Ulysses

may be an old hymn to Demeter or also illustrate Cœla enarrant gloriam Domini. It is susceptible of nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so divergent as priests haihooping round David’s that is Circe’s or what am I saying Ceres’ altar and David’s tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist about the alrightiness of his almightiness. Mais, nom de nom, that is another pair of trousers. Jetez la gourme. Faut que jeunesse se passe. He stops, points at Lynch’s cap, smiles, laughs. Which side is your knowledge bump? The Cap With saturnine spleen. Bah! It is because it is. Woman’s reason. Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Bah! Stephen You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. How long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone! The Cap Bah! Stephen Here’s another for you. He frowns. The reason is because the fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval which⁠ ⁠… The Cap Which? Finish. You can’t. Stephen With an effort. Interval which. Is the greatest possible elipse. Consistent with. The ultimate return. The octave. Which. The Cap Which? Outside the gramophone begins to blare The Holy City. Stephen Abruptly. What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself. God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow’s noise in the street. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco! Lynch With a mocking whinny of laughter grins at Bloom and Zoe Higgins. What a learned speech, eh? Zoe Briskly. God help your head, he knows more than you have forgotten. With obese stupidity Florry Talbot regards Stephen. Florry They say the last day is coming this summer. Kitty No! Zoe Explodes in laughter. Great unjust God! Florry Offended. Well, it was in the papers about Antichrist. O, my foot’s tickling. Ragged barefoot newsboys jogging a wagtail kite, patter past, yelling. The Newsboys Stop press edition. Result of the rockinghorse races. Sea serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of Antichrist. Stephen turns and sees Bloom. Stephen A time, times and half a time. Reuben J. Antichrist, wandering jew, a clutching hand open on his spine, stumps forward. Across his loins is slung a pilgrim’s wallet from which protrude promissory notes and dishonoured bills. Aloft over his shoulder he bears a long boatpole from the hook of which the sodden huddled mass of his only son, saved from Liffey waters hangs from the slack of its breeches. A hobgoblin in the image of Punch Costello, hipshot, crookbacked, hydrocephalic, prognatic with receding forehead and Ally Sloper nose tumbles in somersaults through the gathering darkness. All What? The Hobgoblin His jaws chattering, capers to and fro, goggling his eyes, squeaking, kangaroohopping, with outstretched clutching arms then all at once thrusts his lipless face through the fork of his thighs. Il vient! C’est moi! L’homme qui rit! L’homme primigène! He whirls round and round with dervish howls. Sieurs et dames, faites vos jeux! He crouches juggling. Tiny roulette planets fly from his hands. Les jeux sont faits! The planets rush together, uttering crepitant cracks. Rien n’va plus. The planets, buoyant balloons, sail swollen up and away. He springs off into vacuum. Florry Sinking into torpor, crosses herself secretly. The end of the world! A female tepid effluvium leaks out from her. Nebulous obscurity occupies space. Through the drifting fog without the gramophone blares over coughs and feetshuffling. The Gramophone

Jerusalem!
Open your gates and sing
Hosanna⁠ ⁠…

A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts. A white star falls from it, proclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah. Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the End of the World, a twoheaded octopus in gillie’s kilts, busby and tartan filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the Three Legs of Man. The End of the World With a Scotch accent. Wha’ll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel row? Over the passing drift and choking breathcoughs, Elijah’s voice, harsh as a corncrakes, jars on high. Perspiring in a loose lawn surplice with funnel sleeves he is seen, vergerfaced, above a rostrum about which the banner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet. Elijah No yapping, if you please, in this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dave Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys, do it now. God’s time is 12.25. Tell mother you’ll be there. Rush your order and you play a slick ace. Join on right here! Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it’s up to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You got me? It’s a lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff ever was. It’s the whole pie with jam in. It’s just the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It restores. It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that? O. K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. Got me? That’s it. You