Conventions for this chapter:

  • External narrative

  • Internal narrative ...in Stephen Dedalus's mind

  • —External dialog ...All individual speech included

  • Telegraphic external narrative ...Reporting collective dialog and musing, silent reading (See for ex., lines 62-9)

  • Annotations ...Displayed on selected words when link is touched by mouse pointer
  • 00 ...Line counter by tens (if touched by mouse pointer, it displays a brief summary of the action in the adjacent lines).




PARIneluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought
through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and
seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust:
coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was
aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his
sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro
di color che sanno
. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane,
adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a
door. Shut your eyes and see.

PARStephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and
You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A
very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the
Nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible.
Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell
through the Nebeneinander ineluctably! I am getting on nicely in the dark.
My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his
boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the
mallet of Los demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount
strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens
them all.

      Won't you come to Sandymount,
      Madeline the mare?

PARRhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs
marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

PAROpen your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I
open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

PARSee now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world
without end.

PARThey came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently,
Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet
sinking in the silted sand.
Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty
Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp
poked in the beach.
From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence
MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street.  

One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing.
What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in
ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh.
That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos.
Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought,

PARSpouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had
no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum,
no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to
everlasting. Womb of sin.

PARWombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the
man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her
breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the
ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna
stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son
are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring
his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred
heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With
beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a
widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

PARAirs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming,
waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds
of Mananaan.

PARI mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half
twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.
Yes, I must.

PARHis pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My
consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother
Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt
Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us,
Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, the things I married into! De
boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the
cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers! And skeweyed Walter sirring
his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by

PARI pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take
me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

PAR—It's Stephen, sir.

PAR—Let him in. Let Stephen in.

PARA bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

PAR—We thought you were someone else.

PARIn his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over
the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the
upper moiety.

PAR—Morrow, nephew. Sit down and take a walk.

PARHe lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the
eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and
common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald
head: Wilde's Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings
Walter back.

PAR—Yes, sir?

PAR—Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

PAR—Bathing Crissie, sir.

PARPapa's little bedpal. Lump of love.

PAR—No, uncle Richie ....

PAR—Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

PAR—Uncle Richie, really ....

PAR—Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

PARWalter squints vainly for a chair.

PAR—He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

PAR—He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.
Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs
here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better.
We have nothing in the house but backache pills.


PARHe drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. The grandest number,
Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

PARHis tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air,
his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

PARThis wind is sweeter.

PARHouses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry
you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of
them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's
library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For
whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his
kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the
moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine
faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,
furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut
ne amplius decalveris
. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see
him me clambering down to the footpace (descende!), clutching a
monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll! A choir gives back menace
and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests
moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of
kidneys of wheat.

PARAnd at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating
it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his

brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I
am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

PARCousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were
awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might
not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the
fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O
si, certo!
Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More
tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain:
Naked women! Naked women! What about that, eh?

PARWhat about what? What else were they invented for?

PARReading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was
young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause
earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one
saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have
you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W.
Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies
to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including
Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a
mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When
one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one
with one who once .....

PARThe grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a
damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the
unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward
sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden
of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up,
stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough.
A sentinel: isle of dreadful
Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets;
farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a
dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend:
wigwams of brown
steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

PARHe halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going
there? Seems not. No-one about.
He turned northeast and crossed the
firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

PARQui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

PARC'est le pigeon, Joseph.

PARPatrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar
MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird,
he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.
Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he
read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésus by M. Léo Taxil.
Lent it to his friend.

PARC'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en
l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.

PAR—Il croit?

PAR—Mon père, oui.

PARSchluss. He laps.

PARMy Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I
want puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other
devil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et
. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of
Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone:
when I was in Paris; boul' Mich', I used to. Yes, used to carry punched
tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice.
On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by
two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui,
c'est moi
. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

PARProudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a
dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door
of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache.
Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog! Shoot him
to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass
buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all
right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a
shake. O, that's all only all right.

PARYou were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after
fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt
from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak
broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the
slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le
, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue
French telegram, curiosity to show:

PAR—Nother dying come home father.

PARThe aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.

      Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt
      And I'll tell you the reason why.
      She always kept things decent in
      The Hannigan famileye.

PARHis feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows,
along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled
stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is
there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

PARParis rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of
farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.
Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed
housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's Yvonne

and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth
chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton.
Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

PARNoon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through
fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his
white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi
A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at
his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous,
Irlande, vous savez Ah, oui!
She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.
Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a
fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his
postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined
breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained
plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the
Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander,
good shepherd of men. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our
common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice. His fustian
shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M.
Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen
Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents
. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, la Patrie, M. Millevoye, Félix
Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne à tout faire,
who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, tous les
. Not this monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most
private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most
lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.

PARThe blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose
tobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw
facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away,
authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms,
drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed,
wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.

PARSpurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell
you. I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he
prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of
Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in
the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan
of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dingy
printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in,
rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone.
Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast
man, madame in rue Gît-le-Cœur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy
cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing.
Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time.
Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are

stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old
Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O,
O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.

        O, O the boysof
        Kilkenny ....

PARWeak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he
them. Remembering thee, O Sion.

PARHe had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his
boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of
seeds of brightness.
Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I?
He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil.
Turn back.

PARTurning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in
new sockets.
The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the
barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are
sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep
blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs,
my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it?
He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of
a silent tower, entombing their - blind bodies, the panthersahib and his
pointer. Call: no answer.
He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned
back by the mole of boulders.
Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me,
form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the
rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

PARThe flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get
back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there.
He climbed over the
sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a

PARA bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the
gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand.
Un coche ensabl Louis Veuillot called
Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted
here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.
Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the
past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the
bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my
steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.

PARA point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.
Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be master of
others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight.
From farther away, walking
shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two.
The two maries. They
have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No, the dog.
He is running back to them. Who?

PARGalleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their
bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings, torcs  

of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of
gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling
in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined
dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green
blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me,
their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a
changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to

PARThe dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my
enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A
primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you
pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce's
brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false
scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert
Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings' sons.
Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and
you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or
san Michele were in their own house. House of... We don't want any of
your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would be
near, a lifebuoy. Natürlich, put there for you. Would you or would you
not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are
waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I
am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the
basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly!
Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand
quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life still
to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me
out of horror of his death. I ... With him together down .... I could not save
her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

PARA woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

PARTheir dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing
on all sides.
Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off
like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a
lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He
turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.
On a field
tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.
At the lacefringe of the tide he
halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at
the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling,
unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from
farther out, waves and waves.

PARCocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping,

soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped
running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again
reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as
they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from  

his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a
calf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked
round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog
all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell.
Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the
ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor
dogsbody's body.

PAR—Tatters! Outofthat, you mongrel!

PARThe cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless
kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He slunk
back in a curve.
Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped,
dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.
He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an
unsmelt rock.
The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then
scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.
Something he
buried there, his grandmother.
He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and
stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his
claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the =|DOGa|=

PARAfter he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open
hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting
it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held
against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In.
Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.

PARShouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued
feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler
strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed:
the ruffian
and his strolling mort.
Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit
crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.
Behind her lord,
his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hides her body's flaws
calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired.
Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts.
Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A
shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the
tanyard smells.

      White thy fambles, red thy gan
      And thy quarrons dainty is.
      Couch a hogshead with me then.
      In the darkmans clip and kiss.

PARMorose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.
Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: thy quarrons dainty
. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on
their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

PARPassing now.

PARA side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I
am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming
sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains,
drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides,
myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea.
Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids
her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te
. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails
bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

PARHere. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.
No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.

PARHis lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her
moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb.
His mouth moulded issuing breath,
: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring
wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's
letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.
Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled
That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.

PARHis shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till
the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining
in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur's
rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in
violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended
shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be
mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will
read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in
your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple
out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its
field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then think
distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly,
frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark.
Darkness is in our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls,
shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover
clinging, the more the more.

PARShe trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the
blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of
the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges
Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you
were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided
jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws,
a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she
wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned
with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your

PARTouch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch
me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.
Sad too. Touch, touch me.

PARHe lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the
scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes.
is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et
vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona
. Hlo! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in
May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the
southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal
noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the
tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

      And no more turn aside and brood.

PARHis gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs,
nebeneinander. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's
foot had nested warm.
The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I
dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you:
girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied! Staunch friend, a brother soul:
Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly's arm. He now
will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

PARIn long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering
greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away.
I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks,
swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded
wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid
seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap:
bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely
flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

PARUnder the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly
and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water
swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.
Day by day: night by night:
lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to, they
sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the
fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no
end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of
the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman
shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

PARFive fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he
said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose
drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite
from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. There he
is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We
have him. Easy now.

PARBag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a
spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God

becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed
mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous
offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the
stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

PARA seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths
known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just
you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

PARCome. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there?
Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer,
dico, qui nescit occasum
. No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal
shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

PARHe took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still.
Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By
the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new
year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet.
Già. For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont,
gentleman journalist. Già. My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. Feel.
That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that
money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I
wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

PARMy handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

PARHis hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.
He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,
For the rest let look who will.

PARBehind. Perhaps there is someone.

PARHe turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through
the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees,
homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.