ULYSSES

Protodrafts

Rough copy, January 1918, draft level 1

MS Buffalo V.A.3, 1-18 Draft details


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Ineluctable modality of the visible: it must be that at least if no more. My eyes do not see it: they think it rather than see. |1These signs Signatures of all things1| I am blank read: |1and render:1| |1furrows spawn1| of seawrack, the tide coming in, that rusty bootº Bottlegreen, bluesilver, rust. Yes, coloured signs, limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in |1solid1| bodies. Then he has become aware of them |1solid1| before of |1their colours them coloured1|. How? By knocking his |1head sconce1| against them. |1Sure.1| Go easy. Yes, |1he was bald bald he was1| and a multimillionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Wait now: limit of the diaphane. in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it is a gate, if you cannot it is a door. Shut your eyes and see.

Walking along Sandymount strand

Stephen closed his eyes, |1hearing to hear1| his boots crushing the crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it anyhow |1howsomever1|. Yes I am: a |1yard parasang1| at a time. |1A very short space of time through very short times of space.1| O Five, six: the |1nacheinander Nacheinander1| |1one after the other1|. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a |1precipice cliff1| now |1that beetles o'er his base1|. Fell through the Nebeneinander. Ineluctably. I am getting on very nicely in the dark. My two feet |1in Mulligan's boots1| are at the ends of my two legs: nebeneinander. Solid no doubt: made by the hammer of Los |1Demiurgos1|. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount Strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. |1|aWild sea money:a| Old |aDeasy spangled shouldersa| kens them |aall ilka onea|.1|

Won't you come to Sandymount
Madeline the mare?

Rhythm |1is beginning begins1|, you see. I hear. |1Marching iambs. A catalecticº tetrameter of iambs marching.1| No agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. Yes I will. One moment. Has all vanished in the meantime? If I open and |1see am for ever in1| the black adiaphane. Enough. I will see if I can see.º
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See now. It was there all the time without |1you1| and |1will be ever shall1|, world without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently. Frauenzimmer. And |1flabbily1| down the shelving shore |1flabbily1|, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy coming down to the mighty mother. |1Number1| One carried her midwife's bag, the other |1after her1| a gamp with which she poked and turned over shells of the beach. What has number What has Florence M Out from From the Coombe From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late |1lamented1| Patk MacCabe |1of |aBlackpitts Bride Streeta|1|. |1One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into |athisa| life. Creation out of nothing.1| What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all |1go link1| back, stranded |1and twined entwining1| cables of all flesh. Hello Telegraphic address: Navel Paradise That is why Novalis mystic monks. Will you be |1wise1| as gods? Gaze in your |1navel omphalos1|. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville|1, one, one, one. |aAleph, one, one, one |bAlpha,b| nought, nought, onea|1|.

|1Heva, Spouse and1| helpmate of Adam Kadmon. |1Naked Eve Heva, naked Eve.1| She had no navel|1.: |agaze |blook Gazeb|.a|1| Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, |1or no,1| whiteheaped |1|afruitfula|1| corn, orient |1and1| immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. |1Mother, womb
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Womb
1| of sin.

Wombed in darkness I was too, made not begotten: by them, the man with my |1strange voice & my1| eyes and |1the ghost with a breath of ashes a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath1|. |1They did the coupler's will, clasped |aClasped They claspeda|1| and sundered, |1they1| did the coupler's |1will from will. From1| before all ages|1.1| He willed me and |1now1| may not will me away |1now1| or ever. A lex eterna stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is Arius to answer? |1Warring his life long upon the |x|atransmagnificandjewbangan transmagnificandjewbangdanciality.a|x| |acontransmagnificandjewbangdandiality contransmagnificandjewbangtantialitya|.1| |1Luckless Illstarred1| heresiarch! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last|1,: euthanasia.1| |1mitred and croziered |amitred, coped and croziered |bwith mitre and crozier on With crozier and with |cbeadedc| mitre |cstalledc| uponb|a|1| his |1foul |adead |bstarkb|a|1| throne, |1|adeada| widower of a widowed see,1| with |1trussed up vestments |astiffed up upstiffeda| omophorion1|, with |1foul clotted1| hinder parts.

|1The seawind Sea airs1| romped around him, nipping and eager |1air airs1|. They are coming: waves. The whitemaned |1sea1| horses, tossing, |1hundredbridled brightwindbridled1|.

I mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship half twelve. By the way, go easy with that money |1like a good young imbecile1|. Yes, I must.

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to |1Strasburg terrace Aunt |aDora's Sara'sa|1| or not? My consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your brother Stephen lately? No? Sure, he's not down in Strasburg terrace with |1Charley's his1| aunt. Sally? Couldn't he find something better than that eh? And how And and and and tell |1me, us, Stephen,1| and how is uncle |1Simon Si1|? O, weeping God! The things I married into. |1Sir. No, sir. Agonising God! |aThe |bdrunken littleb| costdrawer and |bhis brotherb| the cornetplayer |bDe boys in de hayloft:b| highly respectable gondoliers.a| And |aSquinteyed Skeweyeda| Walter |a|bthat sirs sirringb| his da, no lessa|. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ.1|

I pull the rusty bell of their shuttered |1house cottage1|: and wait. Twice. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

— It's Stephen, sir.º
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— Let him in. Let |1him Stephen1| in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

— We thought you were someone else.

Uncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed in the broad bed extends over the hill of his knees a |1white1| sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.

— Morrow, Stephen.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bill of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. |1Above his bald head on the wall the little bogoak frame round Wilde's verse: Requiescat.1| The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

— Yes, sir?

|1Whisky Malt1| for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is |1he she1|?

— She's bathing Crissie, sir.

|1Papa's little lump of love.1|

— No, uncle Richie ….

— Call me Richie. |1Malt! Whisky!1|

— Uncle Richie look …. Really ….

— Sit down or |1will you be knocked by the law Harry I'll knock you1| down?

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

— He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

— He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring our Chippendale chair.
|1— Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned aristocratic airs. A rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but Dora's backache pills.1|

All'erta

He drones bars of Fernando's aria di Sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded and with rushes of |1the1| air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This air is sweeter.º

Houses of decay, mine and his and all. |1You told |aClongowes |bthe sons of the gentry in Clongowes the Clongowes gentryb|a| that |ayour uncle was you had an unclea| a judge and an uncle a general in the army.1| Come out of them, Stephen.
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Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant |1dingy1| bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The |1ragtail hundredheaded1| rabblement |1in the liberties of the cathedral close1|. A hater of his kind missing ran from them to the wood of |1madness fury1|, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houhynhym: horsenostrilled. |1|xThe oval equine faces: Temple, Buck Mulligan, Lanternjaws Foxy Campbell,x|1| Dean |1and,1| abbas father what offence lit their set fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (Descende) clutching a |1basilisk monstrance |aflashinga| monstrance basiliskeyed1|. Get down, P baldpoll. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of priests 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. |1|aDerring!a| Dring! Dring!1| And two streets off another one locking it into a pyx. |1Dringadring!1| And in a |1side lady1| chapel another one taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back: Occam thought of that |1Doctor invincibilis1|. |1That's all right, fair and square.1| |1It must have been one morning misty English morning the devil's thought A misty English morning that imp1| crossed his brain. |1Bringing his host down & kneeling1| He |1gave a side eye in the transept. I am at as he brought his host down on heard |atwine with his second bella| the |afirsta| bell in the transept1| he is lifting) his) and |1rising1| heard (|1now1| I am lifting |1mine1|) |1the bell again their two bells |a(and he is kneeling)a|1| twang |1together in diphthong1|.

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
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Avenue that the |1fat1| woman in front might lift her |1skirts |aclothes blanka|1| more |1in the rain from the wet street1|. O si, certo. Sell your soul for that, colo dyed rags |1tied pinned1| round a squaw. More, more |1than that1| tell me. On the top of the Howth tram |1alone1| crying |1in to1| the rain: naked women! naked women! What about that, eh?

What about what? |1For what What1| else were they invented. for?

You are a highly intellectual fellow, with your Oxford manner. Reading two pages apiece of ten books every night. I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause : Hooray |1so serious seriously1|, striking looking. |1Hooray Hurray1| for the God damned idiot! |1Ay! Ray! Hray!1| Noone saw: tell no-one. |1Books you were going to write with letters for |atheira| titles. Have you read |aQ Fa|? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes but W is wonderful. O yes, W.1| And your epiphanies, written on green |1paper oval1| leaves, so deeply deep, |1copies1| to be sent to all the |1great1| libraries of the world if you died, including Alexandria. Someone |1would was to1| read them there |1in about a thousand years' time, you thought after a thousand years, a mahamanvantara1|. |1Yes Ay1|, very like a whale. When one reads these |1faded strange1| pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once …..

The |1fine grainy1| sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod |1razorsilt |aon the damp crackling mast of,a| razorshells1|, stuck empty shells, |1unnumbered squeaking1| pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, |1waterrusted |asaltrusted |bbrinerustedb|a|1| wood |1gnawed sieved by the Shipworm|a, lost Armadaa|1|. |1Cakey damp Unwholesome1| sandflats waited to suck his treading |1boots soles1|, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them walking warily. On his left a |1porter1| bottle stood up pitted to its waist in the cakey |1damp sand sand dough1|. A sentinel. Isle of dreadfulº
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thirst. |1Farther1| Broken hoops |1farther on the shore1|; |1and beyond a dark at the land's end a1| maze of dark cunning nets: |1and farther on higher ground and farther still on the higher ground and farther away |achalkscrawled backdoors anda| on a clothesline two crucified shirts.1| Ringsend: |1houses wigwams1| of brown |1sailors steersmen1| and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt |1Dora's Sara's1|. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about the strand. He turned and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeon House.

My father's a bird.

Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

C'est le pigeon, Joseph!

Patrice, |1son of Kevin,1| home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar |1Minerva MacMahon1|. Son of |1a the1| wild goose |1Kevin Egan of Paris1|. My father's a bird. He lapped the sweet lait chaud |1inoffensively. A with1| pink young tongue, a plump |1white rabbit's bunny's1| face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win something in the gros lots. Michelet He tells me all about the nature of woman that he read in Michelet. He will send me la Vie de Jésus by M. Léo Taxil. He has lent it to a friend. C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.

Il croit?

Mon père, oui.

Schluss. He laps.

My Latin quarter hat. God, we must simply dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student; weren't you? Of what in the other devil's name? P.C.N. |1Paysayenn. P.C.N. You know, physiques, chemiques et naturelles. Aha!1| Eating |1fourpenceworth |aa youra| groatsworth1| of mou en civet |1Fleshpots of Egypt,1| |1beside elbowed by1| belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone. When I was in Paris I used to. Yes, you used to carry old punched tramtickets for weeks in your pocket
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to be able to prove an alibi if you were arrested on a charge of murder somewhere. |1Justice: |aWhere were you on the 15 of February 1902? On 15 of February 1902 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses.a|1| Other fellow did it. |1My double: Other me:1| hat, tie, overcoat, face. Lui, c'est moi. Ally s Allee samey Allee samee. |1You seem to have enjoyed yourself.1|

You walked proudly. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget now who. |1|xWith mother's |aeight s/-a| money order in your hand the barrier of the post office shut in your face by the usher. Nothing to eat. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Fermé. Hired dog. |aBlow Shoota| him to |abloodya| bits with a bang shotgun |abits |bgutsb|a| spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all back in place. |a|bChrrrrrklak. Krrrrrklak.b|a| Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant|a, seea|? O, that's all right. Shake a shake. O that's all only all rightºx|1| You were going to do wonders, weren't you? |1Missioner unto Europe like the fiery Columbanus.1| Pretending to have forgotten speak broken English when as you dragged your valise across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? |1The Rich1| booty you brought back. Five numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge: and a blue French telegram. Curiosity to show.

— Nother dying. Come home.

Father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's the reason 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 |1family famileye1|.

His feet marched in sudden |1gay proud1| rhythm over the |1sand |afurrowed sand sand furrowsa|1| along by the boulders of the South Wall. |1He stared at them, piled stone |ag mammotha| skulls.1| Gold light on the sea, the sand, the boulders. |1Sewage of my brain behind me. |aBehind me sewage of my brain.a|1| 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, 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 |1Polidor's Rodot's1| Yvonne and Madeleine, belated, newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering
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with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan bréton. Faces of the Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Noon is |1near by1|. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us the hungry |1|xgobblersx|1| fork spiced beans down their throats gullets. Un demi sétier. A jet of coffee steam from the burnished cauldron|1. She serves me at his beck, coffee. your postprandial. Do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew |aonce in |bLondon Barcelonab|a| used to |asay that call it his postprandiala|. Well; sláinte.1| |1and around Around1| the |1marble slabbed marbleslabbed1| tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his scandalous lips. |1Ireland, the city of the Dalcassians, hopes, conspiracies. Of Ireland, of the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies. Of lost leaders, Of Arthur Griffith now. To yoke me his yokefellow, Our crimes our common cause.1| His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its neck tassels at his secrets. |1missing1| Maud Gonne, |1Drumont |athe journalista|, Know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth, |acette Laa| vieille |asalope ogressea| with the yellow teeth.1| Millevoye, Félix Faure, licentious |1men, the men: The1| fröken who washed and rubbed his naked body in the bath at Upsala, most licentious |1custom, bath custom. Bath1| 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 thing. The blue fuse burns deadly between his hands and burns clear. The loose tobacco shreds catch fire and flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his Span |1Spaniard's |aMoonlighter's peep of day boy'sa|1| hat. |1|xHow Stephen How the head centre escaped mummed as a bride. How |athe head centre got awaya| a young bride drove out with orangeblossoms to Malahide drove out with veil & orangeblossoms driving out to Malahide under a veil and orange blossoms. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.x|1| Spurned lover. I was a strapping young bouchal then |1at that time I tell you1|. |1I was, faith.1| I'll show you my likeness one |1day time1|. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, |1his tanist tanist |aof the tribe of his septa|1|, under Clerkenwell walls and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upwards in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In |1Paris' multitude Gay Paree1|
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now he hides, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dim printingcase, his three taverns, the lair |1in Butte Montmartre1| he sleeps short nights in |1in,1| rue de la Goutte d'Or, damascened with |1old bleache flyblown1| cartoons. Loveless, landless, wifeless, souless. She is |1all right |acomfy comfy nicey comfya|1| without her |1castoff outcast1| man, madame in rue Git-le-cœur, canary and two |1buck1| lodgers. |1Geranium Peachy1| cheeks, a |1zebra1| skirt, frisky as a girl's. Spurned lover and undespairing. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him |1O, the to sing The1| boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. |1|1That I taught Patrice. |aI taught Patrice that.a|1| |1Old Kilkenny.1| |1|aIt goes like this. His burning eyes on mine, singing he takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.a|1| |1Do you know that old song? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny. |aStrongbow's Castle. up on the Nore.a| It goes like this. |xSaint Canice: Strongbow's old castle on the Nore. Historical. Goes like this. O. O. He takes me …x| He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.1|

O, the boys of Kilkenny

|1|xwasted voices Wasting hand Wasting life. |aBurning Weaka| wasting hand on mine.x|1|

They have |1cast him out and forgotten forgotten Kevin Egan1|, not he them |1, Kevin Egan{sup>{small>1|. Remembering thee, O Sion.

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The wild air greeted him, |1singing harping1| on wild nerves, fire in wind of wild air of seeds of fire. Here. I am not walking out to the Kish |1light1| , am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back. Turning he |1looked southward along the shore scanned the shore southward1|, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans |1the1| shafts of light |1will move are moving1| ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping this side that side over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness
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of the dome they wait, their pushed back |1chairs1|, my obelisk valise, round an uncleared a |1table board1|, of abandoned platters. Who would 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 |1gamebeater pointer1|. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all: my soul walks with me |1form of forms1|. So in the moon's mid watches I walk by the path above the rocks, |1in sable silvered,1| hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the road again to the higher strand behind. He climbed over the greasy weed |1salvage of weed sedge & eely oarweeds1| and sat on a stool of rock, |1laying resting1| his ashplant by him.

The bloated carcase of a dog lay among the oily sedge. Before him the gunwale of a boat, buried in sand. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier's unwieldy prose. These heavy sands are language that tide and wind have silted here. And these the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Sands and stones. Why am I angered? |1because disdained.1| A fool's wrath is heavier than them both. A live dog came into sight across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? |1Respect his liberty, you own none for master and will not be master and will not serve.1| I have my stick. Sit still. From farther away walking shoreward across from the coming tide, |1figures |atwo figures figures twoa|1|. |1He is running back to them. |aNot the two damsels? No: The dog. |bNot the two damsels, having hid it among the bulrushes? No, the a dog. The two? They have laid it among the bulrushes. Peekaboo, I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them.b|a|1|

The galleys of the |1Danes Lochlanns1| ran here to |1land beach1|, in quest of prey,
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their bloodbeaked prows riding the low |1waves molten pewter surf1|. |1Vikings |awith gleaming torcs of tomahawks |btheir theb| torcs of tomahawks aglittera| on their breasts, when Malachi wore the collar of gold.1| A school of turlehide whales stranded in the noon, spouting, |1flapping hobbling1| in the shallows. Then from the cobbled |1cagework1| starving city a horde of jerkined dwarfs |1(my people)1| with |1flaying flayers'1| knives, running, scaling, hacking |1the1| green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughter. Their blood is in me, their thoughts are my waves. I was among them on the frozen Liffey, |1a changeling,1| among the hissing resin fires. I spoke to none: none to me.

The dog's bark ran towards him, |1ceased stopped1|, ran back. |1Dog of my enemy. I |a|bjustb| simplya| stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. The primrose doublet of fortune's knave, smiles |aat ona| my silenceº1| For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? |1Then live their lives, coward as they. Pretenders, live their lives. |aThe Bruce's brother, Lambert Simnel crowned: and Silken Thomas: paradise of pretenders then and now |bThe Bruce's brother, Lambert Simnel tinsel crowned: and Silken THomas: Paradise of pretenders then and now |cThomas, silken knight, a scullion, all kings' sons, Perkin Warbeck, in Yorkist white silk breeches |dThomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, a scullion, all kings' sons, Perkin Warbeck, a wonder in Yorkist white silk breeches The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, |+++false scion of York York's false scion, |++man wonder++| of a day+++|, in breeches of silk of ivory, and Lambert Simnel, a scullion crowned. All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now.d|c|b|a|1| He saved men from drowning and you shake at the |1barking blank1| of a |1cur cur's bark1|? But the courtiers who mocked Guido Cavalcanti |1in Or San Michele1| were in their own house, he meant the house of …. We don't want any more of |1your1| medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? There would be a boat near or a lifebuoy. Ay, of course, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned last week off Maiden's Rock whose body they are waiting. The truth |1now., spit it out!1| I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Do you see the tide flowing on all sides swiftly sheeting the |1stretches shellcocoacoloured beds1| of sand? If I had land under my feet. I want his life to be still his but mine |1still1| to be mine. A |1drowning1| man. His |1human1| eyes are fixed on me in horror of death. I …. With him together …. I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A |1man and a woman woman and a man1|. I see her |1skirts skirties1|. Pinned up, I bet.
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The dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something he lost here in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowflying gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling |1legs shanks1|. |1On a field |atenny tenneya| a buck trippant proper unattired.1| At the verge of the tides he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His head lifted barked against the noise of the waves. They came towards his feet, |1shaking their |acurling?a|, unfurling many1| crests, |1plashing, breaking, breaking, plashing,1| from farther, from far out, waves and waves.

The man and woman waded in a few paces into the water and, stooping, soused their bags. Cocklepickers. They lifted their bags from the water and waded out again. The dog yelped and, running to them, reared up and pawed them: then, falling on all fours, and again reared up with mute bearish |1efforts fawning1|. Unheeded he kept beside them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of red tongue lolling from a side of his wolf's jaws. His speckled body ambled in front and then set to gallop off forward at a calf's gallop. The carcase lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, nosing closer, went round it sniffing rapidly like a dog all points of the dead |1dog dog's bedraggled fell1|. |1Dogskull, dogsniff, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies dogsbody's body.1|

— Tatters! Here, 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 ambled backº
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in a curve and on by the edge of the moles mole, smelt a rock and from under a heaved hindleg pissed against it. He trotted on and, heaving again his hindleg, pissed |1against at1| an unsmelt rock; |1|afew pleasures in life simple pleasures of the Poora|1|. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there|1: his grandmother1|. He |1scraped |aclawed rooteda|1| in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his |1paws claws1|, soon ceasing. A pard, a panther |1got in spousebreach1|, vulturing the dead.

|1After he woke me last night same dream. Or was it? Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Wait. Remember. I am almosting it |anowa|: wait. |aA man leads That man leda| me, spea spoke. I was not afraid. He smiled: gave me the melon |ahe had held it to my facea|. That was the rule. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see.1|

|1With Shouldering1| their bags they passed. His large feet |1slapped1| out of turned up trousers |1slapped1| the |1damp |afurrowed clammya|1| sand, a dull red muffler |1strangling throttling1| his unshaven neck. With |1shorter woman1| steps she followed him: the |1bully ruffian1| and his strolling mort: her spoils slung |1on at1| her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet and loose her hang trailed about her windraw face. Behind her lord |1a helpmeet his helpmate1| trudging to Romeville. When night hides her body's flaws, calling under her fringed shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two |1redcoats Royal Dublins1| in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. |1|aTo buss, to unread Buss |b|clip blankc| herb|, wapa| in rogues' rum lingo|a. A, for, O, mya| dimber wapping dell.1| A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's Lane that night, the tanyard smells. |1My dimber wapping dell.1|

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

|1Morose delectation, gorbellied Aquinas |afrate porcospino,a| calls this. |a|bLet him |c& welcomec|: |cthyc| quarrons dainty is.b| Languae Language no whit worse than his. Monks with rosary beads of words Monkwords, beads |bin jabber onb| their girdles, |bthieves' rogues'b| words, tough nuggets |bpatterb| in their pockets.a| Passing now.º1|
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A side eye at my |1Latin Quarter Hamlet1| hat. |1What if I were suddenly naked? No I am not.1| |1Walking1| across the sands of |1all1| the world, |1driven followed1| by the sun's flaming sword, to the west, to evening lands. She trudges; schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. |1Moondrawn Red1| tides within her |1myriadislanded1| |1(blood not mine)1|, |1a handmaid oinopa ponton1|, |1winered a winedark1| sea, |1myriadislanded1|. Behold the handmaid of the moon. |1In sleep1| The wet sign rules her courses |1visits her calls her hour and bids her rise1|. |1Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled.1| |1Rise up, according to the word.1| Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, |1the1| pale vampire bat 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, |1you must have must be1| two of em. Glue em well |1together well1|: Mouth to her mouth's kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: Mouth to her moongrnbh moongb moongmbwb moongbm moongmb moongbhmb moongb moongmbhb moongbh moombh. |1Oomb, |atombwombing Allwombinga|, tomb. Vowel His mouth moulded |aunread issuinga| breath, |aunspoken unspeeched,a| |aoo to ah |booeeehah oo, ee, eh, ahb|a|, roar of cataractic planets, balled globed blazing roaring wayawayawayawayaway1| Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's. Here, |1thanking you for |ayour thea|,1| tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent across far to a slab of rock and scribbled the words. That's twice I forgot to take some slips from the library. So.

His shadow lay dark over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star |1|aform of my forma|1|? |1|aThey are there darkly darklyº Theyº are therea| behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, |x∆ of Cassiopeiax| worlds. Me sits there, with |aan hisa| ash thyrsus lituus augur's ash rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside an unbeheld sea, by night walking in violet night walking beneath |aa reign ofa| uncouth stars.1| I throw an ended shadow from me and call it back. to me. Endless, would it be mine |1form of my form1|? Who watches me here? Who |1will read1| ever anywhere |1will read1| these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your nicest voice. |1For the Our good1| bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat, the flat cloth ofº
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space with |1signs and coloured1| emblems hatched on its field. Hold on. Coloured on a flat: yes; that's right. |1Flat I see. Then think distance; flat I see. Near, far, east, back. Ah, see! Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope:; click does the trick.1| She trusts me; |1the gentle hand touch of her hand, gentle, her1| softlashed eyes. Where am I supposed to be bringing her beyond the veil? The ineluctable modality of ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. |1Who? |aBut who? What she?a| The girl stood outside Hodges Figgis on Monday looking for one of the alphabet books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Hand through the braided jesse of her |asunshade. Lives sunshade, ladylike, livesa| in Leeson park: a lady of letters.1| |1Tell Talk1| that to someone else |1a pick-me-up1|: ten to one she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and brown |1darned1| stockings. Have you no Talk about apple dumplings |1piutosto1|. |1Have you no sense? Where are your wits?1|

|1Touch me. Hand and eyes. Touch me. |aTouch me. Hand and mute eyes. Touch me. Soft eyes & hand.a|1| |1I am lonely. Touch me. What is that word that all the world men say? I am lonely here alone. O touch me now or soon. What is that word that all others know?1| Will you not? Touch me, touch me.

Touch me. Soft eyes, soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here alone. O, touch me soon |1or touch1| now! What is that word |1all others know known to |aalla| men?|a, to their heartsa|1|. |1I will be quiet to hear alone. I am quiet here alone.1| O sad too. Touch, O touch me now.

He stretched backward at full over the sharp boulders, his hat tilted down on his eyes, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pocket. |1That is Kevin Egan's |agesture movement, nodding for his napa|. Hlo! Bonjourº1| Under the leaf he watched through |1quivering peacock |apeacock quivering |bpaacock twinkling peacock twitteringb|a|1| lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpent plants, milkoozing fruits, |1where leaves lie wide on water where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide1|. Pain is far.

And no
And no more turn aside and brood

|1His feet shod in the a buck's castoff boots drew his |abroodinga| gaze, nebeneinander. He gazed at the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. |aA Thea| foot that beat the ground in tripudium: a foot |aunreada| I dislove. |aYou were delighted when Esther Osvalt's boot fitted you. A girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied!a| Staunch friend. Wilde's love that dare not speak its name.1|

Below his feet the water flowing |1in long |aarms lassoesa| from the Cock Lake1| sheeting greengoldenly |1the wastes lagoons1| of sand, |1Thirty trillions of microbes in a cubic centimetre. Laudate, Dominus omnes gentes, laudate omnes populi:1| rising,º
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flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No they are passing on |1by chafing against1| the low rocks, swirling, passing.

|1|aBetter get this over quick.a| Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of water 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, wideflowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.1|

Under the upswelling tide he saw the |1long writhing1| weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, in whispering water |1sway and swaying, hising up their petticoats,1| upturning |1their1| coy 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, naked |1before in the sight of1| men, naked and unravished, she draws her toil of waters.

|1At one blank1| the boatman said. Five fathoms deep there missing Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he said. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fish, loose silly shells,. a A corpse. rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing landward. There it is. Hook it quick. Pull. We have him. Easy now.

|1Hauled stark over the gunwale the drowned manbundle, bag Bag1| of corpsegas, sopping of foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fatfed |1on a spongy titbit1|, flashing through the slits of his |1buttoned1| trouserfly. |1|aGod becomesa| Man becomes fish becomes bird barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I |alivinga| breathe, I tread dead |abones dusta|, eat feed |ato livea| devour eat to live the a urinous offal of all dead.1| |1Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the |asmells stencha| of his |agreen addleda| grave1| His leprous nosehole fronting the sun.

|1Hauled stark over the gunwale.1| A seachange this. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths |1known to man1|. |1Paris medal awarded Prix de Paris 18671|: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely no end.
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My |1pilgrim's staff stick1| waits to be picked up. |1My cockle hat and staff1|. On then. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself. He took the handle of his ashplant, dallying with it still. Yes, evening will find itself; in me, without me. All days end make their end. By the way next when will it be Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, with a the rum tum tiddledy tum. He is an |1The Oxford gentleman rhymer: lawn Tennyson Lawn Tennyson gentleman poet1|. Già. For the old hag with the yellow |1fangs teeth1|. |1French M. Drumont1| gentleman journalist. |1That one is going too:1| My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. |1Toothless terribility.1|

He had taken a dry snot from his nostril and, holding it on the crook of his finger, groped vainly for his |1handkerchief bard's noserag1|. Forgot it in the Tower. He laid the snot carefully on a |1ledge shelf1| of rock. |1Mulligan's new art colourº1| For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He looked turned|1, over his shoulder rere regardant,1| |1and saw passing through the air the masts of a ship moving through the silent air |aa high threemaster the high spars of a threemastera|1|, her sails |1|afurled anda|1| brailed |1up on the crosstrees, |amoving upstream silentlya|1|, |1passing1| to silently |1on towards Dublin, silently. upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.1|