck Mulligan, changing
19.01| tone, said into a tone of mock warning:
19.02| -- Synge is looking for you, he said.
19.03| To murder you. He heard you pissed
19.04| over his halldoor in Glasthule. He's
19.05| going to murder you.</p>
19.06| <p>He laughed</p>
19.07| <p>
19.08| -- Me? Stephen s exclaimed. That was
19.09| your contribution to Irish literature.
19.10| -- Mr Lyster! an attendant said from
19.11| the do opened door.
19.12| --... in which everyone can find his
19.13| own. So Mr Justice Madden in
19.14| his Diary of Master William
19.15| Silence finds the hunting terms
19.16| .... Yes? What is it?
19.17| -- There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said,
19.18| from the Evening Telegraph. He wants to
19.19| see the files of the Kilkenny People
19.20| for last year.</p>
19.21| <p>
19.22| -- Certainly, certainly, certainly,
19.23| the quaker librarian said. Is
19.24| the gentleman...? I'm coming
19.25| directly.</p>
19.26| <p><A> patient figure from the
19.27| daylight without looked darkly
19.28| in. The librarian hurried on out
19.29| dutifully.</p>
19.30| <p>
19.31| -- This gentleman? Kilkenny People
19.32| to be sure. We have the Kilkenny
19.33| People, Enniscorthy Guardian,
19.34| Cork Examiner... Good day, sir
19.35| ... Will you please... Evans,
19.36| conduct this gentleman... If
19.37| you just follow... Or allow me
19.38| I shall show you.</p>
19.39| <p>He pushed on out of the
19.40| lighted span of doorway, volubly
19.41| dutifully, stumbling, the bowing
19.42| figure after at his stumbling
19.43| heels.</p>
19.44| <p>The door closed.
19.45| -- The sheeny! Buck Mulligan
19.46| cried., jumping up and snatching
20.01| the card. What's his name? Ikey
20.02| Moses? Bloom. I found him over
20.03| in the museum admiring the Venus.
20.04| Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no
20.05| more. The sheeny bends low before
20.06| the fundament of Uranian Venus.
20.07| Hellas, lamp of love. Life of life,
20.08| thy lips enkindle.</p>
20.09| <p>He turned suddenly to
20.10| Stephen, saying:
20.11| -- He knows you. He's after you.
20.12| O, I fear me he is more
20.13| Greek than the Greeks. I saw him His
20.14| eyes were upon her back parts.
20.15| O, they were O, the thunder
20.16| of those <add>the</add> loins that thunderous.
20.17| The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
20.18| -- We want to hear more, John Eglinton
20.19| said. We are beginning to be interested
20.20| in Mrs W. Till now we had thought
20.21| of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda
20.22| or as Penelope stayathome.
20.23| -- While
20.24| -- Twenty years he lived in London,
20.25| Stephen said, and, during a great
20.26| part of that time he was drawing
20.27| a salary equal to that of the
20.28| lord chancellor of Ireland. His life
20.29| was rich. His art is the art of
20.30| feudalism, as good Walt accused
20.31| him. It is the art of surfeit.
20.32| Spicy herringpies, sack in green
20.33| mugs, pigeons stuffed with -20.34| honeysauces, ringocandies.
20.35| Sir Walter Raleigh's apparel
20.36| when he was arrested was
20.37| worth half a million francs.
20.38| The virgin queen's underlinen
20.39| was as great as that of
20.40| the queen of Sheba. While he
20.41| consorted with Mary Fitton
20.42| and lady Penelope Rich (I
20.43| say nothing of the punks
20.44| on the Bankside) what do
20.45| you imagine Poor Penelope
21.01| was doing in Stratford? Something
21.02| there must be</p>
21.03| <p>Buck Mulligan rose from
21.04| the desk abruptly and asked
21.05| judicially:
21.06| -- Whom do you suspect?</p>
21.07| <p>He sat down, talking to
21.08| himself in audible rhymes.
21.09| -- Say that Shakespeare is the
21.10|
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spurned lover in the sonnets. Once
spurned twice spurned. At least
one, the court wanton, spurned him
for a lord.
-- As an English liberal, you mean, he
loved a lord, John Eglinton
said.</p>
-- For one younger and handsome.
Nor did she betray a vow. For these
two offences are as raw in the ghost's
mind as is the carnal act
itself: the broken vow and
the dullbrained yokel on whom
her favour has descended. Women
who seduce men younger
than themselves are, I daresay,
hot in the blood. And once a
seducer, twice a seducer.</p>
<p>The burden of proof lies with
you not with me.</p>
<p>Stephen turned sharply
in his chair.
-- The burden of proof is with you
and not with me, he said
frowning. If you deny that
in the third scene in Hamlet
he has branded her with
infamy explain why there is
no mention of her for the
during the thirtyfour years
between the day he married
her and the day she buried
him. O yes, one mention
there is. In the years when
he was living richly in
royal London to pay a
debt she had to borrow five
shillings from her father's
shepherd. Explain you then. And
explain the dying message with
which he has commended her
to posterity.</p>
<p>
-- You mean the will John Eglinton
said. That has been explained,
I believe, by jurists. She was
entitled at common law to
her widow's dower.
-- And therefore he omitted her
name from the first draft, Stephen
22.15| said mockingly. But he did not
22.16| omit the present for his grand22.17| daughter, for his daughters, for
22.18| his sister, for his old cronies
22.19| in Stratford and in London
22.20| and therefore when he was urged
22.21| (as I believe) to name her
22.22| he left her his secondbest
22.23| best bed.
22.24| -- Countryfolk had little furniture
22.25| in those times perhaps, John
22.26| Eglinton said, as they have still
22.27| if our dramatists are true to
22.28| type.
22.29| -- He was a rich country gentleman,
22.30| Stephen said, with a coat of
22.31| arms and a fortune in
22.32| landed estate. To whom did
22.33| he leave his best bed Why
22.34| did he not leave her his
22.35| best bed if she wished her
22.36| to snore away the rest of
22.37| her life in peace?
22.38| -- It seems clear that there were
22.39| two beds in the case, Mr
22.40| Best said finely.
22.41| -- Separatio a mensa et a
22.42| thalamo, Buck Mulligan
22.43| said.
22.44| -- Perhaps if we could produce
22.45| the bed, John Eglinton said.
22.46| Antiquity mentions several famous
22.47| beds. Let me think.
22.48| -- But do you mean that he
22.49| died so?, Mr Best asked. I mean
23.01| -- He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan
23.02| said. A quart of ale is a dish
23.03| for a king. Do you know what
23.04| Dowden said?
23.05| -- What? John Eglinton and Mr Best
23.06| asked united.
23.07| -- Lovely! Buck Mulligan said gaily. I
23.08| asked him what he thought of the
23.09| charge of pederasty brought against
23.10| the bard. He lifted his hands
23.11| and said: All we say is that
23.12| life ran very high in those
23.13| days. Lovely!</p>
23.14| <p>
23.15| -- A poet but an Englishman, Stephen
23.16| said. He drew Shylock out of his
23.17| own long pocket.
23.18| He was the son
23.19| of a cornjobber and moneylender.
23.20| He was himself a jobber and
23.21| moneylender. He had corn hoarded
23.22| during the Stratford famine. He
23.23| sued a fellow actor for the price of
23.24| a few bags of malt and exacted
23.25| every penny of interest on the
23.26| money he had lent.
23.27| -- Prove that he was jew, John
23.28| Eglinton said. F Your dean of
23.29| studies proves that we he was a
23.30| good Roman Catholic. We
23.31| shall hear next that he
23.32| was a Warwickshire Celt.
23.33| -- A myriadminded man,
23.34| Mr Best put in, Coleridge
23.35| calls him.</p>
23.36| <p>(quotation)</p>
23.37| <p>
23.38| -- Saint Thomas, Stephen began...
23.39| -- O, Buck Mulligan moaned.
23.40| We are lost now. We are
23.41| It's destroyed we are from
23.42| this day. A Thomas has come!
23.43| It's destroyed we are surely!
23.44| -- Saint Thomas, Stephen went
23.45| on smiling, writing of incest
23.46| from a standpoint different
23.47| from that of the Viennese
23.48| school Mr Magee spoke
23.49| of likens it to an avarice
23.50| of the affections. He means
23.51| that the love so given
24.01| to one near in blood is covetously
24.02| withheld from some stranger who,
24.03| it may be, hungers for it. The
24.04| jews who are accused by christians
24.05| of avarice are also the most given
24.06| to intermarriage. Accusations are
24.07| made in anger. The christian laws
24.08| which built up the hoards of
24.09| the jews bound their affections too
24.10| with hoops of steel. Whether these
24.11| be sins of virtues Old Nobodaddy
24.12| will tell us at the general assizes.
24.13| But a man who holds so
24.14| closely to what he calls his
24.15| rights over what he calls his
24.16| goods debts will hold tight
24.17| also to what he calls his
24.18| rights over her whom he
24.19| calls his wife. No neighbour
24.20| must covet his wife or his
24.21| ox or his parlourmaid or his
24.22| horse or his jackass.
24.23| -- Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan
24.24| said.added. softly.
24.25| -- Gentle Will is being roughly handled,
24.26| Mr Best said gently.
24.27| -- Which will? Mulligan asked
24.28| sweetly. We are getting mixed.
24.29| -- If others have their will, Stephen
24.30| answered, Ann hath a way. She
24.31| will remain laid out for all
24.32| posterity in puritanical stiffness
24.33| in that secondbest bed even though
24.34| you prove that a bed was as
24.35| rare in those days as a motorcar
24.36| is now and that its carvings were
24.37| the wonder of seven parishes. In
24.38| her age she takes up with lollard
24.39| preachers and hears about her
24.40| soul. Venus has turned bigot. It
24.41| is the agenbite of inwit, the
24.42| remorse of conscience: it is the
24.43| age of exhausted whoredom
24.44| groping for its god.
24.45| -- That seems to me to be true,
24.46| John Eglinton said. The ages
25.01| succeed one another. But it has been well
25.02| said that a man's worst enemies shall
25.03| be those of his own house and family.
25.04| I feel that A.E. is right. I should say that
25.05| only family poets have family lives. The author
25.06| of the Falstaff was not a family man. I feel
25.07| that the fat knight is his supreme
25.08| creation.</p>
25.09| <p>Lean, rejoyced, he lay back. Shy
25.10| denier of kindred, the unco guid. He
25.11| sups sparely, tasting blasphemies. A father
25.12| in the planters' Antrim. Visits him here.
25.13| -- Sir, there's a gentleman outside says he's
25.14| your father. to see you. Me? Says he's
25.15| your father. Enter Magee Mor: Japhet
25.16| in search of a son
25.17| Matthew
25.18| </p>
25.19| <p>And mine?</p>
25.20| <p>Hurrying to her squalid deathbed
25.21| from gay Paris on the quayside I touched
25.22| his hand. Fine, brown and shrunken. A
25.23| drunkard's hand. The voice, new
25.24| warmth, speaking new tones remembered.
25.25| The eyes that wish me well. But do they
25.26| know me?
25.27| -- A father is a necessary evil, Stephen said
25.28| battling with despair. He wrote the play
25.29| in the months following his father's
25.30| death. If you hold that he is, a
25.31| greying man with thirty five years
25.32| of life and fifty of experience,
25.33| is the beardless undergraduate
25.34| then you must hold that his
25.35| seventyyear old mother is the
25.36| lustful queen. The corpse of his
25.37| father in Stratford does not walk
25.38| the night. He rests, disarmed of
25.39| fatherhood, having devised that
25.40| mystical estate on upon his son.
25.41| Boccaccio's Calandrino was the
25.42| first and last man who felt
25.43| himself with child. Fatherhood,
25.44| in the sense of conscious begetting,
25.45| is unknown to man: it is a
25.46| mystical estate, an apostolic
25.47| succession. When he wrote the
25.48| play he was not the father
25.49| of his own children merely, but
25.50| because no longer a son, he was
25.51| and felt himself the father
25.52| of all his race, the father
26.01| of his own grandfather, the father of his
26.02| unborn grandson. who, by the same
26.03| token, never was born for, as Mr
26.04| Magee says, nature abhors
26.05| perfection.</p>
26.06| <p>John Eglinton looked up, his
26.07| eyes quick with pleasure.</p>
26.08| <p>Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.
26.09| -- Every man his own father, Buck Mulligan
26.10| said. Wait, wait. I am big with child.
26.11| I have a child in my brain. A play!
26.12| A play! Let me parturiate!</p>
26.13| <p>He clasped his high brow
26.14| with aiding hands.
26.15| -- As for his family, his Stephen said, his
26.16| mother's name he gave to the forest
26.17| of Arden. Her death brought from him
26.18| the encounter of Volumnia and
26.19| Coriolanus. His son's is the deathscene
26.20| of prince Arthur in King John. His
26.21| father's death gave birth to Hamlet.
26.22| But there is one member of his
26.23| family who is otherwise recorded.
26.24| -- Now I feel that we are reaching the
26.25| climax, John Eglinton said.</p>
26.26| <p>The quaker librarian
26.27| tiptoed in, presenting the same mask
26.28| flushed with haste.
26.29| -- Shakespeare, Stephen said, had three
26.30| brothers, Gilbert, Edmund and Richard.
26.31| Of the first I can find little except
26.32| that in his old age he told courtiers
26.33| that he had seen brother Will carry
26.34| a man on his back in a play.
26.35| The playhouse sausage said more
26.36| to him than what he heard or
26.37| saw. The names of Edmund and
26.38| Richard occur in the plays and
26.39| as the names of two in the trinity
26.40| of stage villains -- Richard III, Iago
26.41| and Edmund in King Lear. And
26.42| note that this last play was
26.43| written while about the time
26.44| that his brother Edmund was
26.45| dying in London.
26.46| -- Names, John Eglinton said. What's
26.47| in a name?
27.01| -- Much, Stephen said. Do you not think
27.02| he knew how to hide his own name
27.03| in his plays, giving it only once to
27.04| poor William in As You Like It? As a
27.05| writer of the middle age sometimes puts
27.06| his own face in an obscure corner of
27.07| his canvas? And did he not reveal
27.08| it in the sonnets where there is
27.09| Will in overplus? Like John O'
27.10| Gaunt his name is dear to him.
27.11| His coat of arms with the shaken
27.12| spear which he intrigued for. It was
27.13| more to him to have that patent
27.14| in his name than to be the
27.15| greatest shakescene in the country.
27.16| How often do we write as children
27.17| the name that we are told is
27.18| ours? A star, a daystar rose
27.19| at his birth. It shone by day
27.20| in the heavens over delta in
27.21| Cassiopeia, the strange constellation
27.22| which is the signature of his
27.23| name among the stars. He must
27.24| have seen it from the slumberous
27.25| fields at night, returning from
27.26| Shottery and from her arms.</p>
27.27| <p>
27.28| -- What is that?, Mr Dedalus? the
27.29| quaker librarian asked. Was it a
27.30| celestial phenomenon really?
27.31| -- A star by night, Stephen said.
27.32| The pillar of the cloud by day.</p>
27.33| <p>Names. The fabulous artificer, a
27.34| hawklike man. You flew. What to find?
27.35| Paris. What did you find? Stephanos
27.36| Dedalos. Your crown where is it? Here.
27.37| Young men, christian association
27.38| hat. Lapwing, you sit here. You sit
27.39| with Name yourself: Lapwing.</p>
27.40| <p>
27.41| -- Yes, Mr Best said. The brother theme
27.42| we find also in the old Irish
27.43| epics, don't you know. Just what
27.44| you say, like the three brothers
27.45| Shakespeare. It's always the
27.46| third brother that marries
27.47| the sleeping beauty and gets the
27.48| crown.</p>
27.49| <p>Three brothers Best</p>
27.50| <p>Best of his brothers: good,
27.51| better, best.
28.01| -- But I should like to know, the quaker librarian
28.02| said, which brother it was. I understand
28.03| it was one of the brothers. But perhaps
28.04| I am anticipating?</p>
28.05| <p>He caught himself in the act:
28.06| looked at all: was silent.</p>
28.07| <p>An attendant from the door
28.08| called him:
28.09| -- Mr Lyster, Father Dineen wants to...
28.10| -- O, Father Dineen! Directly.</p>
28.11| <p>Swiftly creaking rectly rectly
28.12| he was rectly gone.</p>
28.13| <p>John Eglinton took up the foil.
28.14| -- Let us <|add>hear<add|> of Richard and Edmund,
28.15| he said. Are these their names
28.16| nuncle Richie & nuncle Edmund</add>.
28.17| -- If I ask In asking you to remember them,
28.18| Stephen said, it is because I am
28.19| perhaps asking too much for a
28.20| brother is as easily forgotten as
28.21| an umbrella. I ought to have
28.22| mentioned them before. It is my
28.23| fault.</p>
28.24| <p>Lapwing.</p>
28.25| <p>Where is your brother? In
28.26| the Apothecaries' hall. To him first,
28.27| to Davin, Cranly, Lynch, Mulligan:
28.28| now to these. Cold perfect speech. Now
28.29| the speech is act. Act as you speak.
28.30| They mock and try you. Act.</p>
28.31| <p>Lapwing.
28.32| -- No, Mr Best said. It is very interesting.
28.33| -- But those names were already in the
28.34| chronicles from which he took the
28.35| plays, John Eglinton said.
28.36| -- Why did he take them in preference
28.37| to others? Stephen said. Why is Richard
28.38| Crookback, a halfbrother who makes
28.39| love to a widowed Ann, to a loving
28.40| wife who feigns to repel him and
28.41| yield why is he introduced into
28.42| the pageant of the histories? Why
28.43| does the subplot of King Lear in
29.01| which Edmund appears taken from
29.02| Sidney's Arcadia and grafted on to the
29.03| Celtic legend of Lir and his daughters,
29.04| a legend older than history and, Mr
29.05| Russell would say, older than humanity.
29.06| -- Gentle Will was wilful, John Eglinton
29.07| said indulgently. We should not now
29.08| combine characters from a Norse saga
29.09| with an episode from George Moore's
29.10| latest novel.
29.11| -- Why? Stephen answered himself.
29.12| Because the theme of the false brother
29.13| is to Shakespeare, what the poor
29.14| are not, always with him. In
29.15| glad days and in sad. It is in Much
29.16| Ado about Nothing, twice in As You
29.17| Like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet,
29.18| in Measure for Measure -- and in
29.19| the other plays which I have
29.20| not read.</p>
29.21| <p>He laughed to free his
29.22| mind from its bondage.
29.23| -- The truth is probably midway, John
29.24| Eglinton said. He is the ghost and
29.25| Hamlet too. He is all his characters
29.26| -- Yes, Stephen said. And so the beardless
29.27| youth of the first act becomes a
29.28| mature man in act five. He acts
29.29| and is acted on. his unremitting
29.30| intellect is the Iago which ceaselessly
29.31| wills that the moor in him shall
29.32| suffer.
29.33| -- And what a character is Iago! John
29.34| Eglinton exclaimed. After all Dumas
29.35| (or is Victor Hugo?) is right. After
29.36| God Shakespeare has created
29.37| most.
29.38| -- His world is conjured up about him,
29.39| Stephen said, to people his loneliness.
29.40| He launches world after world
29.41| on his orbit and in each is his
29.42| own image, one banished, Prospero
29.43| Angelo, one betrayed, the elder
30.01| Hamlet. He returns then to that
30.02| part of the earth where he was born,
30.03| where he has always been, an
30.04| invisible witness, and, his journeys
30.05| ended, plants a mulberry tree.
30.06| Maeterlinck says: If Socrates go
30.07| forth today he will find the sage
30.08| seated on the doorstep. If Judas
30.09| go forth tonight it is to Judas
30.10| his steps will tend. Life is only
30.11| many days, day after day. We
30.12| walk through one after another,
30.13| encountering what is ourselves
30.14| robbers, giants, old men, ghosts,
30.15| young men, wives. The dramatist
30.16| who wrote this world and wrote
30.17| it badly is also, I suppose, in
30.18| all his characters. If he married
30.19| young I expect In the heavenly
30.20| city there is no giving in
30.21| marriage.
30.22| -- Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried.
30.23| I have it!</p>
30.24| <p> He jumped up and reached
30.25| John Eglinton's desk at in a stride.
30.26| -- May I? he said</p>
30.27| <p>He began to scribble on
30.28| a slip of paper
30.29| -- Those who are married, Mr
30.30| Best quoted, all but one, shall
30.31| live. The rest shall keep as
30.32| they are.</p>
30.33| <p>He laughed unmarried
30.34| at John Eglinton, bachelor.</p>
30.35| <p>
30.36| -- You are a delusion, John
30.37| Eglinton said to Stephen.
30.38| You have brought us all this
30.39| way to show us a French
30.40| triangle. Do you believe your
30.41| own theory?
30.42| -- No, Stephen said promptly.
30.43| -- Are you going to write it? Mr
30.44| Best asked. You ought to
30.45| make it a dialogue, don't
31.01| you know, like the Platonic dialogues,
31.02| like Wilde wrote.
31.03| -- Well in that case, John Eglinton said,
31.04| smiling doubly, I don't see why you
31.05| should expect payment for what
31.06| you don't believe yourself. You are the
31.07| only contributor to Dana who asks
31.08| for pieces of silver. Then I don't know
31.09| about the next number. Fred Ryan
31.10| wants space and I have an article
31.11| from Standish O'Grady.</p>
31.12| <p>Standing dish O'Grady. Fred Ryan:
31.13| two pieces of silver. Economists Economics.
31.14| -- You have my permission to publish an
31.15| interview, Stephen said, for one guinea.</p>
31.16| <p>Buck Mulligan stood up from
31.17| his laughing scribbling, laughing :
31.18| -- I called upon the bard Kinch, he
31.19| began, at his residence in lower
31.20| Mecklenburgh street and found him
31.21| deep in the study of the Summa
31.22| contra Gentiles in the company of
31.23| two a gonorrheal ladies lady, Rosalie,
31.24| the coalquay whore.</p>
31.25| <p>He broke away.
31.26| -- Come, Kinch, he said. Come, wandering
31.27| Aengus of the birds.</p>
31.28| <p>Stephen rose.
31.29| </p>
31.30| <p>Life is many days. This day
31.31| will end:
31.32| -- We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton
31.33| said. Notre ami Moore expects your jests
31.34| -- Lecturer on French letters to the
31.35| youth of Ireland, Buck Mulligan
31.36| said. I shall bring my trilogy.</p>
31.37| <p>Stephen followed the plump
31.38| jester out of the vaulted cell into the
31.39| shattering daylight of no thoughts: and
31.40| through the turnstile of the constant readers'
31.41| room and by the curving sliding
31.42| marble balustrade. </p>
31.43| <p>Buck Mulligan went down
31.44| the steps in marbled iambs, trolling:
32.01| John Eglinton, my jo, John
32.02| Why won't you come to bed?
32.03| <p>He spluttered into the air:
32.04| -- O, the chinless Chinaman! We went over to
32.05| their playbox. It must be called by a pagan
32.06| name. Abbey! I smell the pubic secretions
32.07| of the monks. You gave them that idea, Kinch.
32.08| Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there.</p>
32.09| <p>He raised his arms, chanting gracefully:
32.10| -- I hardly hear a purlieu cry
32.11| Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
32.12| Before my thoughts begin to run
32.13| On F. McCurdy Atkinson
32.14| The same that had the wooden leg
32.15| And that filibustering filibeg
32.16| That never dared to slake his drouth
32.17| Magee that had the chinless mouth</p>
32.18| <p>His rhymes had brought to the
32.19| stairfoot.</p>
32.20| <p>Among the silent moorish
32.21| pillars he halted Buck Mulligan halted.
32.22| -- Longworth is awfully sick about that
32.23| Lady Gregory affair. O, you
32.24| inquisitional mummer! She gets you a job
32.25| on the paper and then you go and
32.26| slate her book. Couldn't you do the
32.27| Yeats touch.</p>
32.28| <p>He raised his arms again gracefully,
32.29| walking on.
32.30| -- The most beautiful book that has
32.31| come out of Ireland in my
32.32| time.</p>
32.33| <p>He laughed, shaking his head to
32.34| and fro, crying mirthfully to the soft
32.35| shadows of the hall
32.36| -- O, the night the druidy damsels
32.37| had to lift their skirts to step over
32.38| you as you lay in your mulberry
32.39| coloured multicoloured multitudinous
32.40| vomit.
32.41| -- I was the most innocent son of Erin, Stephen
32.42| answered, for whom they ever lifted them.</p>
32.43| <p>About to pass through the
32.44| doorway, feeling one behind him,
32.45| he stood aside.</p>
32.46| <p>Part. The moment is coming
33.01| now.
33.02| My soul will, his will that fronts me,
33.03| seas are between.</p>
33.04| <p>A man passed out between them,
33.05| thanking, bowing, greeting.
33.06| -- Good day, again, Buck Mulligan said</p>
33.07| <p>Away again then. Here I watched
33.08| the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds.
33.09| Yes, they go and come. I go and come.
33.10| Or stay and be their helot.</p>
33.11| <p>
33.12| -- The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan
33.13| whispered in with clown's awe. Did you
33.14| see his eye? He looked upon you
33.15| to lo lust after you. I fear thee, ancient
33.16| mariner. Look at him. O, Kinch, you
33.17| are in danger. Get thee quick a
33.18| breechpad.</p>
33.19| <p>Oxford. Where the gents come from. </p>
33.20| <p>A dark back, scanning the heavens,
33.21| passed out under the gate portcullis. </p>
33.22| <p>They followed. Wait. Let him go his
33.23| ways. Offend me. Offend me still.</p>
33.24| <p>Innocent air defined the gables
33.25| of houses in Kildare street. No birds.
33.26| Two frail plumes of smoke ascended,
33.27| pluming, and were blown. Peace
33.28| after strife. Peace of the priests of
33.29| Cymbeline. Hierophantic: all
33.30| earth an altar.</p>
33.31| <p>Laud we the gods
33.32| And let our crooked smokes climb
33.33| to their nostrils
33.34| From our blessed altars.</p>
Hans Walter Gabler