Ulysses by James Joyce. - HTML preview

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as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of

destruction. Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a

broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

--Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.

_The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's windingsheet._

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which

he halted.

--A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or

gentile, is he not?

--They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely.

And you can see

the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the

earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting

prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,

uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk

hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full

slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but

knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain

patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard

heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their

years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

--Who has not? Stephen said.

--What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell

sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.

--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.

What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

--The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human

history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

--That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

--What? Mr Deasy asked.

--A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked

between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

--I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and

many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no

better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten

years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the

strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke,

prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many

failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my

days. But I will fight for the right till the end.

_For Ulster will fight

And Ulster will be right._

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

--Well, sir, he began...

--I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long

at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am


--A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

--Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great


Stephen rustled the sheets again.

--As regards these, he began.

--Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them

published at once.

_ Telegraph. Irish Homestead._

--I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two

editors slightly.

--That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,

M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders'

association today at the

City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You

see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

_--The Evening Telegraph..._

--That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose.

Now I have to

answer that letter from my cousin.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.

Thank you.

--Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I

like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

--Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,

hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.

The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:

toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight.

Mulligan will dub

me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

--Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

--Just one moment.

--Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

--I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of

being the only country which never persecuted the jews.

Do you know

that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

--Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

--Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a

rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,

his lifted arms waving to the air.

--She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he

stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path.

That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung

spangles, dancing coins.

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.

Spouse 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.

Wombed 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.

Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves.

The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of


I 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.

His 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 Christ!

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take

me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

--It's Stephen, sir.

--Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

--We thought you were someone else.

In 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.

--Morrow, nephew.

He 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.

--Yes, sir?

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

--Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love.

--No, uncle Richie...

--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers.


--Uncle Richie, really...

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

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

--He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

--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.


He drones bars of Ferrando's _aria di sortita_. The grandest number,

Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air,

his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses 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.

And 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.

Cousin 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,


What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading 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...

The 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 thirst. 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.

He 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.

_--Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?_

_--c'est le pigeon, Joseph._

Patrice, 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 Jesus_ by

M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.

_--C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste.

Je ne crois pas

en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re._

_--Il croit?_

_--Mon pere, oui._

_Schluss_. He laps.

My 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

naturelles_. 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


Proudly 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.

_Ferme_. 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.

You 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

Tutu_, five tattered numbers of _Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge_; a

blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

--Mother dying come home father.

The 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._

His 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.

Paris 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.

Noon 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

setier!_ 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?


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 jaunes_. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, _La Patrie_, M.

Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken,

_bonne a tout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala.

_Moi faire_, she said, _Tous les messieurs_. 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.

The 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.

Spurned 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 Git-le-Coeur, 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.



Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.

Remembering thee, O Sion.

He 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.

Turning, 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.

The 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


A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack.

Before him the

gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. _Un coche ensablé_

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.

A 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?

Galleys 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 me.

The 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.

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

Their 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.

Cocklepickers. 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.

--Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!

The 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 dead.

After 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.

Shouldering 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._

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, _frate porcospino_.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: _thy quarrons

dainty is_. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber

on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

Passing now.

A 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 veniet_. He comes, pale vampire,

through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her

mouth's kiss.

Here. 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.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched:

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 words. That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library


His 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


She 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 wits?

Touch 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.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled

note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is

Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. _Et

vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona_. Alo! _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._

His 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.

In 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.

Under 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.

Five 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.

Bag 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.

A 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.

Come. 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.

He 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?

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

His 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,

carefully. For the rest let look who will.