ENJOY WITHOUT INCURRING THE IMMENSE DEBTORSHIP FOR A THING DONE. Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram! Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you priestified Kinchite!
Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into a pocket but keened in a querulous brogue:
--It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and he limp with leching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece.
He wailed:
--And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.
Stephen laughed.
Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down.
--The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to murder you.
--Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.
Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping ceiling.
--Murder you! he laughed.
Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts. In words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. C'EST VENDREDI SAINT! Murthering Irish. His image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the forest.
--Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.
-- ... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his DIARY OF MASTER WILLIAM SILENCE has found the hunting terms ... Yes? What is it?
--There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and offering a card. From the FREEMAN. He wants to see the files of the KILKENNY PEOPLE for last year.
--Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman? ...
He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked, asked, creaked, asked:
--Is he? ... O, there!
Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim.
--This gentleman? FREEMAN'S JOURNAL? KILKENNY PEOPLE? To be sure. Good day, sir. KILKENNY ... We have certainly ...
A patient silhouette waited, listening.
--All the leading provincial ... NORTHERN WHIG, CORK EXAMINER, ENNISCORTHY GUARDIAN, 1903 ... Will you please? ... Evans, conduct this gentleman ... If you just follow the atten ... Or, please allow me ... This way ... Please, sir ...
Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels.
The door closed.
--The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.
He jumped up and snatched the card.
--What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.
He rattled on:
--Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her. LIFE OF LIFE, THY LIPS ENKINDLE.
Suddenly he turned to Stephen:
--He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove. Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! THE GOD PURSUING THE MAIDEN HID.
--We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.
--Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty years he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary equal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His art, more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they arrested him, had half a million francs on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba. Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love and its chaste delights and scortatory love and its foul pleasures. You know Manningham's story of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in RICHARD III and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the cow by the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate, answered from the capon's blankets: WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR CAME BEFORE RICHARD III. And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and the punks of the bankside, a penny a time.
Cours la Reine. ENCORE VINGT SOUS. NOUS FERONS DE PETITES COCHONNERIES. MINETTE? TU VEUX?
--The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her cup of canary for any cockcanary.
Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:
--Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!
--And Harry of six wives' daughter. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes?
Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins. Lids of Juno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do. Afar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.
Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.
--Whom do you suspect? he challenged.
--Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.
Love that dare not speak its name.
--As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a lord.
Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.
--It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the holy office an ostler does for the stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not
