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^|1Urbaneº ^|aand comforting to comfort them^a| the quaker librarian ^|asaid purred^a|:^1|

— And we have ^|1have we not,^1| those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister, ^|1the quaker librarian said, have we not? ^|athe quaker librarian said with comfort, have we not?^a|1| A great poet on a great brother poet. A soul ^|1hesitating^1| confronted with a task beyond its powers, ^|1|alost in taking arms against^a| a sea of troubles^1| torn by conflicting doubts as one sees in life.

He ^|1tiptoed himself ^|anearer nigher^a| heaven by the altitude of a chopineº^1| made a step ^|1wearily a sinkapace^1| on ^|1a^1| creaking bootsole ^|1and,^1| stepped ^|1backward back^1| creaking ^|1a sinkapace^1| on the solemn ^|1floor (parket) do_unread^1|.

^|1An A noiseless^1| attendant ^|1opening setting open^1| the door ^|1but slightly^1| made to him a noiseless ^|1sign beck^1|.

— ^|1Immediately Directly^1|, he said, creaking to go. For Goethe is always The ^|1beautiful^1| dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's ^|1words judgments^1| are so true. True in the larger ^|1sense analysis^1|.

^|1Zealous, bold, urbane he hasted twicreakingly towards the his summons; bald Twicreakingly analysis he hasted off. Bald, zealous, by the door^1| he heard the attendant's summons and was gone

^|1Two left.^1|

— And Monsieur de la Palice, Stephen ^|1said sneered^1|, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.

— Have you ^|1your found those^1| six ^|1medical students brave medicals^1|, John Eglinton's ^|1carping voice^1| asked ^|1with elder's gall^1|, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation. I feel you would want one more for Hamlet. ^|1The mystical seven. Seven is dear is to the mystic mind.^1| The shining seven, W B ^|1says sings^{1| |1|x}blank verse tracks^x|1|

Glittereyed his ^|1blank rufous^1| skull ^|1turned^1| from his ^|1greenshaded greencapped^1| desklamp ^|1to sought^1| the face, bearded ^|1in amid darkgreener, an ollav,^1| shadow, holyeyed. He laughed low: ^|1the^{1| |1}a sizar's^1| laugh ^|1learned in of^1| Trinity: laughed unanswered.

^|1Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
Tears such as angels weep
Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.º^1|

^|1Gael and gall.^{1| |1}Lies made by ^|apeople men^a| that they themselves may believe ^|aand they^a|1|

Flow over them with your waves
And with your water, Mananaan Mananaun
Mananaum Mac Le Lir

Stephen, seated between, met the returning eyes. He holds my follies
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hostage.º Cranly's ^|1eleven ^|atwelve eleven^a|1| true ^|1men Wicklowmen^1| to free this ^|1land most distressful country^|a, their hope in the coming-to of Kathleen-ni-Houlihan^{a| |x}her 4 beautiful green fields, the stranger in my house^x|1|. ^|1The Tinahely twelve and one to hail him: Ave, rabbi.^1| He beats for them now in ^|1Wicklow the shadow of the^1| glens. I gave him my soul's youth, night by night. God speed. Good hunting.

Folly. Persist.

Mulligan has my telegram.

— Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton ^|1said censured^1|, have yet to create something which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet ^|1though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.^1| The peatsmoke is exhilarating, George Moore says. We want men not wraiths and spooks.
— What is a ghost? Stephen asked. Is it not

— All these questions are purely academic, Russell said from his shadow. For professors of the university. I mean, if Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. ^|1Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus.^1| Art has to ^|1show reveal to^1| us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is h out of how deep a life does it spring. The action and the actors are shadows in time, their thoughts are actions in eternity. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet, bring our minds into contact with the eternal ^|1realities wisdom, the world of ideas of Plato^1|. The rest is ^|1schoolboy^{1| |1}the^1| speculation ^|1of schoolboys for schoolboys^1|.

— The schoolmen were schoolboys at first, Stephen said. Aristotle himself was Plato's prize schoolboy at first.

— ^|1We hope he He^1| is so still, John Eglinton said ^|1maliciously sedately^1|. I can see him quite proud of it too. ^|1A model schoolboy^1| With ^|1his a neat^1| diploma under his arm.

He laughed again towards the now smiling bearded face. Formless spiritual essences. Father,
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Sonº and Holy Breath. ^|1This verily is That.^1| I am the fire on the altar. I am the sacrificial butter. ^|1Dunlop, Judge, ^|athe noblest Roman of them all)^a|, A.E. Arbal in heaven hight. K.H, ^|aAlways watching to see if they can help^a|1| Masters of the Great white lodge. The ^|1Christ's Christ with the^1| bridesister, moisture of light, born of a virgin, repentant Sophia departed to the plane of buddhi. Mrs Cooper Oakley ^|1once^1| saw ^|1the very illustrious sister's^1| H.P.B's elemental.

O, Fie! ^|1Out on't! ^|aPfuiteufel!^a|1| Fie! You naughtn't to look, missus, ^|1so you didn't naughtn't^1| when a lady's a showing of her elemental.

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with grace ^|1two books a notebook^1|, new, ^|1bright,^1| large, clean^|1, bright^1|.

— That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would no doubt find Hamlet's ^|1thoughts thinking^1| on the immortality of his soul ^|1|ximprobable, insignificant & undramatic monologue,^x|1| as shallow as Plato's.

John Eglinton said sharply: frowning:, waxing wroth:

— ^|1I confess Upon my word^1| it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare ^|1Plato and^1| Aristotle ^|1with Plato^1|.

— Which of the two would have banished the creator of Hamlet from his commonwealth?, Stephen asked.
^|1|xPetrus Lombardus: He always do all that he ever did.^x|1|

^|1Unsheathe your dagger definitions. ^|aStreams of tendency and {oms} they worship.^a| God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: that which you damn well have to see. ^|xMust be seen to be believed.^x| Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood he beardily creeps into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. ^|aThis now through which the future plunges towards into the past.^a|1|

Mr Best came forward ^|1simply and said amiably^1| towards his colleague.

— Haines is gone, he said.

— Is he? John Eglinton said.

— I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's ^|1quite interested so enthusiastic^1|, don't you know, about Hyde's lovesongs ^|1of Connacht^1|. I couldn't bring him in ^|1to hear the prolusion^1|. He's gone to Gill's to buy a copy.

— The peatsmoke works wonders, John Eglinton said.

We feel in England that we have. An Ir The penitent thief. An Irishman must
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thinkº like that I daresay.

Gone. I smoked his cigarette. ^|1Twinkling emerald.^1|

— People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, Russell said darkly. The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but a living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and of the political arena produces only the sixshilling novel, the musichall songs. France produces ^|1the finest a fine^1| flower of corruption in Mallarmé but the desirable life is made known only to the poor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaecians.

Mr Best turned his inoffensive face from these words to Stephen^|1, saying^1|

— Mallarmé, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful ^|1prose^1| poems ^|1Stephen MacKenna used to read me in Paris^1|. There's one about Hamlet. He says he walks reading in the il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, ^|1— — the reading the book of himself^1|. He ^|1says describes^1| a performance of Hamlet in a French provincial town. They advertised it.

His gracious hand wrote tiny signs in the air:

Hamlet

ou

Le Distrait

pièce de Shakespeare

He repeated to John Eglinton's ^|1new gathering^1| frown:

— Hamlet, don't you know, or the absentminded Pièce de Shakespeare, don't
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youº know. It's so French. The French point of view. Hamlet or …

— The absentminded beggar, Stephen said.

— Yes, I suppose it would be, John Eglinton laughed. Excellent people, no doubt, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.
— More than one Hamlet has put off black for khaki, Stephen said.
— He changes his inky cloak for khaki in act five, Stephen said.

^|1|xHaml. {gasses} about him.^x|1|

— A khaki Hamlet, why not? Stephen said. He kills ^|1and not by his dark presence as Mallarmé says^1| nine lives for his father's one, ^|1His father who is in purgatory. ^|aSumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder, Mallarmé calls it, but not, as he says, killed of by his philosophy of doubt.^{a| |a}a deathsman of the soul, ^|bas^b| Robert Greene called him^a|1| Stephen said. ^|1A khaki Khaki^1| Hamlet, as Mr Balfour ^|1has it knows^1|, ^|1doesn't don't^1| hesitate to shoot. ^|1He was not for nothing a butcher's son. In his youth he ^|ahandled wielded^a| the sledded poleaxeº and spat in his palm.^{1| |1}And the The^1| stage in act five is a model concentration camp.

— He insists that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof. Like

I am thy father's spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the night
the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep.

^|1Hear, hear, O hear! List! List! O list!^1|

My flesh hears^|1, him:^1| creeping, hears.
If thou didst ever ….

— What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, or through absence ^|1or and^1| through change of manners, through that oblivion which death and absence bring. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from this city in our day. Who is this ghost,
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aº sablesilvered man returning to the world that has has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?

John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to ^|1hear judge^1|.

Lifted him.

— It is this hour of ^|1the a June^1| day, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing, in Shakespeare's London. ^|1He ^|ahas^a| left ^|aMountjoy^a| the huguenot's house in Silver street and ^|acrosses the great river goes along the riverside^{a| |a}but I do not think he stayed to feed the swans, not that day, nor to watch the pen mothering her brood. & walks by the swanmews along the ^|briverside riverbank^b| but he does not stay to feed the pen chivvying chivying her brood towards the rushes^a|. ^|aThe swan of Avon has other thoughts^a|1|. We are in his Globe theatre on the bankside. The flag is up. The bear Sackerson growls in the bearpit hard by ^|1Paris gardenº^1|. ^|1Sailors Shipmen, canvasclimbers^1| who sailed with Drake chew their sausages and stand with the groundlings. ^|1|xGooseberry pigeon^x|1| The play begins.

An actor ^|1enters comes on under the shadow^1|, clad in the cast-off mail of a buck of the court, a wellset man with a deep voice. It is the ghost, King Hamlet. The actor is Shakespeare. And Shakespeare speaks his ^|1own^1| words, calling the young man ^|1|xBurbage^x|1| to whom he speaks, by name.

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit

and bidding him to list. To his son he speaks, to ^|1his son the son of his soul^1|, the prince, young Hamlet and to ^|1his^1| son ^|1of his body^1|, Hamlet Shakespeare who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.

Is it possible that that actor, a ghost by absence, in the vesture of the elder Hamlet, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son, (for had Hamlet Shakespeare lived he would have been then a young man of twenty)
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isº it possible^|1, I ask,^1| that he did not draw ^|1or foresee^1| the logical conclusion of those premises? I am the murdered father; you are the dispossessed son: your mother is the guilty queen^|1, Anne Shakespeare, born Hathaway^1|.

— But this prying into the family secrets of a ^|1great^1| man, Russell said impatiently, is interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean we have the plays. I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear what is it to us how the poet lived? As for living, Villiers de l'Isle said, our servants can do that for us. This peeping and prying into a the greenroom gossip of the day, whe the poet's drinking habits, the poet's debts.

^|1Mananaan MacLir^1|

By the way that pound he lent you ^|1when you were hungry^1|. ^|1|xTake thou this noble^x| By the way pound he lent you I wanted it.^1| You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed. Do you intend to pay it back? O, yes. When? Now? Well, no. When then? I Paid my way. I paid my way. He doesn't want it. Said now. Hold on: he comes from the north. Six months ago. Molecules change completely. I am another I now. Other I got pound. But I, soul, ^|1entelechy^1|, form of forms, am I by memory under everchanging forms. A.E.I.O.U.º

— Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries? John ^|1Eglinton Eglinton's carping voice^1| asked. Her ghost at least has been laid for ever. She died, for literature ^|1I mean at least^1| before she was born.
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^|1|+By the way that pound he lent you when you were hungry?
I wanted it.
You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. ^|aScortatory Love and its Foul Pleasures.^a| Do you intend to pay it back?
O, yes.
When? now?
Well, no.
When then?
I paid my way. I paid my way. He doesn't want it. Said now. Hold on. He's from north of ^|athe^a| Boyne ^|awater^a|. You owe it.
Six months. Molecules change completely. I am other I now. Other I got pound.
Buzz. Buzz.
But I, entelechy, soul, form of forms, in a manner all that is, am I by memory under everchanging forms ^|athat I that ^|bsinned and^b| prayed and fasted, the child ^|bunread unread^b| I Father Conmee saved from pandies.^a| A.E.I.O.U.^+|1|
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— Sheº died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw him into and out of the world. She suffered his first embraces. She bore and bred his children and she closed his eyes in death.

John Eglinton looked into the glowing tangled ^|1wires glowworm^1| of his lamp.

— The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got out of it as quickly as he could.

— Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Portal of discovery opened. The quaker librarian came in softcreakfooted, assiduous, bald and eared.

— A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of discovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates ^|1owe to learn from his wife^1| Xanthippe.

— ^|1Ask him, Stephen said. He called himself a midwife. ^|aA midwife taught him to think. ^|bHis midwife mother taught him, Stephen said, to bring thoughts into the world. ^|cXanthippe's caudlelectures taught him dialectic, but they did not save him, as she had hoped, from the archons of the Gaelic league nor from the cup of hemlock Dialectic, Stephen said. And from his midwife mother how to bring thoughts of others into the world. ^|dBut neither woman's wisdom But neither the midwife's midwife lore nor the caudle lectures^d| saved him from the archons of the Gaelic league and the hemlock cup.^c|b|a|1|

— But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet accent said forgetfully. Yes, we seem to forget her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

His face went from the brooder's beard to the carper's skull, to remind, to chide most kindly, then to the ^|1halted bald pinkbald^1| head of the quaker librarian, guiltless though maligned. ^|1Celestial Love and its Chaste Delights.^1|

— ^|1I suspect ^|aA man of many words He had a good groatsworth of wit^a|1|, Stephen said, ^|1he had as good a and no truant^1| memory. He ^|1brought carried^1| a memory in the wallet of his mind as he trudged to Romeville, to London, whistling The girl I left behind me. ^|1If the earthquake did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, ^|asitting in his form,^a| the studded bridle, her blue windows. ^|xGray eyes^x|1| The book in which he sang it lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. ^|1A shrew!^1| Is Katharine ^|1the shrew^1| illfavoured? ^|1Hortensio calls her young and beauteous.^1| Had the
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^|1sensual poet passionateº pilgrim^1| who wrote Venus and Adonis, do you think, his eyes in his back that he chose ^|1of the ugliest doxy in^1| all Warwickshire ^|1the ugliest doxy^1| to lie ^|1with withal^1|? ^|1He left her: good: and gained the world of men. But because he left his women boywomen are the women of a boy who has not lived with a woman. Life, thought and speech are lent them by males. He chose badly?^1| He was chosen more than a chooser. ^|1She put the comether on him for though others have their will Ann hath a way.^1| The goddess ^|1sweet and twentyº^1| who bends over the boy is a young, ripe and ^|1ardent boldfaced^1| woman who ^|1forces tumbles^1| in a cornfield a lover, younger than herself.

^|1And my turn, when? O come! ^|aBy cock you are to blame.^a|1|

— Ryefield, Mr Best said^|1, raising his bright books gladly^1|.

He murmured then with blond delight for all who should ^|1who would to^1| hear:

— Between the acres of the rye
These pretty countryfolk would lie

Paris: a wellpleased pleaser.

A tall ^|1bearded^1| figure in homespun rose from its shadow and pulled out a ^|1sensible cooperative^1| watch.

— I am afraid I ^|1must go am due at the Homestead^1|

^|1Whither away?º^1|

— Are you going? John ^|1Eglinton Eglinton's eyebrows^1| asked. ^|1Are you coming to Shall we see you at^1| Moore's ^|1tomorrow night tonight^1|. Piper is coming.

— ^|1O,^1| Is Piper back? Mr Best asked.

Peter Piper pecked a peck of ^|1peck pick^1| of peck of pickled pepper.

— I don't know if I can. Thursday Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away in time.
— Are you Is it true that Geo

^|1Their room ^|aTheir^a| bogeybox^1| in Dawsons chambers. Isis unveiled. Their Pali book we tried to pawn. Bowlegged Bowlegseated Crosslegged among his ^|1worshippers faithful hermetists^1| he ^|1sits and broods thrones ^|afilled with his god^a|, brooding^1|, ^|1an their^1| Aztec logos., mahamahatma, functioning on ^|1the^1| astral ^|1levels level^1|, mahamahatma. Engulfer of souls. ^|1|xon this side idolatry^x| the adepts — Lizzie Twigg ^|aand lotus ladies^a| with the toothache ^|xLouis H. Victory T. Caulfield Irwin^{x| |x}Mabel Collins^{x| |a}with glowing their pineal glands aglow^{a| |x}with swollen glands^x|1| Hesouls ^|1and,^1| shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing cries, ^|1they wail bewailing whirling, they bewail^1|.

In quintessential triviality
For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt

— ^|1There is a rumour that They say^1| we are
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toº have a literary surprise, Mr Best said. the quaker librarian said. amiably and earnestly. Mr Russell, rumour has it, has gathered together a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward anxiously.

^|1He glanced anxiously Anxiously he glanced^1| in the cone of lamplight where three faces, variously lighted ^|1to expression^1|, shone. ^|1See this. Remember this.^1|

Stephen looked ^|1down^1| upon ^|1his a wide^1| black hat ^|1Caubeen^1| and ashplant hung ^|1headless^1| on ^|1the ashplant his ashplant's handle ^|aagainst over his knee^a|1|. My casque and sword. Listen.

Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part. Longworth promises to give ^|1a column a good puff to it^1| in the Express. I liked Colum's Drover. ^|1Has he O, I think he has^1| that queer thing genius^|1?.^{1| |1}Do you think he has genius?^1| Yeats ^|1liked admired^1| his phrase as in wild earth a Grecian vase. Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan is coming too ^|1with that Oxford friend of his, Haines^1|, Moore says. ^|1|xYes. He's gone to buy Hyde's book.^x|1| Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn. She says Moore is Martyn's wild oats. Awfully ^|1good clever^1|, isn't it? Moore doesn't seem to think much is not much impressed of Colum's I mean, he says Does he not? I hope you'll have good success with your fledglings.

^|1And these will be trusted, all ready to betray (Cordelia) Lir's loneliest daughter^1|

Now your very best manners.

— Thank you very much, ^|1Mr Russell,^1| Stephen said^|1, rising^1|. You will give the letter to Mr Norman then …

— O, yes, Russell said. If he considers it important it will go in.

— I understand, Stephen said. Thank you.

^|1The pigs' paper.^1|

Synge has promised me an article for Dana too. Do you think we are going to be read? They want you to have part of it in Irish. I hope you will come round tonight. Bring Starkey too.

Stephen sat down again.

The quaker librarian came away from the leavetakers. Blushing his
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maskº said:

— Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.

He creaked to and fro and, covered by the outgoing noises, said:

— Do Is it your idea, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?

^|1|xthe church qua church^x|1|

Stephen gazed at the alarmed face before him. Inner light he too seeks. A zealous lollard. Why did he come to me? Politeness or an inner light? His ^|1Christ Christfox^1| in leather ^|1hose trews^1|, hiding ^|1runaway^1| in ^|1hollow in a ^|ablasted blighted^a|1| treefork from ^|1persecutors hue and cry^1|, walking lonely in the chase. Women he won, ^|1tender people,^1| whores of Babylon, justices' wives, ^|1the^1| wives of ^|1innkeepers tapsters^1|. ^|1Fox and geese.^1| And in New Place a ^|1slack^1| dishonoured body^|1, that^1| once ^|1was comely,^1| sweet as cinnamon, now her leaves falling all, bare, frighted of the ^|1bare^1| grave ^|1|aand^a| unforgiven^1|.

^|1|xper cui tanto reo tempo si volse^x|1|

— There is no reconciliation, Stephen said, unless there has been a sundering.

— So you think ….

The door closed behind the outgoer.

^|1Without warm brooding air …......^1|

A sudden rest filled the discreet vaulted cell where a vestel's lamp burned. ^|1Here he meditates on things that were not. What Caesar would have done had he believed the soothsayer, ^|awhat might have been if on things not known, what name Achilles bore when he lived among women,^{a| |a}actuality ^|bpossibility possibilities^b|a| of the possible as possible.^1| Coffined thoughts lie around, in mummy cases, embalmed in languages. ^|1Thoth, ^|amoonheaded a beakfaced birdgod, moonycrowned^a|. Highpriest of Egypt. Nivenah. As here: “the painted chambers loaded with tilebooks, the lore of the arrowheaded writing”^1| Once quick in the live brains of men they lie still. The itch of death is in them yet. To speak in my ear their maudlin story ^|1and,^1| urge me to their will.

— Certainly, John Eglinton said, of all great men he is the most enigmatic but that he lived and suffered. A shadow hangs over all the rest.

— But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it, Mr Best said. I mean
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aº kind of private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean, I don't care about who is killed or ….

He rested his ^|1notebooks innocent books^1| on the edge of the desk. ^|1His^1| Private papers. Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim im mo sagart. ^|1Taδg O'Donnċaδa, put beurla on it. I am in my priest. ^|xLet littlejohn^x|1|

— He is still doomed for a certain term to walk the night of criticism ^|1& misunderstanding^1|, Stephen said^|1, if that be fame^1|.

John Eglinton horsed a knee impatiently, saying

— I was prepared for paradoxes from what Mulligan told me but I ^|1must say may as well warn you^1| if you want to r shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you. ^|1His glinting eyes glanced sideways at Stephen Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting askance^1| from under stern wrinkled brows. Basilisk eyed. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. Messer Brunetto, I thank thee for the word.

— ^|1Bear with me, Stephen said.^1| As we weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day ^|1its molecules shuttled carelessly to and fro,^1| so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my left shoulder is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time after time so ^|1for though^1| the ghost of ^|1the^1| unquiet father the image of the unliving son looks forth. At his age I shall see myself as I sit here today but by reflection from that which then I shall be.

^|1Got round that neatly. Drummond of Hawthornden helped me over that stile.^1|

— ^|1But Yes^1|, I feel Hamlet quite young, Mr Best said youngly. ^|1Even his The^1| bitterness might be the reflection of the father
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butº the passages with Ophelia is surely the son.

Has the wrong sow by the ear. But what harm.

— That is the last mole to disappear, Stephen said laughing ^|1and the first to appear^1|.

— If that were the sole birthmark of genius, John ^|1Eglinton Eglinton's knitted brows ^|awith a sour mowº^a|1| said ^|1sourly^1|, it would be a drug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's last years which Renan admired so much breathe a different spirit.

— The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian said appeasingly.

— There is no reconciliation, Stephen said, without a sundering. Tragic events darken the period of Othello, Lear and Hamlet but that those events did not cast the deepest shadow is shown by the way in which their shadow lifted and a way to. Who and what is it that softens for awhile the heart of a man, ^|1of Pericles,^1| shipwrecked in the storms of a life's bitterness ^|1tried like Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre^1|? A baby girl. Marina. ^|1Brineblinded A head buffeted by waves, red cone redconecapped, brineblinded.^{1| |1}My dearest wife was like this maid.^1|

— The affection of sophists for the ^|1bypaths of^1| apocrypha is a constant quantity, John Eglinton said detectively. The highroads are dreary but they lead to the town.

Good Bacon, ^|1dry and gone^1| musty. Cypher jugglers ^|1going the highroads^1|. Shakespeare ^|1is^1| Bacon's wild oats. What town ^|1are they is he^1| bound for ^|1mummed in their names^1| or the yogi, AE the ^|1yogi eon^1|, Magee-John Eglinton? East of the sun: westward of the moon: to Tir-nan og. Booted ^|1|aboth the twain^a|1| and staved.

How many miles to Dublin?
Threescore and ten, sir.
Will we be there by candlelight?
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— Mrº Brandes places it as the first play of the closing period, Stephen said. Marina

— Does he? John Eglinton said. What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as ^|1I believe some say^1| his name is, say of that play?

— Marina, Stephen said, the child of seastorm, Imogen, blank, Miranda, a childish wonder, Perdita, that which was lost. That which was lost in youth is reborn strangely in his wane of life: his daughter's child. But who will love the daughter if he has not loved the mother? I don't know but will he not see in her recreated and with the memory of his own youth ^|1and his own image^1| added to her the images which first awakened his love?

Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. ^|1Word known to all men.^1| Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult, undea unde et ea quae concupiscimus …

— A man ^|1of with that queer thing^1| genius above all whose own image is to him, morally and materially, the Handmaid of all experience. He will be touched by that appeal as he will be infallibly repelled by images of other males of his brood in whom he will see grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.

The quaker librarian said, his forehead blushing ^|1benignly^1|:

— I hope Mr Dedalus will develop his theory for the instruction of the public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator, Mr Frank Harris. His articles on Shakespeare in the Saturday blank were surely brilliant. Oddly
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enough,º he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets Mary Fitton. The favoured rival is the young earl of Pembroke ^|1William Herbert^1|. I own that if the poet is to appear as rejected such a rejection would seem ^|1more in harmony with^1| — what shall I say? — our notions of what ought not to have been.

Having shaped the words felicitously he held his head meekly among them, an auk's egg, prize of their ^|1strifes ^|awrangling fray^a|1|. A faint benign smile appeared on his mask, echoing pleased his thought and p_unread—

^|1He thous ^|aand thees^a| her. Dost thou love, Miriam? Dost love thy hubsy? ^|xlaugh and lie down^{x| |x}leman^x|1|

— That may be too, Stephen said. There is a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish in youth because in middle life it will be granted you. No wealth of words or richness of experience will make the him who was overborne in a cornfield, excuse me, a ryefield a victor in his own eyes ever. ^|1Why does he then to one who is a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, ^|aa buonaroba,^{a| |a}a bay where all men ride^a| he, who has written Romeo and Juliet & —, a gentleman ^|awith bearing^a| arms, ^|xa coistrel gentlemanº^x| a lord of language, send a lordling as his proxy? Why? His Belief in himself has been untimely sapped.^1| No later undoing will efface the first. He may allow it to enflame and darken his understanding of himself. In youth he thinks to put miles between himself and it. No assumed dongiovannism will save him ^|1for there remains to the ^|aworsted^a| shrew an invisible weapon^1|. That goad of the flesh will drive him into a new passion — its darker shadow — darkening after a moment of flame his own understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and both rages like whirlpools commingle. But the later
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rageº is a fever of the blood which tortures but does not strike mortally the soul. ^|1The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porches of a sleeping ear. ^|aThose who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their undoing unless the creator endows their souls with that knowledge in the ^|bother world life to come^b|.^a| That poisoning and the treason that urged it the ghost of King Hamlet could not know were it not endowed with knowledge from by its creator.^1| Under the apparent dialogue and diatribe the speech is always turned elsewhere, backward. He returns, unsatisfied by ^|1his the^1| creations he has piled up between himself and himself, to ^|1brood upon lick^1| his ^|1wound old sore^1|. Imogen the ravished is Lucrece the undeflowered. ^|1And in the porches of their ears I pour^1| There are no mangods in our time. Shakespeare passes towards eternity, in undiminished personality, ^|1unvisited untaught^1| by the eternal wisdom ^|1we heard about just now he has revealed {believed}^1|, unscathed by untaught by the laws he has exemplified. His beaver is up a but he will not speak or stay. A ghost, his words are for the night of mourning on which ^|1heard only in for^1| the night of despair, as the wind around Elsinore's rocks, or the sea's voice, and only by him who is ^|1blank the substance of his shadow^1|, the son consubstantial with the father.

— Amen!

Buck Mulligan's ribald ^|1Buck Mulligan responded from the doorway from the doorway ^|aBuck Mulligan was^a| responded^1|.

^|1Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?^1|

^|1His A^1| ribald face, sullen an for an instant, Buck Mulligan came forward ^|1blithely in blithe motleyº, primrose vested,^1| towards a greeting of smiles., greeting gaily with t his doffed Panama ^|1as with a bauble^1|.

^|1— You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, were you not? he asked of Stephen.^1|

He has my telegram.

^|1The mocker will return

He lifts his hands: veils fall. O flowers! ^|xa triple of bells^x| Bells ^|aand with^a| bells ^|aand with^a| bells, ^|achoiring all aquiring^a|.^1|

— A most interesting discussion ^|1on Shakespeare^1|, the quaker librarian said. Mr Mulligan, I am sure, has his theory too. All sides of life should be
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represented.º

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled.

— Shakespeare? he said. ^|1I seem to know the name.^1|

A sudden sunny smile rayed into his ^|1relaxed loose^1| features.

— ^|1Ah,^1| To be sure, he said^|1, remembering brightly^1|. The chap that writes like Synge.

Mr Best turned to him:

— Haines was here, he said. He'll meet you after at the D.B.C. He's gone to buy the Lovesongs of Connacht, don't you know. I was showing them to him.

— Here? Buck Mulligan asked^|1, looking round^1|.

— No, Mr Best said. ^|1I asked him to come in …^1|

— Shakespeare's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton said, are rather tired of our brilliancies of theorising.

— The most brilliant of all, Mr Best is that story of Wilde's, don't you know, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That picture of Mr W.H where he proves the sonnets were written by ^|1Mr William Willie^1| Hughes. ^|1A man all hues.^1|

— For Mr William Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian said. ^|1Or for Hughy Wills.^1|

— I mean, for Mr William Hughes, Mr Best said ^|1amending his gloss^1|. Of course it's all paradoxical, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the colours. But it's so typical the whole theory the way he works it out. It's the ^|1very^1| essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch

His glance touched their faces lightly. as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Essence of Wilde. Tame essence of Wilde.
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You'reº very witty today. ^|1You would give your five wits to be for that light smile, youth's proud livery.^1| The three whiskies you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats? ^|1Strong waters.^1| Brillianting before a plump of pressmen. ^|1Beware. That way madness lies. Lineaments of gratified desire.^1| Irish humour wet and dry. Beware.

^|1How much did I spend? O, few shillings.^1|

Buck Mulligan looked with grave Buck Mullig

— Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian asked. The scoffer is never taken seriously even when he is serious.

They talked.

Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, shaking his ^|1d^1| head, he came forward. He drew a folded telegram from his pocket, read it with his mobile lips, smiling with new delight.

— Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! ^|1We waited for you in the Ship, Haines and myself.^1| Telegram! ^|1A papal bull!^1|

He sat on a corner of the unlit desk near Stephen, reading with delight.

— The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Dedalus. Where did you send it from? College Green. Malachi Mulligan, the Ship, Middle Abbey Street, Dublin. O, you lovely mummer! O, you priestified Kinchite! Signed: Dedalus.

Haines got ^|1the pip queer and sick^{1| |1}when Connery the time himself^1| brought it in. ^|1|xBegorra bedad^{x|1| |1}It's what I'm blank^|a, mister honey,^a|1| And ^|1we ^|awe to be with our tongues out us after^{a|1| |1}waiting sitting civil ^|aone hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's^a|1| for pints apiece the way we could, and you to be ^|1unbeknownst^1| sending ^|1telegrams missives^1| the way we to have our tongues out a ^|1mile yard^1| long like drouthy clerics do be ^|1after^1| lapping their pussful.

Stephen laughed.

Buck Mulligan, changing
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^|1tone, said in toº a tone of^1| mock warning.

— ^|1The tramper in pampooties^1| Synge is looking for you, he said. To murder you. He heard you pissed over his halldoor in Glasthule. He's going to murder you.

He laughed

^|1The harsh gargoyle face that warred ^|ain words for words, ^|bpalabrasº,^b|a| against me in over ^|aour plates a dish ^|bmessº^b|a| of hashed lights in rue Saint André des Arts. Oisin and Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart wood, brandishing a winebottle. C'est vendredi saint! He met his image, wandering. And I mine. I met a fool i' the forest.^1|

— Me? Stephen s exclaimed. That was your contribution to Irish literature.

— Mr Lyster! an attendant said from the do opened door.

— ….. in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his Diary of Master William Silence finds the hunting terms …. Yes? What is it?

— There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said ^|1offering th a card^1|, from the Evening Telegraph. He wants to see the files of the Kilkenny People for last year.

^|1A patient figure^|a, hat in hand,^{a| |a}looked^a| darkly in ^|aoutlined in the^a| looked into the discreet room.^1|

— Certainly, certainly, certainly, the quaker librarian said. Is the gentleman …...? I'm coming directly.

A patient figure from the daylight without looked darkly in. ^|1The librarian hurried on out dutifully. The quaker librarian dutifully ^|acinquepaced ^|xbrisk as a galliard^{x| |x}he went a galliard^x|a| to the door and, honest eager broadbrim, talked with zeal.^1|

— This gentleman? ^|1Evening Telegraph^1| Kilkenny People to be sure. We have the Kilkenny People, Enniscorthy Guardian, Cork Examiner …. Good day, sir … Will you please … Evans, conduct this gentleman … If you just follow …. Or allow me ^|1I shall to^1| show you.

He pushed on out of the lighted span of doorway, ^|1volubly ever vol &^1| dutifully, stumbling, the bowing figure after at his stumbling heels.

^|1Treading whither?

In the world without in circumstances of squalor hands laid upon whiteness.^1|

The door closed.

— The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up and snatching
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theº card. ^|1My first blank^1| What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom. ^|1He turned his tongue rattling on:^1| I found him over in the museum ^|1admiring ^|abent down^a| worshipping^{1| |1}the Uranian^1| Venus. Jehovah, ^|1the gaseous vertebrate,^1| collector of prepuces, is no more. The sheeny bends low before ^|1the fundament of Uranian Venus ^|xfoamborn^x| Aphrodite^1|. ^|1We must salute her every day. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in whining prayer.^1| Hellas, ^|1the^1| lamp of love. Life of life, thy lips enkindle.

He turned suddenly to Stephen, saying:

— He knows you. He's after you ^|1unread unread^1|. O, I fear me he is ^|1more Greek Greeker^1| than the Greeks. I saw him His pale Galilean eyes were upon her back parts. O, they were (^|1O, the thunder of those loins the loins that thunderous^1|. ^|1|xworld's desire^x|1| The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

— We want to hear more, John Eglinton said ^|1with Mr Best's approval^1|. We are beginning to be interested in Mrs W. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda or as Penelope stayathome.

^|1— Remember, Stephen said, that Antisthenes took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' broodmare, Helen, and handed it to poor Penelope.^1|
— While

— Twenty years he lived in London, Stephen said, and, during a great part of that time he was drawing a salary equal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His art is ^|1more than^1| the art of feudalism, as good Walt accused him. It is the art of surfeit. Spicy herringpies, sack in green mugs, ^|1pigeons stuffed with^1| honeysauces, ^|1gooseberried pigeons,^1| ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh's apparel when he was arrested was ^|1more than^1| worth half a million francs. The ^|1virgin queen's gombeenwoman Elizabeth Tudor's {starched}^1| underlinen was as great as that of the queen of Sheba. While he consorted with ^|1his birdsnies^1| Mary Fritton and lady Penelope Rich ^|1and his other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson has it^1| (I say nothing of the punks on the Bankside) what do you imagine Poor Penelope
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wasº doing in Stratford ^|1behind the diamond panes^1|? Something there must be

Buck Mulligan rose from the desk abruptly and asked judicially:

— Whom do you suspect?

He sat down, talking to himself ^|1in audible rhymes rimes audible^1|.

— Say that Shakespeare is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. At least one, the court wanton, spurned him for a lord. Dear, my love.

— As an English liberal, you mean, he loved a lord, John Eglinton ^|1said put in^1|. ^|1His master-mistress!

— It seems so, Stephen said, when he wishes to do for him ^|a|band^b| with all and singular uneared wombs^a| the service that the ostler does for the stallion. Maybe he ^|atoo^a| had a midwife to mother as he had a shrew to wife.^1|

^|1A Mind A mind ^|anot slumbered^a|. Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.^1|

^|1The love that dare not speak its name.^1|

— For one younger and handsome. Nor did she betray a vow. For these two offenses are as raw in the ghost's mind as is the carnal act itself: the broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has descended. ^|1Young^1| Women who seduce men younger than themselves are, I daresay, hot in the blood. And once a seducer, twice a seducer.

The burden of proof lies with you not with me.

Stephen turned sharply in his chair.

— The burden of proof is with you and not with me, he said frowning. If you deny that in the third scene in Hamlet he has branded her with infamy explain why there is no mention of her for the during the thirtyfour years between the day he married her and the day she buried him. O yes, one mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in royal London to pay a
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debtº she had to borrow five shillings from her father's shepherd. Explain you then. ^|1He faced their silence^1| And explain the ^|1dying message swansong^1| with which he has commended her to posterity.

^|1To whom thus Eglinton^1|

— You mean the will ^|1John Eglinton said^1|. That has been explained, I believe, by jurists. ^|1His legal knowledge was great men of law say.^1| She was entitled at common law to her widow's dower. ^|1Besides she was too old.^1|

— And therefore he omitted her name ^|1from in^1| the first draft, Stephen said mockingly. But he did not omit the presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters, for his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford and in London and therefore when he was urged (as I believe) to name her he left her his secondbest bed.
^|1|+To whom thus Eglinton:

Woa!^+|1|

— ^|1Pretty^1| Countryfolk had ^|1little furniture few chattles^1| in those times perhaps, John Eglinton said, as they have still if our ^|1Irish^1| dramatists are true to type.

— He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and a fortune in landed estate. To whom did he leave his best bed Why did he not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her life in peace?

— It seems clear that there were two beds in the case, Mr Best said finely.

— Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, Buck Mulligan said.

— Perhaps if we could produce the bed, John Eglinton said. Antiquity mentions several famous beds. Let me think.

— But do you mean that he died so?, Mr Best asked. I mean
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— Heº died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan said. A quart of ale is a dish for a king. Do you know what Dowden said?

— What? John Eglinton and Mr Best asked ^|1united in unison^1|.

— Lovely! Buck Mulligan said gaily. I asked him what he thought of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands and said: All we say is that life ran very high in those days. Lovely!

^|1Catamite.

— The sense of beauty leads us astray, Mr Best said ^|arather sadly with some sadness^a|. ^|aBoyactors Boywomen^a|1|

— ^|1|aHe accepts and embroiders on patronage. A timeserver he turns all events to account — the jewbaiting that followed the arrest of Lopez, the return of explorers. An Englishman first. Get rich quick. All events brought grist to his will. Shylock ^|bfollows chimes with^b| the jewbaiting that followed the execution of the queen's jew doctor Lopez. Hamlet and Macbeth with the coming to the throne of a Scotch philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. He jeers at the ^|bwar routed lost armada of the^b| Spaniards in Love's Labour Lost. His pageants follow the sail on the tide of national enthusiasms, his sonnets follow Sidney's. Of the gross virgin who inspired Mids. N. Dream and the Merry Wives it is needless to speak.^{a|1| |1}A poet but an Englishman And the sense of property^1|, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own long pocket. ^|1The hostler and callboy became a man of substance in an age when players were vagabonds.^1| He was the son of a cornjobber and moneylender. He was himself a ^|1jobber maltjobber^1| and moneylender. He had corn hoarded during the Stratford famine. He sued a fellow actor for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted every penny of interest on the money he had lent. ^|1His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by ^|aFalstaff Chettle Chettle Falstaff^a| who have reported his uprightness of dealing.^1|

— Prove that he was ^|1a^1| jew, John Eglinton said ^|1expectantly^1|. F Your dean of studies proves that a he was a good Roman Catholic. We shall hear next that he was a Warwickshire Celt.

^|1— A catholic Celt, Stephen jeered, who wrote in protestant English and was made in Germany the champion French polisher of Italian scandals^1|

— A myriadminded man, Mr Best put in, Coleridge calls him.

(quotation)

— Saint Thomas, Stephen began …

— ^|1O, Ora pro nobis!^1| Buck Mulligan ^|1moaned keened^1|. We are lost now. We are It's destroyed we are from this day. ^|1St Holy^1| Thomas has come!º It's destroyed we are surely!

— Saint Thomas, Stephen went on smiling, writing of incest from a standpoint different from that of the Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of likens it ^|1in his wise and curious way^1| to an avarice of the affections. He means that the love so given
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toº one near in blood is covetously withheld from ^|1some a^1| stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. The jews who are accused by christians of avarice are also the most given to intermarriage. Accusations are made in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards ^|1& power^1| of the jews bound their affections too with hoops of steel. Whether these be sins of virtues Old Nobodaddy will tell us at the general assizes. But a man who holds so closely to what he calls his rights over what he calls his goods debts will hold ^|1tight tightly^1| also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife. No neighbour must covet his wife or his ox ^|1or his horse^1| or his parlourmaid ^|1or his horse^1| or his jackass.

— Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan ^|1said added softly^1|.

— Gentle Will is being ^|1roughly ungently^1| handled, ^|1blank gentle Mr Best^1| said ^|1gently^1|.

— Which will? Mulligan ^|1asked sweetly sweetly asked^1|. We are getting mixed.

— If others have their will, Stephen answered, Ann hath a way. She will remain laid out for all posterity in puritanical stiffness in that secondbest bed even though you prove that a bed was as rare in those days as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder of seven parishes. In her age she takes up with lollard prechers and hears about her soul. Venus has turned bigot. It is the agenbite of inwit, the remorse of conscience: it is the age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.

— That seems to me to be true, John Eglinton said. The ages
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succeedº one another. But it has been well said that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that A.E. is right. ^|1What do we care about his father or his wife^1| I should say that only family poets have family lives. The ^|1author creator^1| of the Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.

Lean, ^|1rejoyced rejoycing^1|, he lay back. Shy denier of kindred, the unco guid. He sups sparely, ^|1tasting but sneaks the cupº among^1| blasphemies. A father in ^|1the planters' Ultonian^1| Antrim. Visits him here ^|1on quarter days^1|. ^|1Mr Magee^1| Sir, there's a gentleman outside says he's your father to see you. Me? Says he's your father^|1, sir^1|. Enter Magee Mor: ^|1Japhet in search of a son Matthew a rugged rough rugheaded kern ^|anether stocks signed with clauber of ten forests, a wilding in his hand^a|1|.

And mine?

Hurrying to her squalid deathbed from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand. Fine, brown and shrunken^|1. A,^1| drunkard's hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking new tones remembered. ^|1Dr Bob Kenny is attending her.^1| The eyes that wish me well. But do they know me?

— A father is a necessary evil, Stephen said battling ^|1with against^1| despair. He wrote the play in the months following his father's death. If you hold that he is, a greying man with thirty five years of life and fifty of experience, ^|1with two marriageable daughters^1| is the beardless undergraduate then you must hold that his seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. The corpse of his father in Stratford does not walk the night. He rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate on upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man: it is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession. ^|1|afrom^a| Only begetter ^|aand to^a| only begotten.^1|
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^|1Itº is on this mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe that the church is founded — and founded irremovably because it is founded on the ^|aas world and atoms are upon the void^a| incertitude. On unlikelihood, I might add. For if amor matris, subjective & objective genitive, is the central secret, the only true thing in life as the human say is not that other love mysterious because unnatural? Paternity is a legal fiction. Who is my father? Or why should there be love between son and father?

— Sabellius ^|athe African^a|, the subtlest of heresiarchs, held that the Father was himself His Son. Aquinas refutes him (how?) for with ^|ahim Whom^a| no word shall be impossible. Divinely ^|ahe He^a| is an eternal Father who has begotten before all ages. But in our own narrow life is he a son whose father does not live? When Rutland-South-Bacon-Shakespeare^1|
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Whenº he wrote the play he was not the father of his own ^|1children son^1| merely, but because no longer a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the father
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ofº his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson. who, by the same token, never was born for, as Mr Magee ^|1says has written^1|, nature abhors perfection.

John Eglinton looked up, his eyes quick with pleasure.

Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.

— Every man his own father, Buck Mulligan said. Wait, wait. I am big with child. I have a child in my brain. A play! A play! Let me parturiate! ^|1|xprecipitation^x|1|

He clasped his high ^|1brow forehead^1| with ^|1aiding birthaiding^1| hands.

— As for his family, his Stephen said, his mother's name he gave to the forest of Arden. Her death brought from him the encounter ^|1of with^1| Volumnia and in Coriolanus. His ^|1son's boyson's^1| is the deathscene of prince Arthur in King John. ^|1His son's name is given to Hamlet.^1| His father's death gave birth to Hamlet. But there is one member of his family who is otherwise recorded.

— Now I feel that ^|1we are reaching the climax the plot thickens^1|, John Eglinton said.

The quaker librarian tiptoed in, ^|1blank^1| presenting the same mask flushed with haste.

— Shakespeare, Stephen said, had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund and Richard. Of the first I can find little except that in his old age he told courtiers that he had seen brother Will carry a man on his back in a play. The playhouse sausage said more to him that what he heard or saw. The names of Edmund and Richard occur in the plays and as the names of two in the trinity of stage villains — Richard III, Iago and Edmund in King Lear. And note that this last play was written while about the time that his brother Edmund was dying in London.

— Names, John Eglinton said. What's in a name?
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— Much,º Stephen said. Do you not think he knew how to hide his own name in his plays, giving it only once ^|1in jest^1| to poor William in As You Like It? As a ^|1writer painter^1| of the middle age sometimes puts his own face in an obscure corner of his canvas? And did he not reveal it in the sonnets where there is Will in overplus? Like John O' Gaunt his name is dear to him. ^|1His As dear as the^1| coat of arms with the shaken spear which he intrigued for. It was more to him to have that patent in his name than to be the greatest shakescene in the country. How often do we write as children the name that we are told is ours? A star, a daystar rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens over delta in Cassiopeia, the strange constellation which is the signature of his name among the stars. ^|1|xfiredrake^{x| |x}Lowlying on the dark horizon, eastward of the bear.^x|1| He must have ^|1seen watched^1| it from the slumberous fields at night, returning from Shottery and from her arms.

^|1|aAutontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos.^a|

And you too waiting to the wooed and won^|a: reading the skies. ^|bAll against me, friend and foe.^{b|a| |a}but what She whom^a| you wait for is wooed now. Now ^|aand ever: and was before & will be:^a| and you wait. Is won: far from you, behind dim diamondpanes hands are laid on, whiteness.^1|

— What is that?, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial phenomenon really?

— A star by night, Stephen said. The pillar of the cloud by day.

Names. ^|1Me, Magee and Mulligan.

^|xStephen, Stephen,
Cut the bread even.^x|1|

^|1⇒^1| The fabulous artificer, a hawklike man. You flew. What to find? Paris. ^|1What did you find? And what then?^1| Stephanos Dedalos. Your crown where is it? Here. Young men, christian association hat. Lapwing, you sit here. You sit with Name yourself: Lapwing ^|1be^1|.

— Yes, Mr Best said. The brother theme we find also in the old Irish epics, don't you know. Just what you say, like the three brothers Shakespeare. It's always the third brother that marries the sleeping beauty and gets the crown.

Three brothers Best

Best of his brothers: good, better, best.
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— Butº I should like to know, the quaker librarian said, which brother it was. I understand it was one of the brothers. But perhaps I am anticipating?

He caught himself in the act: looked at all: was silent.

An attendant from the door called him:

— Mr Lyster, Father Dineen wants to …

— O, Father Dineen! Directly.

Swiftly ^|1rectly^1| creaking rectly rectly ^|1in a coranto^1| he was rectly gone. leman

John Eglinton took up the foil.

— Let us ^|1hear^1| of Richard and Edmund, he said. Are these ^|1their names nuncle Richie & nuncle Edmund^1|.

— ^|1If blank In asking^1| you to remember them, Stephen said, it is because I am perhaps asking too much for a brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. I ought to have mentioned them before. It is my fault.

Lapwing.

Where is your brother? In the Apothecaries' hall. ^|1|aMy Old^a| whetstone.^1| To him first, to Davin, Cranly, Lynch, Mulligan: now to these. Cold perfect speech. Now the speech is act. Act as you speak. They mock and try you. Act.

Lapwing.

— No, Mr Best said. It is very interesting.

— But those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the plays, John Eglinton said.

— Why did he take them in preference to others? Stephen said. Why is Richard Crookback ^|1the misbegotten^1|, a halfbrother who makes love to a widowed Ann ^|1(What's in a name?)^1|, to a loving wife who feigns to repel him and yield why is he introduced into the pageant of the histories^|1? — the only king in the plays unhedged by divinity or by reverence, angel of the world?^1| Why ^|1does is^1| the subplot of King Lear in
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whichº Edmund appears taken from Sidney's Arcadia and grafted on to ^|1the a^1| Celtic legend of Lir and his daughters, a legend older than history and, Mr Russell would say, older than humanity.

— Gentle Will was wilful, John Eglinton said indulgently. We should not now combine characters from a Norse saga with an episode from George Moore's latest novel.

— Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false brother is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. In glad days and in sad. ^|1If If he has suppressed it anywhere it is where he has allowed another shame to darken his understanding. But it was it, the original sin, ^|auncommitted by him as original sin is too^a| which darkened his understanding, weakened his will & left in him a strong inclination. The words are taken from their lordships of Maynooth. It appears petrified in his last will, petrified on his tombstone between which her four bones are not to lie, ^|aunmitigated unsolved^a| by his daughters' influence, unmitigated by age & weakness. It is not the betrayal by a wanton with a lordling but that she who first touched his lips with the live coal of passion unmindful of his greatness has betrayed him in the silent country with one of his own blood & earthly brood, adulterous incest gainst his body with one who bears likeness to him but by a jest of birth ^|x— a churls^x|1| It is ^|1the inevitable accompaniment of a wife's infidelity?^1| in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As You Like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure — and in the other plays which I have not read.

He laughed to free his mind from ^|1its his mind's^1| bondage.

— The truth is probably midway, John Eglinton said. He is the ghost and Hamlet too. He is all his characters

— Yes, Stephen said. And so the beardless youth of the first act becomes a mature man in act five.

^|1— Even Homer sometimes nods, John Eglinton said. In the Odyssey we have Telemachus a young magistrate when he was really a schoolboy^1|

^|1⇒^1| He acts and is acted on. ^|1He is, as in ^|aOthello and in^a| Cymbeline, the bawd and the cuckold.^1| his unremitting intellect is the Iago which ceaselessly wills that the moor in him shall suffer.

^|1— Cuckoo, cuckoo, Buck Mulligan cooed. O, word of fear.^1|

— And what a character is Iago! John Eglinton exclaimed ^|1undaunted ^|aimploring^a|1|. ^|1After all When all is said^1| Dumas (or is Victor Hugo?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most.

— His ^|1world worlds^1| is conjured up about him, Stephen said, to people his loneliness. He launches world after world on his orbit and in each is his own image, one banished, Prospero Angelo, one betrayed, the elder
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Hamlet.º ^|1And after nuncle Richie's death grandpapa Will, prosperous Propero and Lizzie, his little lump of love.^1| He returns then to that part of the earth where he was born, where he has always been, an invisible witness, and, his journeys ended, ^|1returns to his ^|aholding conacre conacre holding^a|1| plants a mulberry tree. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates go forth today he will find the sage seated on the doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. ^|1Life Every life^1| is only many days, day after day. We walk through one after another, encountering what is ourselves robbers, giants, old men, ghosts, young men, wives. The dramatist who wrote this world and wrote it ^|1so^1| badly ^|1that he made light for us first and sun and moon two days later, ^|aHe whom the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god,^a|1| is also, I suppose, in all his characters. ^|1He would be bawd and cuckold too but that^|a, as he is hostler and butcher, blank^a|1| If he married young I expect ^|1|xSe mai quel santo evangelico suono che dice neque nubent intendesti^x|1| In the heavenly city there is no giving in marriage. ^|1Man & wife^1|

— Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. I have it!

^|1Happied,^1| He jumped up and reached John Eglinton's desk ^|1at in^1| a stride.

— May I? he said

He began to scribble on a slip of paper

— Those who are married, Mr Best quoted, all but one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.

He laughed unmarried at John Eglinton, ^|1of arts a^1| bachelor.

^|1Uncaught, ^|aunfancied,^a| fearing wiles, they fingerponder nightly each a variorum editionº of the Taming of the Shrew.^1|

— You are a delusion, John Eglinton said to Stephen ^|1roundlyº^1|. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?

— No, Stephen said promptly.

— Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't
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youº know, like the Platonic dialogues, like Wilde wrote.

— Well in that case, John Eglinton said, smiling doubly, I don't see why you should expect payment for what you don't believe yourself. You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space ^|1for an article on economics mind^1| and I have an article from Standish O'Grady.

Standing dish O'Grady. Fred Ryan: two pieces of silver. ^|1Economists Economics^1|.

— You have my permission to publish an interview, Stephen said, for one guinea.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing ^|1with honeyed malice^1|:

— I called upon the bard Kinch, he began, at his ^|1summer^1| residence in lower Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two a gonorrheal ladies lady, Rosalie, the coalquay whore.

He broke away.

— Come, Kinch, he said. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds. ^|1To swill till midnight. ^|aSpoke with a priesteen. Godly Lyster's muzzard.^a| Get drunk quick. Irish night's entertainment.^{1| |1}Come, Kinch, you have eaten all we left. ^|aAy, Wait!^a| I will ^|aserve dish^a| you ^|awith your own your ortsº and^a| offals. ^|xthe nearest pu^x|1|

Stephen rose. ^|1Nothing to be learned here. Audiamo.^1|

Life is many days. This day will end:

— We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore ^|1expects your jests says that Malachi Mulligan must be there^1|.

— Lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland, Buck Mulligan said. I shall bring my trilogy.

Stephen followed the ^|1plump lubber^1| jester out of the vaulted cell^|1. I follow, all amort,^1| into the shattering daylight of no thoughts: and through the turnstile of the constant readers' room and by the curving sliding marble balustrade. ^|1Walk like Haines now. ^|xM.S, writing man's name^x|1|

Buck Mulligan went down the steps in marbled iambs, trolling:
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Johnº Eglinton, my jo, John
Why won't you come to bed?
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^|1— Iº have conceived a play, he said solemnly,

Scene: a bawdyhouse. Alarums. ^|aFresh Nelly discovered^a|
Enter Mother Grogan in haste
Mother Grogan — Quick
Fresh Nelly — (speaking through her left nostril) What's on you?
Mother Grogan —- Here's the protestant synod coming down the street. Turn the pope's face to the lef wall and put out Martin Luther.^1|

^|1He looked up at Stephen, turned and halted:

— Mournful mummer, he said ^|aconsolingly^a|. Synge has left off wearing black. to be like nature. There is no black in nature but crows, priesteen priests and English coal.^1|
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Heº spluttered into the air:

— O, the chinless Chinaman! We went over to their playbox^|1, the plumbers' hall^1|. It must be called by a pagan name. Abbey! I smell the pubic ^|1secretions sweat^1| of ^|1the monks abbots^1|. You gave them that idea, Kinch. Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there.

He raised his arms, ^|1|xfooted featly^x|1| chanting gracefully:

— I hardly hear a purlieu cry
Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
Before my thoughts begin to run
On F. McCurdy Atkinson
The same that had the wooden leg
And that filibustering filibeg
That never dared to slake his drouth
Magee that had the chinless mouth

^|1Jest on. I wish to know myself.^1|

His rhymes had brought to the stairfoot.

^|1Gone the ^|aninemens^a| morriceº mummers with caps of indices. Esprit de l Afterwit. Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping Lousy Lucy gave him. And left her, femme de trente ans. And why no other children born. Go back. Eh, I just wanted to … I forgot to … ^|aThe dour^a| Recluse still there and the blond minion of pleasure, Phædo's hair. ^|xOsric^{x| |x}Mr W.H.O.R.E. Mr William Himself^x|1|

Among the ^|1silent cool^1| moorish pillars^|1. Alhambra:^1| he halted Buck Mulligan halted.

— Longworth is awfully sick^|1, he said,^1| about that ^|1Lady old hake^1| Gregory affair. O, you inquisitional ^|1drunken^1| mummer! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate her book ^|1to Jaysus^1|. Couldn't you do the Yeats touch.

He raised his arms again gracefully, walking on^|1, waving^1|:

— The most beautiful book that has come out of Ireland in my time.

He laughed, ^|1shaking lolling^1| his head to and fro, crying mirthfully to the soft shadows of the hall ^|1in rising voice ^|ashadows embraced that were the souls of men^a|1|:

— O, the night ^|1in the ^|aMerrion Camden^a| hall^1| the druidy ^|1damsels daughters of Erin^1| had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberry coloured multicoloured multitudinous vomit.

— I was the most innocent son of Erin, Stephen answered, for whom they ever lifted them.

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind him, he stood aside.

Part. The moment is coming
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now.º ^|1And where. If Socrates ^|ago forth leave his house^a| today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That then lies in space which I in time must come to^|a, ineluctably^a|.^1| My soul will, his will that fronts me, seas are between.

A man passed out between them, thanking, bowing, greeting.

— Good day, again, Buck Mulligan said

Away again then. Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds. Yes, they go and come. I go and come. ^|1Lapwing.^1| Or stay and be their helot. ^|1Last night I flew ^|aagain^a|. Easily. ^|aSound^a| The people wondered. Then street of harlots after. The creamfruit melon that he held to me. In. Red carpet spread.^1|

— The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered in with clown's awe. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to lo lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. Look at him. O, Kinch, ^|1you are thou art^1| in danger. Get thee quick a breechpad.

^|1Oxford ^|aOxford manner manner of Oxenford^a|1|. ^|1Where the gents come from. ^|aWhere the dons come from. A noise of coxcombs.^a|1|

A dark back, scanning the heavens, passed out under ^|1beneath^1| the gate portcullis. ^|1(barbs) ^|xa pardstep^x|1|

They followed. Wait. Let him go his ways. Offend me. Offend me still.

^|1Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.^1|

Innocent air defined the ^|1gables coigns^1| of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Two ^|1frail^1| plumes of smoke ^|1frail from the housetops^1| ascended, pluming, ^|1and were blown and in a flow of softness, softly were blown^1|. ^|1Peace after strife. Cease to strive.^1| Peace of the priests of Cymbeline. Hierophantic: ^|1from^1| all earth an altar.

Laud we the gods

And let our crooked smokes climb

to their nostrils

From our blessed altars.
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º
Best, Magee, St_unread
mother's darling
Had he a mother or two fathers?
Dowden says thinks WS has purposely hidden a secret in Hamlet.º
Visionaryº
Hamlet is a woman,º
the shadow of the daughter is cast upon him
whither away?º
how now
marry
mo
go to
Malkin
messº
motleyº
mow (J.E)º
netherstocksº
ninemens morriceº
nobleº
Ni_unreadah
ortsº
palabrasº
Paris gardenº
patchº
pin and web
poked
prankedº
quellº
roundlyº (cairement)
sledded poleaxeº
sneak cup (JE)º
sweet and twentyº
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º
F Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
Tears such as angels weep
Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombettaº
Only begetter of only begottenº
D tiptoed himself nigh heaven by the altitudes of a chopineº
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º
variorum editionº
laugh and lie downº
leman
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º
nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.º
la selva oscuraº
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º
Hear, hear, O hear!º