Ulysses

call me up by sunphone any old time. Bumboosers, save your stamps. He shouts. Now then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! He sings. Jeru⁠ ⁠… The Gramophone Drowning his voice. Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh⁠ ⁠… The disc rasps gratingly against the needle. The Three Whores Covering their ears, squawk. Ahhkkk! Elijah In rolledup shirtsleeves, black in the face, shouts at the top of his voice, his arms uplifted. Big Brother up there, Mr President, you hear what I done just been saying to you. Certainly, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. I certainly am thinking now Miss Higgins and Miss Ricketts got religion way inside them. Certainly seems to me I don’t never see no wusser scared female than the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done seed you. Mr President, you come long and help me save our sisters dear. He winks at his audience. Our Mr President, he twig the whole lot and he ain’t saying nothing. Kitty-Kate I forgot myself. In a weak moment I erred and did what I did on Constitution hill. I was confirmed by the bishop. My mother’s sister married a Montmorency. It was a working plumber was my ruination when I was pure. Zoe-Fanny I let him larrup it into me for the fun of it. Florry-Teresa It was in consequence of a portwine beverage on top of Hennessy’s three stars. I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into the bed. Stephen In the beginning was the word, in the end the world without end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes. The beatitudes, Dixon, Madden, Crotthers, Costello, Lenehan, Bannon, Mulligan and Lynch in white surgical students’ gowns, four abreast, goosestepping, tramp fast past in noisy marching. The Beatitudes Incoherently. Beer beef battledog buybull businum barnum buggerum bishop. Lyster In quakergrey kneebreeches and broadbrimmed hat, says discreetly. He is our friend. I need not mention names. Seek thou the light. He corantos by. Best enters in hairdresser attire, shinily laundered, his locks in curlpapers. He leads John Eglinton who wears a mandarin’s kimono of Nankeen yellow, lizardlettered, and a high pagoda hat. Best Smiling, lifts the hat and displays a shaven poll from the crown of which bristles a pigtail toupee tied with an orange topknot. I was just beautifying him, don’t you know. A thing of beauty, don’t you know, Yeats says, or I mean, Keats says. John Eglinton Produces a greencapped dark lantern and flashes it towards a corner; with carping accent. Esthetics and cosmetics are for the boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain man. Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them. In the cone of the searchlight behind the coalscuttle, ollave, holyeyed, the bearded figure of Mananaun Mac Lir broods, chin on knees. He rises slowly. A cold seawind blows from his druid mantle. About his head writhe eels and elvers. He is encrusted with weeds and shells. His right hand holds a bicycle pump. His left hand grasps a huge crayfish by its two talons. Mananaun Mac Lir With a voice of waves. Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub! Mor! Ma! White yoghin of the Gods. Occult pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. With a voice of whistling seawind. Punarjanam patsypunjaub! I won’t have my leg pulled. It has been said by one: beware the left, the cult of Shakti. With a cry of stormbirds. Shakti, Shiva! Dark hidden Father! He smites with his bicycle pump the crayfish in his left hand. On its cooperative dial glow the twelve signs of the zodiac. He wails with the vehemence of the ocean. Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the homestead, I am the dreamery creamery butter. A skeleton judashand strangles the light. The green light wanes to mauve. The gasjet wails whistling. The Gasjet Pooah! Pfuiiiiii! Zoe runs to the chandelier and, crooking her leg, adjusts the mantle. Zoe Who has a fag as I’m here? Lynch Tossing a cigarette on to the table. Here. Zoe Her head perched aside in mock pride. Is that the way to hand the pot to a lady? She stretches up to light the cigarette over the flame, twirling it slowly, showing the brown tufts of her armpits. Lynch with his poker lifts boldly a side of her slip. Bare from her garters up her flesh appears under the sapphire a nixie’s green. She puffs calmly at her cigarette. Can you see the beauty spot of my behind? Lynch I’m not looking. Zoe Makes sheep’s eyes. No? You wouldn’t do a less thing. Would you suck a lemon? Squinting in mock shame she glances with sidelong meaning at Bloom then twists round towards him, pulling her slip free of the poker. Blue fluid again flows over her flesh. Bloom stands, smiling desirously, twirling his thumbs. Kitty Ricketts licks her middle finger with her spittle and gazing in the mirror, smooths both eyebrows. Lipoti Virag, basilicogrammate, chutes rapidly down through the chimneyflue and struts two steps to the left on gawky pink stilts. He is sausaged into several overcoats and wears a brown macintosh under which he holds a roll of parchment. In his left eye flashes the monocle of Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell. On his head is perched an Egyptian pshent. Two quills project over his ears. Virag Heels together, bows. My name is Virag Lipoti, of Szombathely. He coughs thoughtfully, drily. Promiscuous nakedness is much in evidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you perceived? Good. Bloom Granpapachi. But⁠ ⁠… Virag Number two on the other hand, she of the cherry rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir of gopherwood is in walking costume