Ineluctable 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.
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. 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 a'.
WON'T YOU COME TO SANDYMOUNT, MADELINE THE MARE?
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop:
DELINE THE MARE.
Open 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.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.
They 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 mother. 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, one.