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JAMES JOYCE

ULYSSES

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Chamber Music

Dubliners

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Exile

(Jonathan Cape)

Pomes Penyeach

Finnegans Wake

(Faber Faber)

Stephen Hero

(posthumous: Jonathan Cape)

In a letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver, James Joyce wrote of the first edition of Ulysses, СI am extremely irritated by all the printerТs errors. Are these to be perpetuated in future editions? I hope not.Т

JoyceТs hope was not fulfilled until 1986, when a critical edition of the work appeared, the fruit of seven yearsТ textual research by a team of scholars led by Professor Hans Walter Gabler of the Department of English Philology at the University of Munich; they had returned to the original manuscripts, drafts and proofs of the 1922 first edition in order to reconstruct as closely as possible the creative process by which Joyce wrote Ulysses. Corrections to thousands of СaccidentalsТ of punctuation, spelling and emphasis illuminate previously obscure passages and throw the theme of the most significant novel of the twentieth century into sharp relief.

Here is Ulysses as James Joyce wrote and revised it.

This unabridged edition incorporates the internationally recognised system of line numbers for critical reference.

– Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

Part I: The Telemachiad

Episode 1, Telemachus

* Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

- Introibo ad altare Dei .

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:

– Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.

– Back to barracks! he said sternly.

He added in a preacher’s tone:

– For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.

– Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

– The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.

– My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

– Will he come? The jejune jesuit!

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

– Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

– Yes, my love?

– How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

– God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knifeblade.

He shaved warily over his chin.

– He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?

– A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

– I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a

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