Ulysses

house very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same if talking a poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations voluptuous. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur every night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion’s things mockery seen in universal world. All chic womans which arrive full of modesty then disrobe and squeal loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh young with dessous troublants. He clacks his tongue loudly. Ho, la la! Ce pif qu’il a! Lynch Vive le vampire! The Whores Bravo! Parleyvoo! Stephen Grimacing with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself. Great success of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians. Demimondaines nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans? He points about him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to. Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptoms virgins nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter gentlemen to see in mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher’s boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omlette on the belly pièce de Shakespeare. Bella Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa with a shout of laughter. An omelette on the⁠ ⁠… Ho! ho! ho! ho!⁠ ⁠… Omelette on the⁠ ⁠… Stephen Mincingly. I love you, Sir darling. Speak you englishman tongue for double entente cordiale. O yes, mon loup. How much cost? Waterloo. Watercloset. He ceases suddenly and holds up a forefinger. Bella Laughing. Omelette⁠ ⁠… The Whores Laughing. Encore! Encore! Stephen Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon. Zoe Go abroad and love a foreign lady. Lynch Across the world for a wife. Florry Dreams go by contraries. Stephen Extending his arms. It was here. Street of harlots. In Serpentine Avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Where’s the red carpet spread? Bloom Approaching Stephen. Look⁠ ⁠… Stephen No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World without end. He cries. Pater! Free! Bloom I say, look⁠ ⁠… Stephen Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! He cries, his vulture talons sharpened. Hola! Hillyho! Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready. Simon That’s all right. He swoops uncertainly through the air, wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard wings. Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at arms! hai hoop! He makes the beagle’s call giving tongue. Bulbul! Burblblbrurblbl! Hai, boy! The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. A stout fox drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth, under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows, nose to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty sticks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, grey negroes waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly. The Crowd

Card of the races. Racing card!
Ten to one the field!
Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the clay!
Ten to one bar one. Ten to one bar one.
Try your luck on spinning Jenny!
Ten to one bar one!
Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!
I’ll give ten to one!
Ten to one bar one!

A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winningpost, his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses: Sceptre, Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the Duke of Westminster’s Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rusty armoured, leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain, on a broken-winded isabelle nag. Cock of the North, the favourite, honey cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins, a hockey stick at the ready. His nag, stumbling on whitegaitered feet, jogs along the rocky road. The Orange Lodges Jeering. Get down and push, mister. Last lap! You’ll be home the night! Garrett Deasy Bolt upright, his nailscraped face plastered with postage stamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at a schooling gallop. Per vias rectas! A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag, a torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips, potatoes. The Green Lodges Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the windows, singing in discord. Stephen Hark! Our friend, noise in the street! Zoe Holds up her hand. Stop! Private Carr
Private Compton
Cissy Caffrey

Yet I’ve a sort a
Yorkshire relish for⁠ ⁠…

Zoe That’s me. She claps her hands. Dance! Dance! She runs to the pianola. Who has twopence? Bloom Who’ll⁠ ⁠… Lynch Handing her coins. Here. Stephen Cracking his fingers impatiently. Quick! Quick! Where’s my augur’s rod? He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium. Zoe Turns the drumhandle. There. She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a