ULYSSE PAR JOUR A DEMENAGE >>

Ulysse par jour

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2012 : James Joyce « tombe », comme le veut la formule, dans le domaine public. Moment idéal pour entreprendre un projet fou : traduire ce monument, jour après jour, phrase après phrase (ou presque). Deux traductions françaises sont déjà parues : une première, en 1929, signée Auguste Morel, assisté de Stuart Gilbert, Valery Larbaud et l’auteur lui-même et une seconde en 2004, menée par une équipe d’écrivains, traducteurs et universitaires sous la direction de Jacques Aubert. On n’ira pas dans cette direction mais on ne se privera pas de se référer à l’une ou à l’autre (cf. diverses notes de bas de page). Le but du jeu, dans cet exercice, serait d’opérer, par le biais de la traduction, une sorte de piratage poétique, au sens où l’entendait par exemple Kathy Acker. Que ceux qui veulent me joindre dans la bataille s’amènent : la phrase originale est dépliable en haut de chaque page et les commentaires sont faits pour ça.


#Ulysse un

6 février 2012


Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.


#Ulysse deux

7 février 2012


A yellow dressinggown,ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.


#Ulysse trois

8 février 2012


He held the bowl aloft and intoned :
Introibo ad altare Dei.


#Ulysse quatre

9 février 2012


Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely :
— Come up, Kinch ! Come up, you fearful jesuit !


#Ulysse cinq

10 février 2012


Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest.


#Ulysse six

11 février 2012


He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains.


#Ulysse sept

12 février 2012


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.


#Ulysse huit

13 février 2012


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.


#Ulysse neuf

14 février 2012


Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered
the bowl smartly.
—Back to barracks ! he said sternly.


#Ulysse dix

15 février 2012


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.


#Ulysse onze

16 février 2012


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.


#Ulysse douze

17 février 2012


Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.


#Ulysse treize

18 février 2012


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


#Ulysse quatorze

19 février 2012


He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering
about his legs the loose folds of his gown.


#Ulysse quinze

20 février 2012


The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.


#Ulysse seize

21 février 2012


A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.


#Ulysse dix-sept

22 février 2012


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


#Ulysse dix-huit

23 février 2012


He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,
laughing to himself.


#Ulysse dix-neuf

24 février 2012


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.


#Ulysse vingt

25 février 2012


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 ?


#Ulysse vingt-et-un

26 février 2012


He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried :
—Will he come ? The jejune jesuit !


#Ulysse vingt-deux

27 février 2012


Ceasing, he began to shave with care.


#Ulysse vingt-trois

28 février 2012


—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.


#Ulysse vingt-quatre

29 février 2012


—Yes, my love ?


#Ulysse vingt-cinq

1er mars 2012


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


#Ulysse vingt-six

2 mars 2012


Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.


#Ulysse vingt-sept

3 mars 2012


—God, isn’t he dreadful ? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon.


#Ulysse vingt-huit

4 mars 2012


He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English ! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford.


#Ulysse vingt-neuf

5 mars 2012


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 knife-blade.


#Ulysse trente

6 mars 2012


He shaved warily over his chin.


#Ulysse trente-et-un

7 mars 2012


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


#Ulysse trente-deux

8 mars 2012


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


#Ulysse trente-trois

9 mars 2012


—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the
dark with a man I don’t know raving and moaning to himself about
shooting a black panther.


#Ulysse trente-quatre

10 mars 2012


You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero,
however. If he stays on here I am off.


#Ulysse trente-cinq

11 mars 2012


Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade.


#Ulysse trente-six

12 mars 2012


He hopped
down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.


#Ulysse trente-sept

13 mars 2012


—Scutter ! he cried thickly.


#Ulysse trente-huit

14 mars 2012


He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upper
pocket, said :
—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.


#Ulysse trente-neuf

15 mars 2012


Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a
dirty crumpled handkerchief.


#Ulysse quarante

16 mars 2012


Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade
neatly.


#Ulysse quarante-et-un

17 mars 2012


Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said :
—The bard’s noserag ! A new art colour for our Irish poets : snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can’t you ?


#Ulysse quarante-deux

18 mars 2012


He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his
fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.


#Ulysse quarante-trois

19 mars 2012


—God ! he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it : a great sweet
mother ? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks ! I must teach you. You must read them in the
original. Thalatta ! Thalatta ! She is our great sweet mother. Come and
look.


#Ulysse quarante-quatre

20 mars 2012


Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet.


#Ulysse quarante-cinq

21 mars 2012


Leaning on it he
looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth
of Kingstown.


#Ulysse quarante-six

22 mars 2012


—Our mighty mother ! Buck Mulligan said.


#Ulysse quarante-sept

23 mars 2012


He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’s
face.


#Ulysse quarante-huit

24 mars 2012


—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That’s why she
won’t let me have anything to do with you.


#Ulysse quarante-neuf

25 mars 2012


—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.


#Ulysse cinquante

26 mars 2012


—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying
mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I’m hyperborean as much as you.
But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel
down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in
you…


#Ulysse cinquante-et-un

27 mars 2012


He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek.


#Ulysse cinquante-deux

28 mars 2012


A tolerant
smile curled his lips.


#Ulysse cinquante-trois

29 mars 2012


—But a lovely mummer ! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest
mummer of them all !


#Ulysse cinquante-quatre

30 mars 2012


He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.


#Ulysse cinquante-cinq

31 mars 2012


Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm
against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve.


#Ulysse cinquante-six

1er avril 2012


Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.


#Ulysse cinquante-sept

2 avril 2012


Silently,
in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within
its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood,
her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of
wetted ashes.


#Ulysse cinquante-huit

3 avril 2012


Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a
great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.


#Ulysse cinquante-neuf

4 avril 2012


The ring of bay and
skyline held a dull green mass of liquid.


#Ulysse soixante

5 avril 2012


A bowl of white china had stood
beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn
up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.


#Ulysse soixante-et-un

6 avril 2012


Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.


#Ulysse soixante-deux

7 avril 2012


—Ah, poor dogsbody ! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt
and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks ?


#Ulysse soixante-trois

8 avril 2012


—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.


#Ulysse soixante-quatre

9 avril 2012


Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.


#Ulysse soixante-cinq

10 avril 2012


—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be.
God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a
hair stripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. You
look damn well when you’re dressed.


#Ulysse soixante-six

11 avril 2012


—Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.


#Ulysse soixante-sept

12 avril 2012


—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.
Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.


#Ulysse soixante-huit

13 avril 2012


He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the
smooth skin.


#Ulysse soixante-neuf

14 avril 2012


Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its
smokeblue mobile eyes.


#Ulysse soixante-dix

15 avril 2012


—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan,
says you have g.p.i. He’s up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General
paralysis of the insane !


#Ulysse soixante-et-onze

16 avril 2012


He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad
in sunlight now radiant on the sea.


#Ulysse soixante-douze

17 avril 2012


His curling shaven lips laughed and
the edges of his white glittering teeth.


#Ulysse soixante-treize

18 avril 2012


Laughter seized all his strong
wellknit trunk.


#Ulysse soixante-quatorze

19 avril 2012


—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard !


#Ulysse soixante-quinze

20 avril 2012


Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft
by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose
this face for me ? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.


#Ulysse soixante-seize

21 avril 2012


—I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her
all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead
him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.


#Ulysse soixante-dix-sept

22 avril 2012


Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering
eyes.


#Ulysse soixante-dix-huit

23 avril 2012


—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If
Wilde were only alive to see you !


#Ulysse soixante-dix-neuf

24 avril 2012


Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness :
— It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt

25 avril 2012


Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen’s and walked with
him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where
he had thrust them.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-un

26 avril 2012


—It’s not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it ? he said kindly. God
knows you have more spirit than any of them.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-deux

27 avril 2012


Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The
cold steelpen.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-trois

28 avril 2012


—Cracked lookingglass of a servant ! Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs
and touch him for a guinea. He’s stinking with money and thinks
you’re not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to
Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could
only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-quatre

29 avril 2012


Cranly’s arm. His arm.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-cinq

30 avril 2012


—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I’m the only
one that knows what you are. Why don’t you trust me more ? What have
you up your nose against me ? Is it Haines ? If he makes any noise here I’ll
bring down Seymour and we’ll give him a ragging worse than they gave
Clive Kempthorpe.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-six

1er mai 2012


Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe’s rooms. Palefaces :
they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall
expire ! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey ! I shall die !


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-sept

2 mai 2012


With slit ribbons
of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table,
with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the
tailor’s shears. A scared calf’s face gilded with marmalade. I don’t want
to be debagged ! Don’t you play the giddy ox with me !


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-huit

3 mai 2012


Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-neuf

4 mai 2012


A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold’s face, pushes his
mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of
grasshalms.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-dix

5 mai 2012


To ourselves… new paganism… omphalos.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-onze

6 mai 2012


—Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except
at night.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-douze

7 mai 2012


—Then what is it ? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I’m
quite frank with you. What have you against me now ?


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-treize

8 mai 2012


They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on
the water like the snout of a sleeping whale.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-quatorze

9 mai 2012


Stephen freed his arm
quietly.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-quinze

10 mai 2012


—Do you wish me to tell you ? he asked.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-seize

11 mai 2012


— Yes, what is it ? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember
anything.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-dix-sept

12 mai 2012


He looked in Stephen’s face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow,
fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety
in his eyes.


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-dix-huit

13 mai 2012


Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said :
—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my
mother’s death ?


#Ulysse quatre-vingt-dix-neuf

14 mai 2012


Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said :
—What ? Where ? I can’t remember anything. I remember only ideas
and sensations. Why ? What happened in the name of God ?


#Ulysse cent

15 mai 2012


—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to
get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom.
She asked you who was in your room.


#Ulysse cent-un

16 mai 2012


—Yes ? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say ? I forget.


#Ulysse cent-deux

17 mai 2012


—You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is
beastly dead.


#Ulysse cent-trois

18 mai 2012


A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to
Buck Mulligan’s cheek.


#Ulysse cent-quatre

19 mai 2012


—Did I say that ? he asked. Well ? What harm is that ?


#Ulysse cent-cinq

20 mai 2012


He shook his constraint from him nervously.


#Ulysse cent-six

21 mai 2012


—And what is death, he asked, your mother’s or yours or my own ?
You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater
and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It’s a beastly
thing and nothing else. It simply doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t kneel
down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you.
Why ? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it’s injected
the wrong way. To me it’s all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes
are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups
off the quilt. Humour her till it’s over. You crossed her last wish in
death and yet you sulk with me because I don’t whinge like some hired
mute from Lalouette’s. Absurd ! I suppose I did say it. I didn’t mean to offend
the memory of your mother.


#Ulysse cent-sept

22 mai 2012


He had spoken himself into boldness.


#Ulysse cent-huit

23 mai 2012


Stephen, shielding the gaping
wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly :
—I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.


#Ulysse cent-neuf

24 mai 2012


—Of what then ? Buck Mulligan asked.


#Ulysse cent-dix

25 mai 2012


—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.


#Ulysse cent-onze

26 mai 2012


Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.


#Ulysse cent-douze

27 mai 2012


—O, an impossible person ! he exclaimed.


#Ulysse cent-treize

28 mai 2012


He walked off quickly round the parapet.


#Ulysse cent-quatorze

29 mai 2012


Stephen stood at his post,
gazing over the calm sea towards the headland.


#Ulysse cent-quinze

30 mai 2012


Sea and headland now
grew dim.


#Ulysse cent-seize

31 mai 2012


Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt
the fever of his cheeks.


#Ulysse cent-dix-sept

1er juin 2012


A voice within the tower called loudly :
—Are you up there, Mulligan ?


#Ulysse cent-dix-huit

2 juin 2012


—I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.


#Ulysse cent-dix-neuf

3 juin 2012


He turned towards Stephen and said :
—Look at the sea. What does it care about offences ? Chuck Loyola,
Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.


#Ulysse cent-vingt

4 juin 2012


His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level
with the roof :
—Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up the
moody brooding.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-et-un

5 juin 2012


His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out
of the stairhead :

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love’s bitter mystery
For Fergus rules the brazen cars
.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-deux

6 juin 2012


Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the
stairhead seaward where he gazed.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-trois

7 juin 2012


Inshore and farther out the mirror of
water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-quatre

8 juin 2012


White breast of the
dim sea.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-cinq

9 juin 2012


The twining stresses, two by two.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-six

10 juin 2012


A hand plucking the harpstrings,
merging their twining chords.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-sept

11 juin 2012


Wavewhite wedded words shimmering
on the dim tide.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-huit

12 juin 2012


A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in
deeper green.


#Ulysse cent-vingt-neuf

13 juin 2012


It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters.


#Ulysse cent-trente

14 juin 2012


Fergus’ song : I
sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords.


#Ulysse cent-trente-et-un

15 juin 2012


Her door
was open : she wanted to hear my music.


#Ulysse cent-trente-deux

16 juin 2012


Silent with awe and pity I went
to her bedside.


#Ulysse cent-trente-trois

17 juin 2012


She was crying in her wretched bed.


#Ulysse cent-trente-quatre

18 juin 2012


For those words,
Stephen : love’s bitter mystery.


#Ulysse cent-trente-cinq

19 juin 2012


Where now ?


#Ulysse cent-trente-six

20 juin 2012


Her secrets : old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with
musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer.


#Ulysse cent-trente-sept

21 juin 2012


A birdcage hung in
the sunny window of her house when she was a girl.


#Ulysse cent-trente-huit

22 juin 2012


She heard old
Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with
others when he sang :

I am the boy
That can enjoy
Invisibility.


#Ulysse cent-trente-neuf

23 juin 2012


Phantasmal mirth, folded away : muskperfumed.


#Ulysse cent-quarante

24 juin 2012


And no more turn aside and brood.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-et-un

25 juin 2012


Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset
his brooding brain.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-deux

26 juin 2012


Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she
had approached the sacrament.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-trois

27 juin 2012


A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,
roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-quatre

28 juin 2012


Her shapely
fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’s
shirts.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-cinq

29 juin 2012


In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its
loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,
bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-six

30 juin 2012


Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-sept

1er juillet 2012


On
me alone.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-huit

2 juillet 2012


The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured
face.


#Ulysse cent-quarante-neuf

3 juillet 2012


Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on
their knees.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante

4 juillet 2012


Her eyes on me to strike me down.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-et-un

5 juillet 2012


Liliata rutilantium te confessorum
turma circumdet : iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-deux

6 juillet 2012


Ghoul ! Chewer of corpses !


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-trois

7 juillet 2012


No, mother ! Let me be and let me live.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-quatre

8 juillet 2012


—Kinch ahoy !


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-cinq

9 juillet 2012


Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up
the staircase, calling again.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-six

10 juillet 2012


Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry,
heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-sept

11 juillet 2012


—Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines
is apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-huit

12 juillet 2012


—I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.


#Ulysse cent-cinquante-neuf

13 juillet 2012


—Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our
sakes.


#Ulysse cent-soixante

14 juillet 2012


His head disappeared and reappeared.
—I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touch
him for a quid, will you ? A guinea, I mean.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-et-un

15 juillet 2012


—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-deux

16 juillet 2012


—The school kip ? Buck Mulligan said. How much ? Four quid ? Lend
us one.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-trois

17 juillet 2012


—If you want it, Stephen said.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-quatre

18 juillet 2012


—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll
have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent
sovereigns.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-cinq

19 juillet 2012


He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out
of tune with a Cockney accent :

O, won’t we have a merry time,
Drinking whisky, beer and wine !
On coronation,
Coronation day !
O, won’t we have a merry time
On coronation day !


#Ulysse cent-soixante-six

20 juillet 2012


Warm sunshine merrying over the sea.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-sept

21 juillet 2012


The nickel shavingbowl shone,
forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down ? Or leave it there
all day, forgotten friendship ?


#Ulysse cent-soixante-huit

22 juillet 2012



#Ulysse cent-soixante-neuf

23 juillet 2012


So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and
yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-dix

24 juillet 2012


In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s
gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-et-onze

25 juillet 2012


Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the
flagged floor from the high barbacans : and at the meeting of their rays a
cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-douze

26 juillet 2012


—We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will
you ?


#Ulysse cent-soixante-treize

27 juillet 2012


Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the
hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled
open the inner doors.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-quatorze

28 juillet 2012


—Have you the key ? a voice asked.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-quinze

29 juillet 2012


—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked !


#Ulysse cent-soixante-seize

30 juillet 2012


He howled, without looking up from the fire :
—Kinch !


#Ulysse cent-soixante-dix-sept

31 juillet 2012


—It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-dix-huit

1er août 2012


The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had
been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered.


#Ulysse cent-soixante-dix-neuf

2 août 2012


Haines stood at the
doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and
sat down to wait.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt

3 août 2012


Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him.
Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them
down heavily and sighed with relief.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-un

4 août 2012


—I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when… But, hush ! Not
a word more on that subject ! Kinch, wake up ! Bread, butter, honey.
Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts.
Where’s the sugar ? O, jay, there’s no milk.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-deux

5 août 2012


Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler
from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-trois

6 août 2012


—What sort of a kip is this ? he said. I told her to come after eight.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-quatre

7 août 2012


—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There’s a lemon in the
locker.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-cinq

8 août 2012


—O, damn you and your Paris fads ! Buck Mulligan said. I want
Sandycove milk.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-six

9 août 2012


Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly :
—That woman is coming up with the milk.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-sept

10 août 2012


—The blessings of God on you ! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from
his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I
can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-huit

11 août 2012


He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three
plates, saying :
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-neuf

12 août 2012


Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
—I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do
make strong tea, don’t you ?


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-dix

13 août 2012


Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old
woman’s wheedling voice :
—When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And
when I makes water I makes water.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-onze

14 août 2012


—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-douze

15 août 2012


Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling :
So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma’am, says Mrs Cahill, God send
you don’t make them in the one pot
.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-treize

16 août 2012


He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled
on his knife.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-quatorze

17 août 2012


—That’s folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines
of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum.
Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-quinze

18 août 2012


He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his
brows :
—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan’s tea and water pot
spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads ?


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-seize

19 août 2012


—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-dix-sept

20 août 2012


—Do you now ? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons,
pray ?


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-dix-huit

21 août 2012


—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the
Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary
Ann.


#Ulysse cent-quatre-vingt-dix-neuf

22 août 2012


Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.
—Charming ! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth
and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was ? Quite charming !


#Ulysse deux-cent

23 août 2012


Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a
hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf :

—For old Mary Ann
She doesn’t care a damn.
But, hising up her petticoats…


#Ulysse deux-cent-un

24 août 2012


He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.


#Ulysse deux-cent-deux

25 août 2012


The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
—The milk, sir !


#Ulysse deux-cent-trois

26 août 2012


—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre

27 août 2012


An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.
—That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinq

28 août 2012


—To whom ? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure !


#Ulysse deux-cent-six

29 août 2012


Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.


#Ulysse deux-cent-sept

30 août 2012


—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of
the collector of prepuces.


#Ulysse deux-cent-huit

31 août 2012


—How much, sir ? asked the old woman.


#Ulysse deux-cent-neuf

1er septembre 2012


—A quart, Stephen said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-dix

2 septembre 2012


He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich
white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps.


#Ulysse deux-cent-onze

3 septembre 2012


She poured again a measureful
and a tilly.


#Ulysse deux-cent-douze

4 septembre 2012


Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe
a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.


#Ulysse deux-cent-treize

5 septembre 2012


Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her
toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatorze

6 septembre 2012


They lowed
about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor
old woman, names given her in old times.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quinze

7 septembre 2012


A wandering crone, lowly
form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their
common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning.


#Ulysse deux-cent-seize

8 septembre 2012


To serve or to
upbraid, whether he could not tell : but scorned to beg her favour.


#Ulysse deux-cent-dix-sept

9 septembre 2012


—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their
cups.


#Ulysse deux-cent-dix-huit

10 septembre 2012


—Taste it, sir, she said.
He drank at her bidding.


#Ulysse deux-cent-dix-neuf

11 septembre 2012


—If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat
loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts.
Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with
dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt

12 septembre 2012


—Are you a medical student, sir ? the old woman asked.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-et-un

13 septembre 2012


—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-deux

14 septembre 2012


—Look at that now, she said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-trois

15 septembre 2012


Stephen listened in scornful silence.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-quatre

16 septembre 2012


She bows her old head to a voice
that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman : me she
slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of
her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in God’s likeness,
the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent
with wondering unsteady eyes.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-cinq

17 septembre 2012


—Do you understand what he says ? Stephen asked her.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-six

18 septembre 2012


—Is it French you are talking, sir ? the old woman said to Haines.
Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-sept

19 septembre 2012


—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-huit

20 septembre 2012


—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the
west, sir ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-vingt-neuf

21 septembre 2012


—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente

22 septembre 2012


—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak
Irish in Ireland.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-et-un

23 septembre 2012


—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t
speak the language myself. I’m told it’s a grand language by them that
knows.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-deux

24 septembre 2012


—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill
us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma’am ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-trois

25 septembre 2012


—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the
milkcan on her forearm and about to go.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-quatre

26 septembre 2012


Haines said to her :
—Have you your bill ? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-cinq

27 septembre 2012


Stephen filled again the three cups.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-six

28 septembre 2012


—Bill, sir ? she said, halting. Well, it’s seven mornings a pint at twopence
is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three
mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That’s a shilling
and one and two is two and two, sir.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-sept

29 septembre 2012


Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly
buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his
trouser pockets.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-huit

30 septembre 2012


—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.


#Ulysse deux-cent-trente-neuf

1er octobre 2012


Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick
rich milk.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante

2 octobre 2012


Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers
and cried :
—A miracle !


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-et-un

3 octobre 2012


He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying :
—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-deux

4 octobre 2012


Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.
—We’ll owe twopence, he said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-trois

5 octobre 2012


—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good
morning, sir.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-quatre

6 octobre 2012


She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan’s tender
chant :
—Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-cinq

7 octobre 2012


He turned to Stephen and said :
—Seriously, Dedalus. I’m stony. Hurry out to your school kip and
bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland
expects that every man this day will do his duty.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-six

8 octobre 2012


—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national
library today.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-sept

9 octobre 2012


—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.
He turned to Stephen and asked blandly :
—Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch ?
Then he said to Haines :
—The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-huit

10 octobre 2012


—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let
honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quarante-neuf

11 octobre 2012


Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the
loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke :
—I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante

12 octobre 2012


Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience.
Yet here’s a spot.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-et-un

13 octobre 2012


—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol
of Irish art is deuced good.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-deux

14 octobre 2012


Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen’s foot under the table and said with
warmth of tone :
—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-trois

15 octobre 2012


—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just
thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-quatre

16 octobre 2012


—Would I make any money by it ? Stephen asked.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-cinq

17 octobre 2012


Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of
the hammock, said :
—I don’t know, I’m sure.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-six

18 octobre 2012


He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen
and said with coarse vigour :
—You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-sept

19 octobre 2012


—Well ? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom ?
From the milkwoman or from him. It’s a toss up, I think.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-huit

20 octobre 2012


—I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come
along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.


#Ulysse deux-cent-cinquante-neuf

21 octobre 2012


—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante

22 octobre 2012


Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen’s arm.
—From me, Kinch, he said.
In a suddenly changed tone he added :
—To tell you the God’s truth I think you’re right. Damn all else they
are good for. Why don’t you play them as I do ? To hell with them all. Let
us get out of the kip.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-et-un

23 octobre 2012


He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying
resignedly :
—Mulligan is stripped of his garments.
He emptied his pockets on to the table.
—There’s your snotrag, he said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-deux

24 octobre 2012


And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,
chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and
rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God,
we’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green
boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself ? Very well then, I contradict
myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking
hands.
—And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-trois

25 octobre 2012


Stephen picked it up and put it on.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-quatre

26 octobre 2012


Haines called to them from the doorway :
—Are you coming, you fellows ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-cinq

27 octobre 2012


—I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come
out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-six

28 octobre 2012


Resigned he passed out
with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow :
—And going forth he met Butterly.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-sept

29 octobre 2012


Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out
and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and
locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-huit

30 octobre 2012


At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked :
—Did you bring the key ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-neuf

31 octobre 2012


—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-dix

1er novembre 2012


He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his
heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.
—Down, sir ! How dare you, sir !


#Ulysse trois-cent-un

2 novembre 2012


—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-et-onze

2 novembre 2012


Haines asked :
—Do you pay rent for this tower ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-douze

3 novembre 2012


—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-treize

4 novembre 2012


—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-quatorze

5 novembre 2012


They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last :
—Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-quinze

6 novembre 2012


—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were
on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-seize

7 novembre 2012


—What is your idea of Hamlet ? Haines asked Stephen.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-dix-sept

8 novembre 2012


—No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I’m not equal to Thomas
Aquinas and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till
I have a few pints in me first.


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-dix-huit

9 novembre 2012


He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of
his primrose waistcoat :
—You couldn’t manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-soixante-dix-neuf

10 novembre 2012


—It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt

11 novembre 2012


—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-un

12 novembre 2012


—Pooh ! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.
It’s quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is
Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own
father.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-deux

13 novembre 2012


—What ? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-trois

14 novembre 2012


Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending
in loose laughter, said to Stephen’s ear :
—O, shade of Kinch the elder ! Japhet in search of a father !


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-quatre

15 novembre 2012


We’re always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is
rather long to tell.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-cinq

16 novembre 2012


Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.
—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-six

17 novembre 2012


—I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this
tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles
o’er his base into the sea
, isn’t it ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-sept

18 novembre 2012


Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but
did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in
cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-huit

19 novembre 2012


—It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-neuf

20 novembre 2012


Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.
The seas’ ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the
smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail tacking
by the Muglins.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-dix

21 novembre 2012


—I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.
The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the
Father.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-onze

22 novembre 2012


Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked
at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he
had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-douze

23 novembre 2012


He
moved a doll’s head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering,
and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice :

—I’m the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.
My mother’s a jew, my father’s a bird.
With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree.
So here’s to disciples and Calvary.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-treize

24 novembre 2012



#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-quatorze

25 novembre 2012



#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-quinze

26 novembre 2012


He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering
his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury’s hat quivering in the fresh
wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-seize

27 novembre 2012


Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen
and said :
—We oughtn’t to laugh, I suppose. He’s rather blasphemous. I’m not a
believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it
somehow, doesn’t it ? What did he call it ? Joseph the Joiner ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-dix-sept

28 novembre 2012


—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-dix-huit

29 novembre 2012


—O, Haines said, you have heard it before ?


#Ulysse deux-cent-quatre-vingt-dix-neuf

30 novembre 2012


—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.


#Ulysse trois cents

1er décembre 2012


—You’re not a believer, are you ? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in
the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a
personal God.


#Ulysse trois-cent-un

2 décembre 2012


—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.


#Ulysse trois-cent-deux

3 décembre 2012


Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a
green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trois

4 décembre 2012


—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quatre

5 décembre 2012


Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his
sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang
it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards
Stephen in the shell of his hands.


#Ulysse trois-cent-cinq

6 décembre 2012


—Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or
you don’t, isn’t it ? Personally I couldn’t stomach that idea of a personal
God. You don’t stand for that, I suppose ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-six

7 décembre 2012


—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.


#Ulysse trois-cent-sept

8 décembre 2012


He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his
side.


#Ulysse trois-cent-huit

9 décembre 2012


Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My
familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen ! A wavering line along
the path.


#Ulysse trois-cent-neuf

10 décembre 2012


They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants
that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the
key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.


#Ulysse trois-cent-dix

11 décembre 2012


— After all, Haines began…


#Ulysse trois-cent-onze

12 décembre 2012


Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him
was not all unkind.


#Ulysse trois-cent-douze

13 décembre 2012


—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your
own master, it seems to me.


#Ulysse trois-cent-treize

14 décembre 2012


—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an
Italian.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quatorze

15 décembre 2012


—Italian ? Haines said.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quinze

16 décembre 2012


A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.


#Ulysse trois-cent-seize

17 décembre 2012


—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.


#Ulysse trois-cent-dix-sept

18 décembre 2012


—Italian ? Haines said again. What do you mean ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-dix-huit

19 décembre 2012


—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and
the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.


#Ulysse trois-cent-dix-neuf

20 décembre 2012


Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he
spoke.
— I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think
like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather
unfairly. It seems history is to blame.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt

21 décembre 2012


The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen’s memory the triumph of
their brazen bells : et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam : the
slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a
chemistry of stars.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-et-un

22 décembre 2012


Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus,
the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation : and behind
their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed and menaced
her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry : Photius
and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, and Arius,
warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the Father,
and Valentine, spurning Christ’s terrene body, and the subtle African
heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-deux

23 décembre 2012


Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger.
Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind : a
menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the
church, Michael’s host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with
their lances and their shields.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-trois

24 décembre 2012


Hear, hear ! Prolonged applause. Zut ! Nom de Dieu !


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-quatre

25 décembre 2012


—Of course I’m a Britisher, Haines’s voice said, and I feel as one. I
don’t want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That’s our national problem, I’m afraid, just now.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-cinq

26 décembre 2012


Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching : businessman, boatman.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-six

27 décembre 2012


—She’s making for Bullock harbour.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-sept

28 décembre 2012


The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.
— There’s five fathoms out there, he said. It’ll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. It’s nine days today.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-huit

29 décembre 2012


The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am.


#Ulysse trois-cent-vingt-neuf

30 décembre 2012


They followed the winding path down to the creek.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente

31 décembre 2012


Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.
— Is the brother with you, Malachi ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-et-un

1er janvier 2013


—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-deux

2 janvier 2013


—Still there ? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-trois

3 janvier 2013


—Snapshot, eh ? Brief exposure.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-quatre

4 janvier 2013


Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-cinq

5 janvier 2013


An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-six

6 janvier 2013


Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-sept

7 janvier 2013


—Seymour’s back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-huit

8 janvier 2013


—Ah, go to God ! Buck Mulligan said.


#Ulysse trois-cent-trente-neuf

9 janvier 2013


—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante

10 janvier 2013


—Yes.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-et-un

11 janvier 2013


—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with money.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-deux

12 janvier 2013


—Is she up the pole ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-trois

13 janvier 2013


—Better ask Seymour that.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-quatre

14 janvier 2013


—Seymour a bleeding officer ! Buck Mulligan said.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-cinq

15 janvier 2013


He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely :
— Redheaded women buck like goats.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-six

16 janvier 2013


He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.
— My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I’m the Uebermensch. Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-sept

17 janvier 2013


He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay.


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-huit

18 janvier 2013


—Are you going in here, Malachi ?


#Ulysse trois-cent-quarante-neuf

19 janvier 2013


—Yes. Make room in the bed.


#Ulysse trois-cent-cinquante

20 janvier 2013


The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes.


#Ulysse ailleurs

20 janvier 2013




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