Page 209 (9.1193-1225) "their skirts... altars."

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their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

this actually took place on 20 June, during Joyce's 'spree' after being thrown out of his lodgings at McKernans for nonpayment of rent (and also after meeting Nora). Joyce's version: (Ellmann 161):

O, there are two brothers, the Fays,
Who are excellent players of plays,
And, needless to mention, all
Most unconventional,
Filling the world with amaze.

But I angered those brothers, the Fays,
Whose ways are conventional ways,
For I lay in my urine
While ladies so pure in
White petticoats ravished my gaze.

the 'ladies' included Vera Esposito, and actress whom Joyce had impressed a few days earlier with his singing, at Cousins' house.


— The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them.



About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.



Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably.



My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.



A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.



— Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.



The portico.



Here I watched the birds for augury. Ængus of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.



— The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.



Manner of Oxenford.



Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.



A dark back went before them. Step of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs.

They followed.



Offend me still. Speak on.



Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown.



Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar.

Laud we the gods And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless'd altars.

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Page 208 (9.1158-1192) "Longworth is... to lift"

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— Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do the Yeats touch?



He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:



— The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time. One thinks of Homer.



He stopped at the stairfoot.



— I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.



The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

game

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:




— Everyman His Own Wife
or
A Honeymoon in the Hand
(a national immorality in three orgasms)
by
Ballocky Mulligan



He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:



— The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.



He read, marcato:



— Characters:

TOBY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
CRAB (a bushranger)
MEDICAL DICK }
   and       } (two birds with one stone)
MEDICAL DAVY }
MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY
   and
ROSALIE (the coalquay whore)

He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:



— O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift

Camden Hall info
1909 map
34 Camden St Lower

Daughters of Erin [wiki]

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Page 207 (9.1125-1157) "Puck Mulligan... his lips."

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Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:

— John Eglinton, my jo, John,
    Why won't you wed a wife?

line 1 is from Burns, but isn't line 2 something else?


He spluttered to the air:



— O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers' hall. Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I smell the pubic sweat of monks.

Chin Chin Chinaman


He spat blank.



Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And left the femme de trente ans. And why no other children born? And his first child a girl?



Afterwit. Go back.



The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.



Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... eh...



— Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there...



Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:

— I hardly hear the purlieu cry
Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
Before my thoughts begin to run
On F. M'Curdy Atkinson,
The same that had the wooden leg
And that filibustering filibeg
That never dared to slake his drouth,
Magee that had the chinless mouth.
Being afraid to marry on earth
They masturbated for all they were worth.

cf Yeats:

I hardly hear the curlew cry,
Nor the grey rush when wind is high,
Before my thoughts begin to run
On the heir of Ulad, Buan's son,
Baile who had the honey mouth,
And that mild woman of the south,
Aillinn, who was King Lugaid's heir.
Their love was never drowned in care
Of this or that thing, nor grew cold
Because their bodies had grown old;
Being forbid to marry on earth
They blossomed to immortal mirth.

Jest on. Know thyself.



Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.



— Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

[source]


A laugh tripped over his lips.

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Page 206 (9.1088-1124) "I called upon... Mincius."

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— I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.



He broke away.



— Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Ængus of the birds.



Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts and offals.



Stephen rose.



Life is many days. This will end.



— We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.



Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.



— Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk straight?



Laughing, he...



Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.



Lubber...



Stephen followed a lubber...



One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After. His lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.



Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thought.



What have I learned? Of them? Of me?



Walk like Haines now.



The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.



— O please do, sir... I shall be most pleased...



Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:



— A pleased bottom.



The turnstile.



Is that...? Blueribboned hat...? Idly writing...? What...? Looked...?



The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.

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Page 205 (9.1050-1087) "cuckold too... malice:"

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cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet, there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself.



— Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka!



Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk.



— May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.



He began to scribble on a slip of paper.



Take some slips from the counter going out.



— Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.



He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.



Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew.



— You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?



— No, Stephen said promptly.



— Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.



John Eclecticon doubly smiled.



— Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.



I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? Egomen. Who to unbelieve? Other chap.



— You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.



Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.



— For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.



Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then gravely said, honeying malice:

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Page 204 (9.1012-1049) "infinite variety... bawd and"

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infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As You Like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure— and in all the other plays which I have not read.



He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage.



Judge Eglinton summed up.



— The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He is all in all.



— He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five. All in all. In Cymbeline, in Othello he is bawd and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like José he kills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer.



— Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear!



Dark dome received, reverbed.



— And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas fils (or is it Dumas père?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most.



— Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of life ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet père and Hamlet fils. A king and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, giants, ghosts, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and


"the place where the bad niggers go" ♬

"the most Roman of catholics" isn't this traceable?

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Page 203 (9.973-1011) "and nuncle Edmund... It is in"

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and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.



Lapwing.



Where is your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on.

Apothecaries Hall info


Lapwing.

Stephen/Maurice (James/Stanislaus) = Icarus/Lapwing or Lapwing/Icarus = Shem/Shaun?
the less favored prevails by stealth


I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.

Icarus/Lapwing = Esau/Jacob


On.



— You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history?



— That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. Que voulez-vous? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle.



— Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of my lords bishops of Maynooth: an original sin and, like original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the lines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it. Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in

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Page 202 (9.937-972) "And from her... nuncle Richie"

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And from her arms.



Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?



Read the skies. Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos. Where's your configuration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S.D.: sua donna. Già: di lui. Gelindo risolve di non amar S.D.



— What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial phenomenon?



— A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.



What more's to speak?



Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.



Stephanos, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.



— You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.



Me, Magee and Mulligan.



Fabulous artificer, the hawklike man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. Pater, ait. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing be.

this 'lapwing' motif is supposedly a complex allusion to a nephew of Daedalus, target of his jealous wrath, transformed by Athena into a bird that survives by keeping its head down [vid]


Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:



— That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize.



Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.



The quaker librarian springhalted near.



— I should like to know, he said, which brother you... I understand you to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers... But perhaps I am anticipating?



He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.



An attendant from the doorway called:



— Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...


[biblio]

— O! Father Dineen! Directly.



Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.



John Eglinton touched the foil.

a fencing reference?


— Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?



— In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie

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Page 201 (9.906-936) "BUCK MULLIGAN (Piano... quenched."

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BUCK MULLIGAN



(Piano, diminuendo.)

Then outspoke medical Dick
To his comrade medical Davy...

cf Gogarty  c1903: "Song of Medical Dick and Medical Davy"

    The first was Medical Dick
    The second was Medical Davy
    The first had a Bloody Big Prick
    The second had Buckets of Gravy
    To show-- to show-- to show what medicals are.

    Then out spoke Medical Dick
    To his comrade Medical Davy
    'I'd swap my Bloody Big Prick
    For you with your buckets of Gravy'
    To show etc.

    'Steady Medical Dick'
    Said Sturdy Medical Davy
    'There's very little value in a prick
    When you haven't got the passage of the gravy.'
    To show etc.

    'Every bullock were a bull
    But for the little matter of a ballocks
    If your prick can keep the women full
    You'll find they never grumble at its small looks.'
    To show etc.



STEPHEN



In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard Crookback, Edmund in King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names. Nay, that last play was written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.




BEST



I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name...

(Laughter.)

QUAKERLYSTER



(A tempo.) But he that filches from me my good name...




STEPHEN



(Stringendo.) He has hidden his own name, a fair name, William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John O'Gaunt his name is dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars. His eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight, returning from Shottery and from her arms.

"set his face"

Both satisfied. I too.



Don't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched.

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Page 200 (9.874-905) "Flatter. Rarely... (Laughter.)"

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Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.



— Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with child. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The play's the thing! Let me parturiate!



He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.



— As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the forest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. His boyson's death is the deathscene of young Arthur in King John. Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in The Tempest, in Pericles, in Winter's Tale are we know. Who Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded.



— The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.



The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with haste, quake, quack.



Door closed. Cell. Day.



They list. Three. They.



I you he they.



Come, mess.




STEPHEN

He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are recorded in the works of sweet William.


via Oldys



MAGEEGLINJOHN



Names! What's in a name?




BEST

That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to say a good word for Richard, don't you know, for my sake.

(Laughter.)

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Page 199 (9.835-873) "disarmed of... twisted eglantine."

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disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten. On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?



What the hell are you driving at?



I know. Shut up. Blast you! I have reasons.



Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea.



Are you condemned to do this?



— They are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The sun unborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care. He is a new male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth his father's envy, his friend his father's enemy.



In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.



— What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut.



Am I father? If I were?



Shrunken uncertain hand.



— Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the field, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the same name in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was not the father of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson who, by the same token, never was born for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors perfection.



Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.

>

mysteries:


[DD]
[IM]
[LV1]
[LV2]


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