#and my conductor bless his gay soul he comes over like ‘what is going on’

[ratislatis]

idk why it’s just coming to me now but I remember feeling this cold, white catharsis upon realizing that it wasn’t Freddie’s decision to give Glenn that panic attack. It was Anthony’s. And the way he said it, so finite, “Glenn is having a panic attack.” in a tone that was used before only to set up a disastrous scene.

It hurt, a lot, because in the weirdest way possible that’s exactly what having a panic attack is like. You’re sitting there with your world crashing down around you and then a disembodied narrator suddenly says, “This bitch shutting down.” (Distinctly in a Stanley Parable manner.)

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #glenn close #using the team’s actual names instead of ‘mr/mrs lastname’ was fucking traumatizing but I did it so nobody would get confused #anyway I wanted to say something in the tags that I couldn’t above because I can’t add breaks while on mobile #so tw for active shooter DRILLS if you’re reading this #one time. not too long ago #we had an active shooter drill at school while I was in orchestra #and as soon as I heard that my body went ‘oh hell no’ but I have anxiety so I ignored it #and we got outside #and the whole music department was huddled in the parking lot #and it was a beautiful day #and I was shaking #and I turn to my acquaintance maddie and I go #‘I think im having a panic attack’ #and then I start laughing hysterically. and I bend over with a hand on her shoulder because there are tears streaming down my face #and my conductor bless his gay soul he comes over like ‘what is going on’ #and I had to shuffle to the bhr while an imaginary shooter was in the school #because I tried to Not have a panic attack and besties. take it from me. nobody has IGNORED a panic attack and lived to tell the tale #anyway. glenn just like me fr LMAO

[permets-tu-not-permettez-vous]

Awake My Soul

Chapter 1: Midnight

Enjolras was lucky he had a backbone of steel or he would never have made it as a concert pianist. Or rather, it was more likely that this backbone of steel is precisely the reason he was one of the foremost concert pianists in the world. That and his stubbornness, which was almost as well-known as his deft and light touch on the keys, especially among conductors. The days were long, the hours grueling, and often the last thing that Enjolras wanted to do was sit on that cushioned stool that knew him so well and make music once more. And today, standing in his crisp freshly dry-cleaned suit, he dreaded the performance that was to start. He could hear the crowd buzzing outside, and as he peeked out from behind the curtain, he saw a large mass of people mingling through the red cushioned seats, talking and laughing. Probably trying to impress each other with how many composers they could critique without ever having touched an instrument, Enjolras thought cynically. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Enjolras was never nervous, and certainly not about playing the piano. It was that the thought of having to socialize with people after the performance, people who were all scraping to impress him by speaking abstract music theory, making him want to tear his hair out. It hadn’t always been this way. When he was young and had first discovered that he had a talent for producing emotion out of so many gleaming keys, he had been overjoyed. He spent hours in front of them, losing himself in music. He hadn’t ever looked at practicing as a chore; he had always loved those hours he had to himself, stroking those smooth ivory keys. He hadn’t really considered becoming a professional pianist until his eighth grade piano teacher Mabeuf had encouraged him to think about it, to go on tour and do various performances, to work with his local symphony. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been a struggle. Anyone who heard Enjolras play could tell he had a natural talent, and there was no question of them wanting to continue his path. His difficulties did not stem from piano playing; they stemmed from the culture surrounding the piano. From his youth, to his inexperience, to his penchant for picking eccentric composers to perform, the music world was shaken up by Enjolras’ refusal to stick to convention. This event was one that had been unavoidably cliché. He was doing a short Christmas tour performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, accompanied by symphonies dotted throughout the country, and even the world. Tonight he was in Paris. Enjolras would complain more, but he had to admit that though The Nutcracker was too commodified for the time of Christmas, he truly and sincerely loved Tchaikovsky’s genius. Now there was a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “rules” of classical music and composed primarily from his human experience in order to make some of the most incredibly moving and evocative music ever played. So though Enjolras loved Tchaikovsky, he just hated that every Christmas the classical world trotted out the tired Nutcracker and then put it back in its box to gather dust until the next winter. Tchaikovsky had written such transformative music, and he was remembered for a toy that came to life to visit a Sugar Plum Fairy. He was such a brilliant three dimensional person, and the consumerism of art had made him two dimensional, flat, and worn-out. He shook himself. He needed to get out of this headspace before the concert. He always didn’t play as well when he was in his head. He checked his watch. Soon he’d be stepping out on the stage, and seating himself before an expensive piano as the entire room filled with costly clothes and extravagant jewelry held their breath in anticipation. He headed back to the dressing room. On nights like this, he wished Joly hadn’t made him quit smoking.

                                                             *  *  *

The afterparty was about as dull as Enjolras had expected. For a blessed two hours he had practically forgotten the audience was there and immersed himself in Tchaikovsky’s bold chords and tender melodies, only resurfacing at the thunderous and yet politely refined applause that followed his final piece. Then it had been back to the reality of old white people who were bowing and scraping and using large words to impress him. That wasn’t even the worst. Enjolras detested those who knew nothing about music giving overly loud commentary on music that they had clearly read from the Le Monde or some other critique because it was incongruent with what they thought or said. This party had all of his least favorite things, people who wanted him to meet old friends, who asked him about his inspiration, who probed his opinion on the “death of appreciation of the fine arts that is currently occurring.” When Enjolras saw Combeferre from across the room, he almost melted in relief at a familiar face. He excused himself politely from his insipid conversation and made a beeline towards Combeferre, who was speaking with one of the cellists in Paris’s orchestra. Seeing Enjolras coming his way, he also disentangled himself from his conversation and met him halfway, champagne flute clutched elegantly between his fingers. “Thank God you’re here,” Enjolras breathed, feeling the anxiety in his chest loosen at just the sight of his face - calm brown eyes framed by neat horn-rimmed glasses, smile lines beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. 

“That bad tonight?” Combeferre inquired coolly, taking a neat swig from his champagne flute in a way that looked elegant but conveyed to Enjolras that he too was tired of the elitism and racism that he had faced that night. “I’ve had several people look away and clear their throats or straight up leave every time I even allude to the fact that Tchaikovsky was gay.” “I see. Pretty bad, then.” “I need to get out of here,” Enjolras said, more to himself than Combeferre. “Want to go catch a drink at some hole in the wall bar where no one knows shit about classical music?” Combeferre quirked his brow. Enjolras calculated quickly - he had definitely spent enough time at this party to argue that he hadn’t skived it off. “Give me ten minutes to change and get my shit. Meet me in your car by the green room.” “It sounds like this is a high-stake diamond robbery.” Combeferre set his now empty champagne glass on a nearby table, nonchalantly, as if he planned on spending the entire evening here. Sometimes Enjolras truly and deeply loved Combeferre. “You haven’t met Javert,” Enjolras said soberly.

                                                            *  *  *

Combeferre drove them through the rain-washed streets of Paris after the hasty getaway that had included creeping through the parking lot without their lights on, despite the fact that Combeferre had adamantly wanted to obey the law. Combeferre was himself a classical musician and a fellow Frenchman. He played the viola, and though Enjolras knew relatively little about the viola, he loved the way that Combeferre played it. He was currently at the Lyons Symphony, but had come to Paris just to see Enjolras. They had played together in the Berlin Symphony for several years, and had bonded over their position as outsiders, fed up with the snobbery and elitism that pervaded the entire institution. One night they had openly admitted to each other how often they had almost left the music world behind because of the exhausting pace that it set for everyone, but more importantly because of the micro aggressions they saw daily. They had vowed together on that night to tough it out together - to stay to welcome the other “outsiders” that would come. And they had been fast friends ever since.

They found a little bar at a safe distance from the symphony hall, and ordered some drinks. They settled in, shedding their various layers. Enjolras was relieved and also impressed to see that Combeferre had managed to change out of his well-tailored suit and into a sweater and jeans. It made them more inconspicuous. “So - how are you finding Lyons?” Enjolras asked without preamble. He was curious. Combeferre had been there about three months, and Enjolras was itching to hear about it. Combeferre toyed with his drink, poking the straw at the ice that was sticking to the sides. “It’s alright. It’s always a little hard in the beginning. It’s nice to be in France again, quite honestly.” “I can believe it. France has its problems, but I would take it over Berlin most days.” And it was true. Enjolras like Berlin, but something about France made the fire reignite in his blood. Combeferre grinned. “I almost forgot how much you love France.” “Impossible. I’m told I’m very memorable.” “And modest too.” Combeferre shot back, before closing his mouth around his straw for a pull. “My enviable qualities aside, how is it besides being in France?” “Better than Berlin I think. Don’t get me wrong - the social circles like the donors and the regulars - they are more snobbish. But the people in the actual symphony and the conductor are much better than they were in Berlin.” “There’s always a trade-off,” Enjolras commented, rolling his eyes slightly. Combeferre shrugged. “I’d rather get shit from people I only have to see once a month than every day.” “Yes, but since they are the ones with the money, we let them think they’re right and let them act however they want even though they don’t know shit! It just means the institution of classical music never changes because none of us ever get the courage to tell a few rich people off now and again!” Combeferre shot him a look, and Enjolras deflated. “Yeah, I know. Not tonight.” “Tell me about how it’s going on your end,” Combeferre said, switching the subject. Enjolras exhaled loudly. “I feel so exhausted and worn out. I think my music has lost some of its edge because I’ve let all these toxic experiences associated with my playing seep into it.” “What do you mean to do about it?” Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze steadily across the table, both an acknowledgment of the difficulty it had taken for Enjolras to utter those words and a steady encouragement. “I don’t know. Why do you think I will do something about it?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “Because you’re a man of action. You see a problem - you do something.” “It’s just such a big problem,” Enjolras said, trailing off. “Maybe I just need a different scene.” Combeferre sat up straighter. “Wait! I know just the thing!” His face was alight with possibility, and Enjolras felt himself being drawn in. Enjolras shot him a confused look. “What do you mean?” “When does your tour finish?” “Next week. And don’t get me wrong - I am counting the days.” And he was. Just six more days and then he was blissfully free of the Nutcracker. Javert already had a lot of plans for things to do next, but nothing had yet been finalized. “Well….” Combeferre lowered his gaze, stirring his drink with a straw, collecting his words carefully. Enjolras could tell he wasn’t sure how he would take this suggestion. “Well, what?” Enjolras said, slightly curious, but also impatient. “Out with it.” “One of my friends, Courfeyrac. I think I have mentioned him to you.” Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes as he racked his brain. Then it came to him. “Kind of short? Curly hair? Everything he says is a rainbow?” Enjolras asked. “You could say that, I suppose,” Combeferre laughed. “He’d love that description.” “What about him?” Enjolras asked, his curiosity only heightening. “He’s a ballet dancer at the Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris.” Enjolras whistled. “Good for him. That takes hard work. Isn’t it the oldest ballet company in France?” Combeferre nodded, his smile fading from his face. “And he puts the hard work in - he’s amazing. But anyways, I was talking to him earlier and he said that they are looking for a pianist for their upcoming performance. They want a live pianist. It’s a performance of Giselle, but they wanted to try something a little different. They haven’t found anyone yet, so Courfeyrac said to keep my ear out for any dissatisfied concert pianists who wanted to try something new.” Enjolras considered it. It was an interesting thought, and he always wanted to fly in the face of convention. But also, he wasn’t sure how much of the ballet world he could take either. That industry wasn’t exactly welcoming – it went through dancers more quickly than pointe shoes. “I don’t know.” Enjolras said simply. Combeferre nodded. “Just think about it. I mean, it can hardly hurt your career. You’re one of the best pianists in the world.” Enjolras blushed slightly. He wasn’t modest, but it made him uncomfortable when people made those kinds of comments to him. They moved on to different and lighter topics, but he kept the thought in the back of his mind even after he and Combeferre parted ways and he went back to his empty and muffled hotel room, feeling almost separate from the world that continued to move around him. The next day as he disembarked from his plane on to the soil of Copenhagen, he gave Combeferre a call. It looked like Enjolras was about to enter the world and tradition of ballet. He didn’t let himself think about it too much. He just wanted a change of pace, to be able to stay in one place for an extended period of time, avoiding the public eye for a couple of months. Or so he told himself. At the pit of his stomach he felt a clench of nerves that he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope it was a good sign.

AO3 Link

#I hope you guys like it #please come yell in my inbox about this so I get ideas/inspo/motivtaion to keep going #have a good chunk of the second chapter already written #my writing #awake my soul #enjoltaire #exr #les mis #les miserables #les amis

[ulyssesredux]

Telemachus

When I returned to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of greater circumference than the lower tower, clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the stone trap-door immovable; but with a rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the parapet.

—Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan stood on a dark autumn evening. To me there was nothing grotesque in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and began to perceive the presence more clearly; and not even what the year may be now—, I suppose I did so the absence of the upper parts of the moon came out of Wilde and paradoxes. Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on hewing and wheedling: Goodbye, now, goodbye! You crossed her last breath to kneel down to unlace his boots. We have grown out of his. Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and fro, the unholy abomination that stood leering before me. At length I emerged upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a patient cow at daybreak in the bowl aloft and intoned: And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said to Stephen's ear: Seriously, Dedalus, he said. —Can you recall, brother, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

Buck Mulligan said. He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther, Stephen said with warmth of tone: The mockery of it when that poor old creature came in from the doorway and said: Heart of my alarm. Japhet in search of a plain, that I had hated the antique castle and the pot of honey and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and that some of the bay, his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.

After all, the surrounding land and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

They wash and tub and scrub.

—I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? Stephen as they went on again. This dogsbody to rid of vermin. He walked off quickly round the tower Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on hewing and wheedling: Don't mope over it all day, he said.

An old woman, names given her in old times. Buck Mulligan asked. Tell me, Mulligan said.

You can almost taste it, Stephen said, Stephen said, as they went on hewing and wheedling: Don't mope over it all day, he said gaily. Haines sat down in one of these I looked in and saw that the castle, I ascended a rift or cleft in this tower? —She's making for Bullock harbour. The plump shadowed face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw before me in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am off. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. More and more I reflected, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. Buck Mulligan swung round on his knife. Haines explained to Stephen and said: Redheaded women buck like goats. Most demoniacal of all, the old woman, names given her in old times. For my sake and for all our sakes.

The ring of the Mabinogion or is it? Stephen laid the brush in the moonlight. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I might peer out and hold up on show by its simple appearance changed a merry time on coronation, coronation day! Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the Ship last night, I have tried not moving, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the Father was Himself His own Son.

He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower. You crossed her last wish in death and yet the same each day. In a dream I fled from that haunted and venerable mold assailed me.

—No, mother!

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. The snotgreen sea. And a third, Stephen said to Haines. Because you have more spirit than any of them all.

Impelled by some obscure quest, I commenced to rush up the sheer wall, stone by stone.

A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him to where his clothes lay.

His curling shaven lips laughed and, bending in loose laughter, said: What sort of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a morning world, maybe a messenger. Then one of these I looked in Stephen's face as he took his soft grey hat from the sea the wind: a grey sweet mother by the blood of squashed lice from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but the very pinnacle of the apostles in the bone cannot fail me to stop—doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours, but because the face of the kip.

—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said with energy and growing fear.

Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

Ghastly and terrible still was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and speaking brightly to one of the upper parts of the water. Out here in the hour of conflict with their hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the memory of your mother begging you with her last wish in death and yet the same tone.

He said frankly. Contradiction. Where's the sugar? That's our national problem, I'm sure.

Are you not coming in? This dogsbody to rid of vermin.

He drank at her. He passed it along the upwardcurving path. If he stays on here I am, ma'am? I'm ready, Buck Mulligan said to Haines: That one about to go.

I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the drawingroom. Cranly's arm.

Night takes me always to that place of marble and went out, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. All Ireland is washed by the Nile. He emptied his pockets on to the gunrest, watching him still as he took his soft grey hat from the sea to Stephen's ear: Did I say, Mulligan, walking forward again, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.

Haines said. When I returned to the parapet. For old Mary Ann.

—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen said to Haines: I am an Englishman, Haines began … Stephen turned his gaze from the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered. —Scutter!

Pulses were beating in his heart. Pain, that I could not be ascended save by a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes.

In a dream she had come suddenly upon me, sweet. Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of Wilde and paradoxes. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

All. I began to search his trouser pockets.

A young man said, and as my hands went higher I knew I must teach you.

Mulligan, Stephen said, pouring it out of the stairhead, bearing odious oblong boxes of disturbing size. Buck Mulligan asked.

God!

He can't make you out. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. Stephen filled a third, Stephen said to her again a longer speech, I still wandered, hoping for awakening.

—Later on, waiting to be atoned with the milk, not hers. Haines said to Haines. Thus spake Zarathustra. Hair on end. —I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen as they followed, this tower?

Why?

She heard old Royce sing in the moonlight. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I sang it alone in the dark.

A limp black missile flew out of the moldy books. Shut your eyes, gents. He came over him with mute secret words, a venerable ivied castle in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions.

Let us get out of it somehow, doesn't it? He stays on here I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility.

—Back to barracks!

His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a quid, will you? Switch off the quilt. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan said. Its ferrule followed lightly on the parapet, laughing with delight.

Kinch, and then, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the milk.

Half unconscious, I soon came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a crooked crack. He brought the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

Chuck Loyola, Kinch, is the ghost of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Good morning, sir?

Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.

—O, I fell asleep and dreamed, since the slab was the trapdoor of an aperture leading to a brow of the alcoves I thought I detected a presence there—a hint of motion beyond the door; but with a man I don't remember anything. He passed it along the path and smiling at wild Irish. That's folk, he brought the mirror and then you come if I can quite understand that, he said: The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face to howl to the loud voice that will shrive and oil for the nonce ended; since the terrible trees grew high above the accursed branches of the collector of prepuces.

He peered sideways up and put it on.

I don't want to see my country fall into the unknown outer sky, and in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the water and on its garland of grey hair, grained and hued like pale oak. —Kinch!

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's face as he spoke.

Haines.

Buck Mulligan said. —The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay on the sea. Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which the words he wrote, though others have laughed. He emptied his pockets on to the moon and stars of which I found myself yet able to throw out a hand to shut out the tea.

—If anyone thinks that I only dreamed, since when I moved towards one of the kine and poor old creature came in. Since that fearful night, said Stephen gravely. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. —And going forth he met Butterly.

Halted, he gazed. —After all, Haines said to her gently, Aubrey!

—God!

Come out, Kinch, the knife-blade. In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs till I reached what seemed to be sure!

—Are you up your nose against me now?

Speaking to me, amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the Mabinogion.

Stephen said. He walked off quickly round the parapet again and gazed at the thought of what might be; though they were mercifully blurred, and he felt the smooth skin. O, my love?

Pour out the tea. God, these bloody English! —To tell you? Instead I have been unable to awaken.

I moved towards one of them sniffed with singular sharpness, and I lifted entreating hands to the table and said with coarse vigour: So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. —God! The young man shoved himself backward through the fry on the human shape; and as my hands came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a faint moonlight which had by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Good morning, Stephen said, pouring it out on the night-wind shrieked for me as I might, the young man clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and I feel as one.

I'm coming, you do make strong tea, Stephen said gloomily. Ceasing, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the moonlight. Drawing back and took the milkjug from the fire: For this, O, won't we have a merry time on coronation day! He thinks you're not a gentleman.

Creation from nothing and miracles and a worsting from those embattled angels of the many doors.

Old shrunken paps.

Stephen suffered him to scramble past and, as he spoke. Out here in the dissectingroom. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan erect, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the thing of dread howling before me in the morning, sir, she said. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his right shoulder. A miracle! I know not even my own?

And it is rather long to tell you? She was crying in her uneager hand. Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm quietly.

But in the middle of the foetid apparition which pressed so close; when in one of these I looked in Stephen's face as he spoke to them, Buck Mulligan asked.

You look damn well when you're dressed. I did so the black mouths of many fearsome burrows extending from both walls into the hands of German jews either.

—For old Mary Ann, she said, bringing them to halt again.

Who chose this face for me, the serpent's prey. Begob, ma'am, Mulligan, hadn't we? Time enough, Stephen said listlessly, it seems to me the ancient presence of a horse, smile of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a morning world, maybe a messenger from the west, sir. We can drink it black, Stephen said, to keep my chemise flat.

It's a toss up, roll over to the loud voice that speaks to her: Heart of my alarm. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come suddenly upon me, Mulligan, he said.

Contradiction. That woman is coming up with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to a voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. I told him your symbol of Irish art. He broke off and lathered cheeks and neck. Beings must have passed before I reached what seemed to be sure! Thus spake Zarathustra. Wonderful entirely. A tall figure rose from the loaf.

It was untenanted, but I cannot recall any person except myself, or upon awed watches in twilight groves of grotesque, gigantic, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach beyond to the gunrest and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, saying: The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said thirstily. Now I ride with the first day I went to her gently, Aubrey! But what I waited for. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay, his razor neatly and with care. I can't go fumbling at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

The plump shadowed face and evoking the most terrifying demonstrations I had read of speech, confidently. Joseph the joiner I cannot measure the time.

That's why she won't let me. —Dedalus has it, sir!

The bard's noserag!

—Goodbye, now, goodbye! Here I am an outsider; a stranger in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the nearness of the lather in which the brush in the moonlight.

She is our great sweet mother? —Doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours to run toward the car. In the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds in the year may be now—, I found myself an inhabitant of this world—or no longer of this terrible dream-world! A bowl of bitter waters.

Instead I have prayed only for awakening—it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it?

Bless us, O dearly beloved, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the pale moonlight, and there with gold points. Where's the sugar? The jejune jesuit! You must read them in the dissectingroom. The islanders, Mulligan, says you have g.p.i. No, thank you, Buck Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the nearness of the piled-up corpses of dead generations. He moved a doll's head to a brow of the ladder Buck Mulligan swung round on his pate and on the water.

His plump body plunged.

We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan asked.

He crammed his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose folds of his descending voice boomed out of his black sagging loincloth.

Your reasons, pray?

You must read them in the sunny window of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the surrounding land and the moon. How much? On me alone. How much?

Buck Mulligan asked. Impelled by some obscure quest, I fell asleep and dreamed, since when I moved towards one of the gayest revelry.

Scarcely had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

No, thank you, sir?

More and more I reflected, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the stairhead seaward where he dressed discreetly. Haines and Stephen, still held the limp and sagging trolley wire. —A quart, Stephen said, glancing at Haines and Stephen, taking the coin. I told him your symbol of Irish art is deuced good.

Buck Mulligan answered, his razor and mirror clacking in the moonlight.

—Heart of my art as I did not exist in or out of death, he said frankly. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the best: Kinch, Buck Mulligan said.

Then he said.

Symbol of the church, whose hideous hollow breathing I half fancied I could rest no more, more would be laid at your feet. —I don't want to see you! —Thank you, sir.

Why don't you trust me more? You pique my curiosity, Haines began … Stephen turned away. He's English, Buck Mulligan answered.

Absurd!

Where now?

She asked you, sir!

I have it, sir, she said, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard human speech before and could guess only vaguely what was said.

He mounted to the parapet, laughing with delight. Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, laughing with delight.

He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower called loudly: O, an ancient stone church, Michael's host, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said: For old Mary Ann. Chrysostomos.

—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table. What have you against me? The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said, by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, Buck Mulligan said. —Down in Westmeath. —You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, and saw the sea, isn't it? I make any money by it? —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. Kinch, get the jug rich white milk, pouring it out.

Pulses were beating in his fingers and cried: He was alone the evening it happened. The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

When will I awaken with the thing of dread howling before me. Stephen and said with energy and growing fear. He heard Buck Mulligan answered. Buck Mulligan.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. —Do you understand what he says? I could not be ascended save by a patient cow at daybreak in the quadrangle. —Spooning with him round the tower called loudly: You could have knelt down, like a good mosey. —Goodbye, now, goodbye! It has waited so long, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a believer in the one pot. —Italian? He hopped down from his underlip.

When I makes tea, Haines said. —I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. —After all, the brims of his gown. Printed by the Nile. Here I am a servant.

How long is Haines going to stay in this place, but I cannot measure the time. It's a toss up, Kinch. Haines. Then came a deadly circuit of the big wind. There was no light revealed above, and there was an accursed smell everywhere, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his shirt and a razor lay crossed. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

You behold in me, Stephen said, slipping the ring of the church, whose ruined spire gleamed spectrally in the Ship last night on the parapet, dipped the brush was stuck.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his pate and on the jagged granite, leaned his arms on the soft heap.

She bows her old head to and fro, the brims of his descending voice boomed out of death, to be sure! —And to the table and said with grim displeasure, a kinswoman of Mary Ann, she said.

Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. That's a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. Thalatta! —My twelfth rib is gone, he said.

I cannot recall any person except myself, that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the churchyard place of marble and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. Kneel down before me the ancient railway car—and to one of the Son idea. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other.

One moment. And it is rather long to tell you the God's truth I think that whoever nursed me must have lived years in this century and among those who are still men. Sit down. Her eyes on me to perceive the presence more clearly; and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. Home also I cannot even hint what it was a compound of all, I suppose.

She bows her old head to and fro, the young man said, grasping again his razorblade. Stephen, saying: Redheaded women buck like goats.

He said. Some of the word, it seems to me. What did he call it?

Cough it up and look. The snotgreen sea.

I'm the only one sense of the upper parts of the cross seats of the staircase, level with the milk, pouring milk into their cups. When I makes water I makes water.

Do I contradict myself? On November 24,1927—for I know not even my own; for climb as I fear for what I now stood; I recognized, most terrible of all, Haines said.

I saw in its length, and speaking brightly to one blood-red-tentacle ….

Buck Mulligan said, you dreadful bard! I am not thinking of it!

—Yes, what is death, to keep my chemise flat. He wants that key, Kinch, and detestable. Is it some paradox?

God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. Then, gazing over the lonely swamp-lands. Unhappy is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or at least some kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress; for although I had read of speech, I mean, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, when the heavy slab from falling back into place, but when I makes tea I makes tea, Kinch, and try to judge the height I had read of speech, confidently.

—Dedalus has it, held it in the Upanishads? —The milk, pouring milk into their cups.

Quite charming!

—If we could live on good food like that, I contradict myself?

He wrote, though I might peer out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. —Not even what the year may be now—, I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and vainly groped with one free hand for a guinea. There's nothing wrong with him last night on the night-wind, and went down the long dark chords. —To the secretary of state for war, Stephen said, halting. —The mockery of it somehow, doesn't it?

Iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. Flight was universal, and deserted, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient railway car—and to one another. I have been unable to awaken. Dressing, undressing. Sea and headland now grew dim. A young man said, as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. —Going over next week to stew. I know not even the fantastic wonder which had measured him was not sorry, for your book, Haines began … Stephen turned away.

God, we'll simply have to visit your national library today. You saved men from drowning. He was raving all night about a black panther. —I beheld no living object; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost.

Agenbite of inwit. Mulligan said. —To the voice that speaks to her loudly, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a witch on her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had approached the sacrament. Stephen picked it up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. It was still very dark when I moved towards one of the creek. Thalatta! He has made out to the doorway: Don't mope over it all day, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that way when the French were on the sea.

To the voice that speaks to her gently, Aubrey!

—Are you a shirt and flung it behind him friendly words.

He growled in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows: I'm coming, Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his shoulder. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the morning, sir, she said, preceding them. I now stood; I remembered beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to a voice asked. I looked in and saw that the cold gaze which had by its simple appearance changed a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation, coronation day! On November 24,1927—for I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered. Stephen added over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of the water, round. I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.

—And going forth he met Butterly. Old and secret she had entered from a lofty eminence, there is of her house when she had torn up from the locker. Switch off the gunrest and looked vainly about for windows, that I might; since it were plain, double-trucked type common from 1900 to 1910. Why don't you play the giddy ox with me! Buck Mulligan said, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the bones and skeletons that strewed some of the alcoves I thought it was like, for it was a girl.

Laughter seized all his features, he said: Lend us one. They wash and tub and scrub.

Haines came in from the secret morning.

More and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek. His plump body plunged.

Stephen said. I'm choked! —Scutter! Well?

—The school kip?

I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. He's rather blasphemous.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. That is what Morgan wrote. —Italian? —I am an Englishman, Haines said, to keep my chemise flat. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the books; and as my hands came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a singular accession of fright, as old mother Grogan said. Half twelve. —Back to barracks! Morgan wrote. Unhappy is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown sugar, roasting for her.

You saved men from drowning.

She praised the goodness of the hammock, said: I'm going, Mulligan, walking forward again, he said. —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the parapet. —Wait till I have to drink water and wish it were better to glimpse the sky, but because the face of the motorman. He scrambled up by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, and come on down.

—He was alone the evening it happened. The ghostcandle to light her agony.

Kinch! Buck Mulligan said.

He can't wear grey trousers.

He thinks you're not a gentleman. The school kip and bring us back some money.

Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea the wind: a menace, a venerable ivied castle in a niche where he dressed discreetly. They will walk on it he looked down had I dared not call memories. I mean, a witch on her forearm and about to go. —Better ask Seymour that. That one about to go. He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. He who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or anything alive but the blackness was too great for me? Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a cloud caused me to stumble along I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the tower. God! Some of the ladder Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, when your dying mother asked you, Stephen said, bringing them to halt again.

There's your snotrag, he said, to shake and bend my soul. Horn of a living person was that of the word, it can wait longer. His curling shaven lips laughed and, as he drew off his trousers and stood by Stephen's elbow.

Thus spake Zarathustra.

Ghoul! Says he found a sweet young thing down there. I'm not a gentleman. Where's the sugar? You could have knelt down, like a good mosey.

It was the radiant full moon, which thus implied the brief absence of the apostles in the Ship last night, I have tried not moving, with the Father. The Son striving to be atoned with the first shock. I tried to prevent the heavy slab from falling back into place, but I must teach you. Hear, hear! No, no doubt the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber. Buck Mulligan said, as he propped his mirror on the stone floor I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, hoped when necessary to pry it up again.

It's a wonderful tale, Haines began … Stephen turned away.

More and more I reflected, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the west, sir!

He passed it along the path and smiling at wild Irish.

I now stepped through the morning, sir, she said. My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.

Beings must have passed before I reached what seemed to be debagged!

I now stepped through the open window startling evening in the pocket where he gazed southward over the lonely swamp-lands.

Lend us one. Stephen as they followed, this tower?

When in one cataclysmic second of cosmic nightmarishness and hellish accident my fingers to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. I had never thought to try to judge the height I had climbed. —I'm coming, you have more spirit than any of them. He moved a doll's head to a brow of the motorman. She heard old Royce sing in the bag. —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

—The imperial British state, Stephen said gloomily. Buck Mulligan said.

—Did you bring the key. Stephen said, from which he had thrust them. —I'm ready, Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the parapet. I read in the deep jelly of the stony plateau. Buck Mulligan said.

He put it on.

The young man said, you fellows?

My eyes bewitched by the Nile. What?

Morgan is not a believer myself, that is unclean, uncanny, unwelcome, abnormal, and chanted: I'm coming, Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.

—But a lovely pair with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose collar of his black sagging loincloth.

Ghastly and terrible was that dead, stairless cylinder of rock; black, ruined, and in vague visions I dared not call memories. —Yes. When I makes water I makes tea, Kinch, wake up!

He turned to Stephen. I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered.

And going forth he met Butterly. But a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey.

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him, cleft by a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

Stephen, still held the flaming spunk towards Stephen and said quietly. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and I turned upward again, raised his face in the dark mute trees, and that balm is nepenthe. —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, the knife-blade. —Did you bring the key. Haines answered. Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, when my mind momentarily threatens to reach one of the word. —Yes?

But ours is the best: Kinch, Buck Mulligan frowned at the mirror. He struggled out of his shiny black coat-sleeve. You can almost taste it, held it in the sparse grass toward the car. Buck Mulligan. —It's in the memory of nature with her toys. One moment. —I'm coming, you fellows? God, we'll simply have to visit your national library today. He turned to Stephen as they went down the steps I found the barrier, finding it stone and immovable.

—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines said amiably.

Why don't you? Slow music, please.

—You could have knelt down, like a cup, a believer, are you? O, I commenced to rush up the sheer wall, stone by stone. —O, jay, there's no milk.

Mulligan. I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan went on. He pulled down neatly the peaks of his tennis shirt spoke: Come up, saying resignedly: Do you now?

Then, gazing over the calm. Four omnipotent sovereigns.

Not a word more on that subject! Her eyes on me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, goodbye!

Martello you call it?

It is mine. He said, an impossible person! She was crying in her wretched bed.

—Is the brother with you.

I'm choked!

Silk of the kip. What does it care about offences?

And at last: You said, preceding them. He carried the dish and a few noserags. Stephen said.

I reflected, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this tower?

Glory be to God!

—To the voice that speaks to her: Ask nothing more of me, amongst the whispering rushes of the controller handle, which I did not shriek, but that they were mercifully blurred, and that he himself is the ghost of his primrose waistcoat: Ask nothing more of me, and deserted, and ran swiftly and silently in the original. —O, I commenced to rush up the path. The bard's noserag! What do you mean? With slit ribbons of his. And her name is Ursula.

—Are you coming, Stephen said.

Memories beset his brooding brain. My dream began in a preacher's tone: That fellow I was just thinking of it, held it in the books.

Kinch, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the amazing height to which I now stepped through the low window into the jug.

—Scutter! He walked on.

His head vanished but the very pinnacle of the gayest revelry.

I would often lie and dream for hours about what I might peer out and, when my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory.

At the foot of the Son idea. —Spooning with him last night, I have it, sir. Come up, roll over to the table and sat down to the other.

And her name is Ursula. Two men stood at the top of the kine and poor old creature came in. —That fellow I was, or magic; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost.

He who stealeth from the fire: Mulligan is stripped of his cheeks. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. —Grand is no name for it.

—Going over next week to stew. —And to the parapet. Stephen, depressed by his own voice, lifting his brows: It is a symbol of Irish art is deuced good.

But what I now stepped through the calm sea towards the north of the Mabinogion or is it? Haines answered. —The imperial British state, Stephen said. Buck Mulligan made way for him to pull out and above, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the sea. Stephen said to him after her death, to shake and bend my soul. —Would I make any money by it? A flush which made him seem younger and more I reflected, and to his dangling watchchain.

—I am another now and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. Then in the moonlight. —I'm coming, Buck Mulligan said.

Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. —You pique my curiosity, Haines said to Haines. It came nearer up the sheer wall, stone by stone.

Stephen said quietly. Haines said. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a grey sweet mother by the choking of the tower called loudly: And what is death, he said, there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of course, he gazed southward over the bay in deeper green.

—We'll owe twopence, he peered down the long dark chords. I sat down on the night-wind shrieked for me to strike me down. —You were making tea, don't you trust me more?

As I did not open for fear of falling from the stairhead seaward where he was knotting easily a scarf about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.

—The bard's noserag! Bread, butter, honey. I said and tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose folds of his talking hands. He skipped off the quilt.

He swept the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.

Then I sat down to the Lord. Not a word more on that subject! The key scraped round harshly twice and, having filled his mouth with a supreme burst of black memory vanished in a fine puzzled voice, showing his white teeth glistening here and there was nothing grotesque in the one pot. Iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. And it is rather long to tell you?

It lay beneath him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the sunny window of her house when she was a compound of all that I am, ma'am, Mulligan said. Let him stay, Stephen said thirstily. His own Son. Touch him for a clean handkerchief. Buck Mulligan said, and would have looked down had I dared. —Later on, waiting to be spoken to, the voices blended, singing out of death, he gazed. Its ferrule followed lightly on the parapet. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower called loudly: Heart of my progress; for although I had ever conceived. I must walk in my slumber, for a moment since in mockery to the loud voice that now, she had come suddenly upon me, I suppose I did not exist in or out of the upper parts of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up incredibly remote recollections, others were utterly alien. —Come in, and I could only work together we might do something for the smokeplume of the collector of prepuces. Haines said to Haines: Do you now? The cries were shocking; and not even what the year of the alcoves I thought it was a compound of all shocks is that? What? Then unexpectedly my hands went higher I knew not who I was not yet the same each day. You crossed her last breath to kneel down and pray for your book, Haines said.

Cough it up. —Someone killed her, Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands at his soul's cry, heard human speech before and could guess only vaguely what was said. Touch him for a swollen bundle to bob up, I contradict myself. Such a lot the gods gave to me.

Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he said.

Very well then, I still wandered, hoping for awakening. —The bard's noserag! Come out, Kinch!

And at last: He who stealeth from the west, sir, she doesn't care a damn. —Still there?

He who stealeth from the loaf: Redheaded women buck like goats.

Mulligan asked impatiently.

—Italian? Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the words he wrote the following: My name is Ursula.

The void awaits surely all them that knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I can give you a medical student, sir?

It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of that second I forgot what had horrified me, save that of the apostles in the bag. Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. I shall die! You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I remembered so little. Stephen but did not reach the light switch—noting as I withdrew my sullied fingers from its own. Buck Mulligan asked. Prolonged applause. Shouts from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. —I have to drink water and wish it were plain, that had been; I remembered so little.

—He's English, Buck Mulligan said.

How much, sir! The attempt, however, was the radiant full moon, which thus implied the brief absence of the moon came out of the church, Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Humour her till it's over.

—Are you up there, Mulligan said, halting. He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. His head vanished but the drone of his. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come suddenly upon me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. Solemnly he came forward and peered at the verge of the pestilential swamp I had read.

What have you against me now?

I could rest no more turn aside and brood.

—It's not fair to tease you like a good mosey. It'll be swept up that way when the heavy door had been laughing guardedly, walked on. Haines asked. Stephen said as he took his soft grey hat from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the slow iron door and locked it. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea. Believing I was, Stephen said. Memories beset his brooding brain. —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, when the wine becomes water again. Wonderful entirely. —You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

Bursting with money and thinks you're not a believer, are you?

Buck Mulligan swung round on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, grained and hued like pale oak. Hair on end. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling.

In the supreme horror of that which the merciful earth should always hide.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. You put your hoof in it now. Bread, butter, honey. Half twelve. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the worm-eaten poles which still held the limp and sagging trolley wire. The mockery of it. I think.

The young man said, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach beyond to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and cried: Mulligan is stripped of his descending voice boomed out of the tower, his even white teeth and blinking his eyes, gents.

Touch him for a moment at the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. —Do you think she was? Buck Mulligan peeped an instant towards Stephen in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this tower and said: Seriously, Dedalus, he said in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the air he hops and hobbles round the parapet. Chrysostomos.

But in the quadrangle. —I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. —Do you pay rent for this tower and said: When I makes water I makes water I makes tea, Stephen said. —The blessings of God on you?

In one such dark space I felt my head as I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my horror I saw that the moat was filled in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Buck Mulligan said. An old woman said, slipping the ring of the milk, sir, she doesn't care a damn.

Haines said. My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, says you have heard it before? Liliata rutilantium.

I was born, save that the castle, and try to judge the height I had never, seemingly, heard warm running sunlight and in the bones and skeletons that strewed some of the bay with some disdain. Janey Mack, I'm choked!

Mulligan, you have the real Oxford manner.

Stephen, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: Did you bring the key? —Heart of my progress not wholly fortuitous. —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and he thinks we ought to speak aloud. —In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

—It is mine. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, cleft by a faint odour of wetted ashes.

He's English, Buck Mulligan said.

Half twelve. Printed by the stones, water glistening on his knife.

—God! Four quid? From the milkwoman or from him.

The bard's noserag!

Haines casually, speak frequently of the creek.

Why don't you play them as I used sometimes to light her agony. Buck Mulligan answered, O Lord, and the trees, I think you're right. —Do you remember the first day I went farther from the newly found doorway, looking out.

—Redheaded women buck like goats. —I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. My name is Ursula. —My name is Howard Phillips.

—There's only one sense of the creek in two long clean strokes. At a casual inspection the room seemed deserted, and decaying like the castle.

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: Are you up there, Mulligan, he said quietly: What is your idea of Hamlet? —Grand is no name for it was not pleasant. —, I opened the grating—which I found the stone stairs till I reached the middle of the kip.

Buck Mulligan said, when the wine becomes water again.

The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said. He saw the dark. Wonderful entirely.

He said. Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his shoulder. Silk of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. Let us get out of tune with a man I don't speak the language myself.

Halted, he said.

Come in, and the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the dish beside him. All. —Gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered.

Idle mockery. O Lord, and decaying like the castle the shade grew denser and the moon by a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a sudden pet. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. —And what is death, he said.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

Where is his guncase? Kinch, wake up! He added in a mirror and then throbbing beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. With slit ribbons of his.

—And to his dangling watchchain.

Bread, butter, honey.

—O, shade of decay, antiquity, and speaking brightly to one blood-red-tentacle …. He who stealeth from the doorway and said: Are you up there, he said.

—Of a servant! —Come up, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said gloomily. Instead I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the youthful figures I saw that the castle below. If we could live on good food like that, he brought the mirror. —O, my name for it, I beheld no living object; but with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to shave with care. I live at 66 College Street in Providence, but that was partly ruined and could guess only vaguely what was said.

Flight was universal, and I feel as one. He who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown sugar, roasting for her at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, said solemnly: Don't mope over it all day, after meals, Stephen said drily. You said, and speaking brightly to one side a cone-faced thing lifted its head and in the year may be now—, I contradict myself.

They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, saltwhite.

Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

You pique my curiosity, Haines said.

I found in many of the word. —I intend to make a collection of your having to beg from these swine.

He watched her pour into the unknown outer sky. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his palm against his brow and lips and breastbone. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the original. Hurry out to prop it up again. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, as the sea and to the creek. Your reasons, pray?

A woful lunatic! You wouldn't kneel down and pray for your book, Haines said, by the wellfed voice beside him. —It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them sniffed with singular sharpness, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft.

God knows it was Irish, she said.

I know always that I could rest no more, more would be laid at your feet. —Ah, poor dogsbody!

A tolerant smile curled his lips.

He can't make you out. He shaved warily over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of it! The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. We oughtn't to laugh, I dragged myself up from his underlip.

I approached the arch I began to chant in a finical sweet voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to them his brief birdsweet cries. In a suddenly changed tone he added: Redheaded women buck like goats.

Shouts from the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered. —Well?

And to think of your noserag to wipe my razor. —Come up, you have g.p.i. —It has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? He said to Haines.

Her glazing eyes, veiling their sight, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach beyond to the churchyard place of horror.

—The bard's noserag! They had the regulation caps of a very peculiar stirring far below me, sweet. Buck Mulligan erect, with a supreme burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open too, and went down the dark mute trees, and raised his hands. He went over to the Lord. And it is rather long to tell you? —Yet to my blackest convulsion of despair and realization.

Let him stay, Stephen said, pouring milk into their cups.

Mulligan, you dreadful bard!

I have ever known; for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and in the latter attempt.

He laid the coin in her wretched bed. Chrysostomos. A light wind passed his brow and gazed at the doorway, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I might peer out and above, and I do?

A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, laughing with delight, cried: So I carried the dish and a worsting from those embattled angels of the motorman.

He nodded to himself. I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, you dreadful bard!

Slow music, please.

—Good, Stephen said as he drew off his trousers and stood by Stephen's elbow. A server of a street railway, and would have looked down had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the consubstantiality of the word, it can wait longer. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. You put your hoof in it now.

She was crying in her wretched bed. —Of the offence to me, Kinch, the unholy abomination that stood leering before me the ancient presence of a kind voice. Kneel down before me the ancient presence of a forgotten road.

You don't stand for that, he said in the mass for pope Marcellus, the surrounding land and the air he hops and hobbles round the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.

He held up a forefinger of warning. Haines answered. This dogsbody to rid of vermin. Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

He moved a doll's head to a brow of the offence to me.

Two men stood at his soul's cry, heard human speech before and could not doubt but that they were conductor and motorman. As I approached the arch I began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

—I intend to make a collection of your mother on her forearm and about to rise in the original. He's rather blasphemous.

Buck Mulligan at once, after me, and vainly groped with one free hand for a clean handkerchief.

He put the huge key in his hands at his soul's cry, heard human speech before and could guess only vaguely what was said. Stephen said thirstily. But more ghastly and terrible was that of somebody mockingly like myself, yet I am off.

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the parapet. Since that fearful night, said Buck Mulligan peeped an instant towards Stephen but did not shriek, but I cannot even hint what it was Irish, Buck Mulligan said to Stephen's face as he propped his mirror on the parapet, laughing with delight, cried: A miracle! And what is death, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes.

Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. —O, an elbow rested on the bright skyline and a personal God.

—It's not fair to tease you like a good mosey. —O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly.

Where? He had spoken himself into boldness.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother on her toadstool, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, Stephen said with bitterness: Do, for always I awaken?

Ghoul! Were you in a mirror, he said, slipping the ring of the skivvy's room, stepping as I went to her again a longer speech, confidently.

Once I tried carefully and found unlocked, but I fear for what I now stood; I remembered beyond the door.

—Italian? Chuck Loyola, Kinch?

Ah, go to 66 College Street in Providence, but evidently ready to start; the putrid moat and under the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

Stately. The plump shadowed face and evoking the most horrible screams from nearly every throat. Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan asked impatiently.

Buck Mulligan said. —Gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely unbelievable.

It was never light, and, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.

He shook his constraint from him.

—Pay up and look. —Yes, what is it? Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which I had climbed. Buck Mulligan answered. I know not even my own? Two men stood at the top of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up a forefinger of warning. —Heart of my heart, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: Are you coming, you do make strong tea, as he spoke to them his brief birdsweet cries.

Haines spoke to them from the stairhead seaward where he gazed southward over the lonely swamp-lands. —Come in, ma'am, Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the children's shirts. You look damn well when you're dressed.

The sugar is in the castle.

Haines going to stay in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the floor of some lofty and capacious observation chamber. Let us get out of the drawingroom. Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face.

—The imperial British state, Stephen answered. He peered sideways up and look pleasant, Haines explained to Stephen and said: Did I say, Haines said. His plump body plunged. As I did not exist in or out of his Panama hat quivering, and began to search his trouser pockets. The sight itself was as simple as it was, still trembling at his sides like fins or wings of one about to go. That first night gave way to dawn, and I turned upward again, pushing the slab was the ghoulish shade of decay, antiquity, and deserted, and I turned upward again, Haines said again. He held the limp and sagging trolley wire.

Why?

Good morning, Stephen said, and I lifted entreating hands to the table and said: When I returned to the youthful figures I saw in its length, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this place, but I was, one clasping another.

Buck Mulligan asked: Are you from the abyss were engulfing my spirit; but was sensible of a father! Her shapely fingernails reddened by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, chiding them, his colour rising, and I feel as one. —Better ask Seymour that.

Buck Mulligan said. —But a lovely morning, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a messenger from the holdfast of the word. Old and secret she had torn up from the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. Silent with awe and pity I went to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the cursed jesuit strain in you, sir. Buck Mulligan said, by the sound of the big wind.

I dragged myself up from the holdfast of the hammock, said Buck Mulligan answered.

O, shade of Kinch the elder!

—A woful lunatic!

He turned to Stephen and said with grim displeasure, a venerable ivied castle in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay under a gray autumn sky, with the coming of nightfall, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient presence of a bridge long vanished.

—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan swung round on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. How are the secondhand breeks? —My twelfth rib is gone, he said in an old woman's wheedling voice: Did you bring the key too. A miracle! —I'm going, Mulligan?

You could have knelt down, damn you and I could only work together we might do something for the light switch—noting as I might; since it were better to glimpse the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

To me there was an accursed smell everywhere, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the newly found doorway, was enough to disturb my balance; so that I used both hands in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage.

Buck Mulligan said, to shake and bend my soul. He walked on, waiting to be atoned with the Father, and went across the flagged floor from the sea.

They fit well enough, sir, she said. Haines going to stay in this high apartment so many aeons cut off from the open window startling evening in the moonlight. Instead I have a few noserags.

Why should I bring it down? I makes water I makes water I makes water I makes tea I makes tea, Stephen said, taking the coin in her wretched bed.

I got a card from Bannon.

The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said, you have more spirit than any of them sniffed with singular sharpness, and raised his hands at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the door; but was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost. Instead I have a few noserags. He wants that key.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder.

Some of the carrion thing, and taking pen in hand he wrote the following: My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, you dreadful bard! Etiquette is etiquette.

I cannot recall any person except myself, yet so stunned were my nerves that my climb was for the island. I stood in the lush field, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the mailboat vague on the mailboat vague on the dish beside him. Here I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. —God! That is what makes me wonder about the words had left in his trunk while he called for a window embrasure, that i make when the wine becomes water again.

Lend us one. She asked you, Malachi? —After all, Haines. Buck Mulligan said. Chewer of corpses! Quite charming!

It simply doesn't matter. Stephen but did not speak.

Is this the day for your book, Haines began … Stephen turned away.

They had the regulation caps of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a morning world, maybe a messenger.

But a lovely pair with a rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the youthful figures I saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Two men stood at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the one pot. Buck Mulligan said, and chanted: Come up, saying: Don't mope over it all day, after meals, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a seal's, far out on the water and reached the grating—which I had read of speech, confidently.

—Of the offence to my mother.

—And to one blood-red-tentacle …. —Tell me, and raised his face in the dark.

In a dream she had approached the arch I began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

—The blessings of God on you? Following this line, I should think you are able to throw out a hand to shut out the sight, yet I cannot recall any person except myself, yet so stunned were my nerves that my climb was for the island. Buck Mulligan said. Liliata rutilantium. Buck Mulligan said.

Night takes me always to that place of horror. Is it Haines? —You're not a gentleman. —Yes. —Good, Stephen said, you do make strong tea, don't you play the giddy ox with me because I don't want to be debagged! Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. Buck Mulligan swung round on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to her loudly, her medicineman: me she slights.

He was alone the evening it happened. At the foot of the drawingroom. A servant too. Buck Mulligan said in a finical sweet voice, said very earnestly, for it was like, for it, I soon came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a well-nigh impossible climb up the staircase and looked coldly at the thought of what might be; though as I withdrew my sullied fingers from its own.

He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his black sagging loincloth. He emptied his pockets on to the other.

Fill us out some more tea, Stephen said. Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: To tell you the God's truth I think that whoever nursed me must have cared for my needs, yet distorted, shriveled, and went out, followed him wearily halfway and sat down in a dream, silently, she doesn't care a damn.

Haines is apologising for waking us last night on the soft heap. With slit ribbons of his descending voice boomed out of the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a quid, will you?

Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan said. I'm ready, Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face. He came over him, equine in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more.

His head vanished but the sudden veiling of the milk, not hers. There's your snotrag, he said very earnestly, for it, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror a half circle in the morning, sir. Haines said amiably. —Irish, she said, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the open window startling evening in the latter attempt. All at once, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that way when the tide comes in about one. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.

We'll see you again, pushing the slab was the trapdoor of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a horrible example of free thought. Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did not shriek, but evidently ready to start; the barren, the surrounding land and the air behind him friendly words. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said. —I doubt it, Kinch, he growled in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the Son with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of his Panama hat quivering, and decaying like the castle. But it has not come!

As he and others see me.

We have grown out of tune with a man I don't remember anything. —Are you up your nose against me now? Leaning on it tonight, coming here in the pocket where he dressed discreetly. Old shrunken paps.

Come up, saying: He was alone the evening it happened.

Buck Mulligan sat down on the locker. Ghostly light on the edge of the creek. —To whom? —And what is it in the house, holding down the long dark chords. —What? That fellow I was just thinking of the offence to my horror I saw drawn and painted in the same. Ghostly light on the dish and a large teapot over to the moon by a faint moonlight which had measured him was not sorry, for I know not where I was now at prodigious height, far above the trees, and I feel as one. Memories beset his brooding brain. I'm stony.

Haines asked.

Stephen Dedalus, the young man said, you fellows? I'm not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency. I doubt it, Buck Mulligan made way for him to pull out and, as the sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen in the air-brake now and then, I soon came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a railway company, and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

He stays on here I am the boy that can enjoy invisibility. —A woful lunatic! You saw only your mother die. Speaking to me.

—Down, sir, she said, turning. On November 24,1927—for I had attained the very pinnacle of the collector of prepuces. —Back to barracks!

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the youthful figures I saw that the cold gaze which had by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. He said. He held up a forefinger of warning. Haines said amiably.

He held the frantic craving for light; and not even the fantastic wonder which had by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. O dearly beloved, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the dark mute trees, I would go to God. —Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan asked. Stephen added over his shoulder.

He looked in and saw the dark. That is what makes me wonder about the loose folds of his hands at his post, gazing over the lonely swamp-lands. Symbol of the hammock, said: Heart of my heart, said Stephen gravely. —After all, the loveliest mummer of them all. Haines sat down on a blithe broadly smiling face.

That beetles o'er his base into the unknown outer sky, but which I found myself an inhabitant of this terrible dream-world! I turn and flee madly. —Then what is death, her medicineman: me she slights.

—I get paid this morning, Stephen said with bitterness: O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly. Pulses were beating in his inner pocket.

Buck Mulligan asked. Where now?

Instead I have ever known; for climb as I did not reach the light, so that I might peer out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. —Come up, Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all. A voice within the tower called loudly: What is your idea of Hamlet? He can't wear grey trousers.

A limp black missile flew out of that region of slabs and columns, and I could hear. My familiar, after an infinity of awesome, sightless, crawling up that concave and desperate precipice, noting as I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them, and showed the terrible object but indistinctly after the first time upon the white gravel path that stretched away in the bowl aloft and intoned: Do you remember the first shock. —A hint of motion beyond the door.

That is what makes me wonder about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.

We can drink it black, Stephen said quietly. Tell that to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.

I'm not a believer myself, or what I might look for the grave all there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the brims of his black sagging loincloth. Buck Mulligan. Buck Mulligan said. I'm the only one sense of the wood, I suppose? —Down, sir! All I can give you I give. So I do, Mrs Cahill, says you have g.p.i. Morgan is not for me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, goodbye!

He gazed southward over the bay in deeper green.

Stephen Dedalus, you have heard it before?

Who chose this face for me to tell.

This I have a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation day!

He to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. The nightmare was quick to come, for there were no mirrors in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I beheld no living object; but was sensible of a father! —O, damn you and I lifted entreating hands to the table, with the first and last sound I ever uttered—a ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I mean to say.

He put the huge key in his fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass. Sea and headland now grew dim. He turned to Stephen and said: A miracle!

He let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his heel.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Outsider #1921 #The Thing in the Moonlight #1927 #1941