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- ul01.txt
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Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a
bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow
dressing-gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild
morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
-*Introibo ad altare Dei*.
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up
coarsely:
-Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit.
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round
gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the
surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of
Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the
air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus,
displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and
looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in
its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like
pale oak.
Bu . . .
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- ul02.txt
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- 26.39 KB
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-You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?
-Tarentum, sir.
-Very good. Well?
-There was a battle, sir.
-Very good. Where?
The boy's blank face asked the blank window.
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way
if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of
Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass
and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us
then?
-I forget the place, sir. 279 B.C.
-Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the
gorescarred book.
-Yes, sir. And he said: *Another victory like this and we are
done for*.
That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind.
From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his
officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They
lend ear.
-You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Py . . .
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- ul03.txt
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- 33.2 KB
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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 crunch 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 beetle . . .
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- ul04.txt
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- 34.22 KB
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Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts
and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast
heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most
of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine
tang of faintly scented urine.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly,
righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air
were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere.
Made him feel a bit peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She
didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the
kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull
and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The
cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
-Mkgnao!
-O, there you are, Mr Bloom said . . .
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- ul05.txt
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- 36.67 KB
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By lorries along sir John Rogerson's Quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher's, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker's. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged that job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corney. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. . . .
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- ul06.txt
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- 63.78 KB
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Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the
creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power
stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
-Come on, Simon.
-After you, Mr Bloom said.
Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:
-Yes, yes.
-Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along,
Bloom.
Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the
door to after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed
an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open
carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged
aside: an old woman peeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane.
Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest
they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give them so much trouble
coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in
slipper-slappers for fear he'd wake. Then . . .
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- ul07.txt
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- 62.54 KB
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IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS
Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley,
started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and
Terenure, Palmerston park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green,
Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse
Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
-Rathgar and Terenure!
-Come on, Sandymount Green!
Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a
singledeck moved from their railheads, swerved to the down line,
glided parallel.
-Start, Palmerston park!
THE WEARER OF THE CROWN
Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called
and polished. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion
mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E.R., received
loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels,
insured and paid, f . . .
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- ul08.txt
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- 73.47 KB
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Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school
treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His
Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne, sucking red
jujubes white.
A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet
fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
Heart to heart talks.
Bloo .... Me? No.
Blood of the Lamb.
His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved?
All are washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim.
Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney
burntoffering, druid's altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander
Dowie, restorer of the church in Zion, is coming.
*Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!!
All heartily welcome.*
Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polyg . . .
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- ul09.txt
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- 71.97 KB
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Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:
-And we have, have we not, those precious pages of *Wilhelm
Meister*? A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul
taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as
one sees in real life.
He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking
and a step backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.
A noiseless attendant, setting open the door but slightly,
made him a noiseless beck.
-Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The
beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts.
One always feels that Goethe's judgements are so true. True in the
larger analysis.
Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by
the door he gave his large ear all to the attendant's words: heard
them: and was gone.
Two left.
-Monsieur de la Palisse, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen
minutes before . . .
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- ul10.txt
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- 77.11 KB
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The superior, the very reverend John Conmee S.J., reset his
smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery
steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that
boy's name again? Dignam, yes. *Vere dignum et justum est*. Brother Swan
was the person to see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if
possible. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time.
A onelegged sailor swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of
his crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent
of the sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards
the very reverend John Conmee S.J. Father Conmee blessed him in the
sun for his purse held, he knew, one silver crown.
Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not
for long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by
cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal
Wolsey's words: *If I had served my God as I have se . . .
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- ul11.txt
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- 74.31 KB
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Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn
thnthnthn.
Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. Horrid! And
gold flushed more.
A husky fifenote blew.
Blew. Blue bloom is on the
Gold pinnacled hair.
A jumping rose on satiny breasts of satin, rose of Castille.
Trilling, trilling: Idolores.
Peep! Who's in the .... peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity.
And a call, pure, long and throbbing. Longindying call.
Decoy. Soft word. But look! The bright stars fade. O rose!
Notes chirruping answer. Castille. The morn is breaking.
Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin rang. Clock clacked.
Avowal. *Sonnez*. I could. Rebound of garter. Not leave thee.
Smack. *La cloche!* Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm. Sweetheart, goodbye!
Jingle. Bloo.
Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs. War! War! The
tympanum.
A sail! A veil awave . . .
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- ul12.txt
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- 122.99 KB
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I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D.M.P.
at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep
came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned around to
let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging
along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes.
-Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing? Did you see that bloody
chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
-Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were
talking to?
-Old Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to
give that fellow in charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his
brooms and ladders.
-What are you doing round those parts? says Joe.
-Devil a much, says I. There is a bloody big foxy thief beyond
by the garrison church at the corner of Chicken Lane - old Troy was
just giving me a wrinkle about him - lifted any God's quantity of tea
and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a far . . .
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- ul13.txt
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- 90.04 KB
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The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its
mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the
last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand,
on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters
of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last
but not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed forth at
times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her who is in her pure
radiance a beacon ever to the stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of
the sea.
The three girl friends were seated on the rocks, enjoying the
evening scene and the air which was fresh but not too chilly. Many a
time and oft were they wont to come there to that favourite nook to
have a cosy chat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters
feminine. Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar
and Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in
sailor suits with c . . .
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- ul14.txt
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- 113.06 KB
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Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus.
Send us, bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and
wombfruit. Send us, bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and
wombfruit. Send us, bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and
wombfruit.
Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa! Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa! Hoopsa,
boyaboy, hoopsa!
Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little
perceptive concerning whatsoever matters are being held as most
profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is
ignorant of that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by
reason of that in them high mind's ornament deserving of veneration
constantly maintain when by general consent they affirm that other
circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity
of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far
forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that
proliferant cont . . .
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- ul15.txt
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- 230.6 KB
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*(The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'- the-wisps and danger signals. Rows of flimsy houses with gaping doors. Rare lamps with faint rainbow fans. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coal and copper snow. Sucking, they scatter slowly. Children. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. Whistles call and answer.)* THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you. THE ANSWERS: Round behind the stable. *(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. A chain of children's hands imprisons him.)* THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute. THE IDIOT: (*Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles*) Grhahute! THE CHILDREN: Where's the great light? THE IDIOT: (*Gobbing*) Ghaghagest. *(They releas . . .
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- ul16.txt
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- 129.91 KB
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Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion, which he very badly needed. His (Stephen's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr Bloom, in view of the hour it was and there being no pumps of Vartry water available for their ablutions, let alone drinking purposes, hit upon an expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge, where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral. But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuch as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject he pondered suitable ways and means during which Stephen repeatedly yawned. So far as he . . .
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- ul17.txt
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- 149.67 KB
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What parallel courses did Bloom and Stephen follow returning?
Starting united both at normal walking pace from Beresford
place they followed in the order named Lower and Middle Gardiner
streets and Mountjoy square, west: then, at reduced pace, each bearing
left, Gardiner's place by an inadvertence as far as the farther corner
of Temple street, north: then at reduced pace with interruptions of
halt, bearing right, Temple street, north, as far as Hardwicke place.
Approaching, disparate, at relaxed walking pace they crossed both the
circus before George's church diametrically, the chord in any circle
being less than the arc which it subtends.
Of what did the duumvirate deliberate during their itinerary?
Music, literature, Ireland, Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman,
prostitution, diet, the influence of gaslight or the light of arc- and
glow-lamps on the growth of adjoining paraheliotropic trees, exposed
corporation emergency dustbuckets, the R . . .
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- ul18.txt
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- 116.99 KB
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Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs since the *City Arms* hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up with a sick voice doing his highness to make himself interesting to that old faggot Mrs Riordan that he thought he had a great leg of and she never left us a farthing all for masses for herself and her soul greatest miser ever was actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit telling me all her ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes and the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first God help the world if all the women were her sort down on bathingsuits and lownecks of course nobody wanted her to wear I suppose she was pious because no man would look at her twice I hope Ill never be like her a wonder she didnt want us to cover our faces but she was a welleducated woman certainly and her gabby talk about Mr Riordan here and Mr Riordan there I . . .
