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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.
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.
7 février 2012
A yellow dressinggown,ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air.
8 février 2012
He held the bowl aloft and intoned :
— Introibo ad altare Dei.
9 février 2012
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely :
— Come up, Kinch ! Come up, you fearful jesuit !
10 février 2012
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest.
11 février 2012
He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains.
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.
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.
14 février 2012
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.
—Back to barracks ! he said sternly.
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.
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.
17 février 2012
Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
18 février 2012
—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you ?
19 février 2012
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown.
20 février 2012
The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.
21 février 2012
A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.
22 février 2012
—The mockery of it ! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek !
23 février 2012
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself.
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.
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 ?
26 février 2012
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried :
—Will he come ? The jejune jesuit !
27 février 2012
Ceasing, he began to shave with care.
28 février 2012
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
29 février 2012
—Yes, my love ?
1er mars 2012
—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower ?
2 mars 2012
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.
3 mars 2012
—God, isn’t he dreadful ? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon.
4 mars 2012
He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English ! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford.
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.
6 mars 2012
He shaved warily over his chin.
7 mars 2012
—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase ?
8 mars 2012
—A woful lunatic ! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk ?
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.
10 mars 2012
You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.
11 mars 2012
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade.
12 mars 2012
He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.
13 mars 2012
—Scutter ! he cried thickly.
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.
15 mars 2012
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief.
16 mars 2012
Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.
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 ?
18 mars 2012
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
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.
20 mars 2012
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet.
21 mars 2012
Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown.
22 mars 2012
—Our mighty mother ! Buck Mulligan said.
23 mars 2012
He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’s face.
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.
25 mars 2012
—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
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…
27 mars 2012
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek.
28 mars 2012
A tolerant smile curled his lips.
29 mars 2012
—But a lovely mummer ! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all !
30 mars 2012
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
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.
1er avril 2012
Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.
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.
3 avril 2012
Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.
4 avril 2012
The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid.
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.
6 avril 2012
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
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 ?
8 avril 2012
—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
9 avril 2012
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
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.
11 avril 2012
—Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.
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.
13 avril 2012
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.
14 avril 2012
Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.
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 !
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.
17 avril 2012
His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth.
18 avril 2012
Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.
19 avril 2012
—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard !
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.
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.
22 avril 2012
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.
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 !
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.
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.
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.
27 avril 2012
Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steelpen.
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.
29 avril 2012
Cranly’s arm. His arm.
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.
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 !
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 !
3 mai 2012
Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle.
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.
5 mai 2012
To ourselves… new paganism… omphalos.
6 mai 2012
—Let him stay, Stephen said. There’s nothing wrong with him except at night.
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 ?
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.
9 mai 2012
Stephen freed his arm quietly.
10 mai 2012
—Do you wish me to tell you ? he asked.
11 mai 2012
— Yes, what is it ? Buck Mulligan answered. I don’t remember anything.
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.
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 ?
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 ?
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.
16 mai 2012
—Yes ? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say ? I forget.
17 mai 2012
—You said, Stephen answered, O, it’s only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
18 mai 2012
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan’s cheek.
19 mai 2012
20 mai 2012
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
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.
22 mai 2012
He had spoken himself into boldness.
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.
24 mai 2012
—Of what then ? Buck Mulligan asked.
25 mai 2012
—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.
26 mai 2012
Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.
27 mai 2012
—O, an impossible person ! he exclaimed.
28 mai 2012
He walked off quickly round the parapet.
29 mai 2012
Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland.
30 mai 2012
Sea and headland now grew dim.
31 mai 2012
Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks.
1er juin 2012
A voice within the tower called loudly :
—Are you up there, Mulligan ?
2 juin 2012
—I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
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.
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.
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.
6 juin 2012
Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed.
7 juin 2012
Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet.
8 juin 2012
White breast of the dim sea.
9 juin 2012
The twining stresses, two by two.
10 juin 2012
A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords.
11 juin 2012
Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.
12 juin 2012
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green.
13 juin 2012
It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters.
14 juin 2012
Fergus’ song : I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords.
15 juin 2012
Her door was open : she wanted to hear my music.
16 juin 2012
Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside.
17 juin 2012
She was crying in her wretched bed.
18 juin 2012
For those words, Stephen : love’s bitter mystery.
19 juin 2012
Where now ?
20 juin 2012
Her secrets : old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer.
21 juin 2012
A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl.
22 juin 2012
She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang :
23 juin 2012
Phantasmal mirth, folded away : muskperfumed.
24 juin 2012
And no more turn aside and brood.
25 juin 2012
Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain.
26 juin 2012
Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament.
27 juin 2012
A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening.
28 juin 2012
Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’s shirts.
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 ash
30 juin 2012
Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul.
1er juillet 2012
On me alone.
2 juillet 2012
The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face.
3 juillet 2012
Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees.
4 juillet 2012
Her eyes on me to strike me down.
5 juillet 2012
Liliata rutilantium te confessorum
turma circumdet : iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.
6 juillet 2012
Ghoul ! Chewer of corpses !
7 juillet 2012
No, mother ! Let me be and let me live.
8 juillet 2012
—Kinch ahoy !
9 juillet 2012
Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again.
10 juillet 2012
Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
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.
12 juillet 2012
—I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.
13 juillet 2012
—Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.
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.
15 juillet 2012
—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.
16 juillet 2012
—The school kip ? Buck Mulligan said. How much ? Four quid ? Lend us one.
17 juillet 2012
—If you want it, Stephen said.
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.
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 !
Coronation day !
O, won’t we have a merry time
On coronation day !
20 juillet 2012
Warm sunshine merrying over the sea.
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 ?
22 juillet 2012
He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.
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.
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.
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.
26 juillet 2012
—We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you ?
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.
28 juillet 2012
—Have you the key ? a voice asked.
29 juillet 2012
—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked !
30 juillet 2012
He howled, without looking up from the fire :
31 juillet 2012
—It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.
1er août 2012
The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered.
2 août 2012
Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait.
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.
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.
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.
6 août 2012
—What sort of a kip is this ? he said. I told her to come after eight.
8 août 2012
—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There’s a lemon in the locker.
8 août 2012
—O, damn you and your Paris fads ! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk.
9 août 2012
Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly :
—That woman is coming up with the milk.
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.
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.
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 ?
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.
14 août 2012
—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
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.
16 août 2012
He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.
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.
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 ?
19 août 2012
—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.
20 août 2012
—Do you now ? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray ?
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.
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 !
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…
24 août 2012
He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.
25 août 2012
The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
—The milk, sir !
26 août 2012
—Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.
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.
28 août 2012
—To whom ? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure !
29 août 2012
Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.
30 août 2012
—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.
31 août 2012
—How much, sir ? asked the old woman.
1er septembre 2012
—A quart, Stephen said.
2 septembre 2012
He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps.
3 septembre 2012
She poured again a measureful and a tilly.
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.
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.
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.
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.
8 septembre 2012
To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell : but scorned to beg her favour.
9 septembre 2012
—It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.
10 septembre 2012
—Taste it, sir, she said.
He drank at her bidding.
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.
12 septembre 2012
—Are you a medical student, sir ? the old woman asked.
13 septembre 2012
—I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.
14 septembre 2012
—Look at that now, she said.
15 septembre 2012
Stephen listened in scornful silence.
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.
17 septembre 2012
—Do you understand what he says ? Stephen asked her.
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.
19 septembre 2012
—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you ?
20 septembre 2012
—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir ?
21 septembre 2012
—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.
22 septembre 2012
—He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.
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.
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 ?
25 septembre 2012
—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm and about to go.
26 septembre 2012
Haines said to her :
—Have you your bill ? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn’t we ?
27 septembre 2012
Stephen filled again the three cups.
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.
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.
30 septembre 2012
—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.
1er octobre 2012
Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk.
2 octobre 2012
Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried :
—A miracle !
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.
4 octobre 2012
Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.
—We’ll owe twopence, he said.
5 octobre 2012
—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir.
7 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.
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.
8 octobre 2012
—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today.
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.
10 octobre 2012
—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.
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.
12 octobre 2012
Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here’s a spot.
13 octobre 2012
—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.
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.
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.
16 octobre 2012
—Would I make any money by it ? Stephen asked.
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.
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 ?
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.
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.
21 octobre 2012
—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.
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.
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.
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.
25 octobre 2012
Stephen picked it up and put it on.
26 octobre 2012
Haines called to them from the doorway :
—Are you coming, you fellows ?
27 octobre 2012
—I’m ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose.
28 octobre 2012
Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow :
—And going forth he met Butterly.
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.
30 octobre 2012
At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked :
—Did you bring the key ?
31 octobre 2012
—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.
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 !
2 novembre 2012
—Do you pay rent for this tower ?
3 novembre 2012
—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.
4 novembre 2012
—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.
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 ?
6 novembre 2012
—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos.
7 novembre 2012
—What is your idea of Hamlet ? Haines asked Stephen.
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.
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 ?
10 novembre 2012
—It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.
11 novembre 2012
—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox ?
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.
13 novembre 2012
—What ? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself ?
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 !
15 novembre 2012
We’re always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell.
16 novembre 2012
Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.
—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.
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 ?
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.
19 novembre 2012
—It’s a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.
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.
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.
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.
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.
24 novembre 2012
He held up a forefinger of warning.
—If anyone thinks that I amn’t divine
He’ll get no free drinks when I’m making the wine
But have to drink water and wish it were plain
That i make when the wine becomes water again.
25 novembre 2012
He tugged swiftly at Stephen’s ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted :
—Goodbye, now, goodbye ! Write down all I said
And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.
What’s bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly
And Olivet’s breezy… Goodbye, now, goodbye !
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.
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 ?
28 novembre 2012
—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
29 novembre 2012
—O, Haines said, you have heard it before ?
30 novembre 2012
—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
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.
2 décembre 2012
—There’s only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.
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.
4 décembre 2012
—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
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.
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 ?
7 décembre 2012
—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
8 décembre 2012
He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side.
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.
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.
11 décembre 2012
—After all, Haines began…
12 décembre 2012
Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.
13 décembre 2012
—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me.
14 décembre 2012
—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.
15 décembre 2012
—Italian ? Haines said.
16 décembre 2012
A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.
17 décembre 2012
—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.
18 décembre 2012
—Italian ? Haines said again. What do you mean ?
19 décembre 2012
—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.
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.
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.
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.
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.
24 décembre 2012
Hear, hear ! Prolonged applause. Zut ! Nom de Dieu !
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.
26 décembre 2012
Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching : businessman, boatman.
27 décembre 2012
—She’s making for Bullock harbour.
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.
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.
30 décembre 2012
They followed the winding path down to the creek.
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 ?
1er janvier 2013
—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.
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.
3 janvier 2013
—Snapshot, eh ? Brief exposure.
4 janvier 2013
Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots.
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.
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.
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.
8 janvier 2013
—Ah, go to God ! Buck Mulligan said.
9 janvier 2013
—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily ?
10 janvier 2013
11 janvier 2013
—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with money.
12 janvier 2013
—Is she up the pole ?
13 janvier 2013
—Better ask Seymour that.
14 janvier 2013
—Seymour a bleeding officer ! Buck Mulligan said.
15 janvier 2013
He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely :
— Redheaded women buck like goats.
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.
17 janvier 2013
Il se débarrasse du T-Shirt
qu’il balance derrière lui où ses autres fringues sont.
18 janvier 2013
—Are you going in here, Malachi ?
19 janvier 2013
—Yes. Make room in the bed.
20 janvier 2013
The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes.
21 janvier 2013
Haines sat down on a stone, smoking.
22 janvier 2013
—Are you not coming in ? Buck Mulligan asked.
23 janvier 2013
—Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.
24 janvier 2013
Stephen turned away.
— I’m going, Mulligan, he said.
25 janvier 2013
—Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise
26 janvier 2013
Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.
— And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.
27 janvier 2013
Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing.
28 janvier 2013
Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly :
— He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra.
29 janvier 2013
His plump body plunged.
30 janvier 2013
—We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish. Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
31 janvier 2013
—The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
1er février 2013
—Good, Stephen said.
2 février 2013
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
3 février 2013
Iubilantium te virginum.
The priest’s grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.
4 février 2013
A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a seal’s, far out on the water, round. Usurper.
5 février 2013
—You, Cochrane, what city sent for him ?
6 février 2013
7 février 2013
—Very good. Well ?
8 février 2013
—There was a battle, sir.
9 février 2013
—Very good. Where ?
10 février 2013
The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.
11 février 2013
Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then ?
12 février 2013
—I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.
13 février 2013
—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book.
14 février 2013
—Yes, sir. And he said : Another victory like that and we are done for.
15 février 2013
That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.
16 février 2013
—You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus ?
17 février 2013
—End of Pyrrhus, sir ?
18 février 2013
—I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.
19 février 2013
—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus ?
20 février 2013
A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.
21 février 2013
—Pyrrhus, sir ? Pyrrhus, a pier.
22 février 2013
All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.
23 février 2013
—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s shoulder with the book, what is a pier.
24 février 2013
—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.
25 février 2013
Some laughed again : mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. They knew : had never learned nor ever been innocent. All.
26 février 2013
—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.
27 février 2013
The words troubled their gaze.
— How, sir ? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.
28 février 2013
For Haines’s chapbook. No-one here to hear.
1er mars 2013
Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then ? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master’s praise. Why had they chosen all that part ? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.
2 mars 2013
Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam’s hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were ? Or was that only possible which came to pass ? Weave, weaver of the wind.
3 mars 2013
—Tell us a story, sir.
4 mars 2013
—O, do, sir. A ghoststory.
5 mars 2013
—Where do you begin in this ? Stephen asked, opening another book.
6 mars 2013
—Weep no more, Comyn said.
7 mars 2013
—Go on then, Talbot.
8 mars 2013
—And the story, sir ?
9 mars 2013
—After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.
10 mars 2013
A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text :
—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor…
11 mars 2013
It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night.
12 mars 2013
By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy.
13 mars 2013
Fed and feeding brains about me : under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers : and in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.
14 mars 2013
Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is : the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent : form of forms.
15 mars 2013
Talbot repeated :
—Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Through the dear might…
16 mars 2013
—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.
17 mars 2013
—What, sir ? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
18 mars 2013
His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves.
19 mars 2013
Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and on mine.
20 mars 2013
21 mars 2013
To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church’s looms. Ay.
22 mars 2013
Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
My father gave me seeds to sow.
23 mars 2013
Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.
24 mars 2013
—Have I heard all ? Stephen asked.
25 mars 2013
—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.
26 mars 2013
—Half day, sir. Thursday.
27 mars 2013
—Who can answer a riddle ? Stephen asked.
28 mars 2013
They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily :
— A riddle, sir ? Ask me, sir.
29 mars 2013
—O, ask me, sir.
30 mars 2013
—A hard one, sir.
31 mars 2013
—This is the riddle, Stephen said :
The cock crew,
The sky was blue :
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
’Tis time for this poor soul
To go to heaven.
What is that ?
1er avril 2013
—What, sir ?
2 avril 2013
—Again, sir. We didn’t hear.
3 avril 2013
Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said :
— What is it, sir ? We give it up.
4 avril 2013
Stephen, his throat itching, answered :
— The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.
5 avril 2013
He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay.
6 avril 2013
A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called :
— Hockey !
7 avril 2013
They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them.
8 avril 2013
Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues.
9 avril 2013
Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail’s bed.
10 avril 2013
He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline.
11 avril 2013
Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent : his name and seal.
12 avril 2013
—Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show
them to you, sir.
13 avril 2013
Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
— Do you understand how to do them now ? he asked.
14 avril 2013
—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was
to copy them off the board, sir.
15 avril 2013
—Can you do them yourself ? Stephen asked.
16 avril 2013
17 avril 2013
Ugly and futile : lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed.
18 avril 2013
Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own.
19 avril 2013
Was that then real ? The only true thing in life ? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.
20 avril 2013
She was no more : the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been.
21 avril 2013
A poor soul gone to heaven : and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.
22 avril 2013
Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s grandfather.
23 avril 2013
Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses.
24 avril 2013
Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom : the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.
25 avril 2013
Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner : so : imps of fancy of the Moors.
26 avril 2013
Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
27 avril 2013
—Do you understand now ? Can you work the second for yourself ?
28 avril 2013
29 avril 2013
In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data.
30 avril 2013
Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris : subjective and objective genitive.
1er mai 2013
With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.
2 mai 2013
Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood
bends beside me.
3 mai 2013
Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes.
4 mai 2013
Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts : secrets weary of their tyranny : tyrants, willing to be dethroned.
5 mai 2013
The sum was done.
6 mai 2013
—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.
7 mai 2013
—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
8 mai 2013
He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench.
9 mai 2013
—You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.
10 mai 2013
11 mai 2013
In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.
— Sargent !
12 mai 2013
—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.
13 mai 2013
He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.
14 mai 2013
They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.
15 mai 2013
When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.
— What is it now ? he cried continually without listening.
16 mai 2013
—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.
17 mai 2013
—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore
18 mai 2013
And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man’s voice cried sternly :
— What is the matter ? What is it now ?
19 mai 2013
Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides : their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.
20 mai 2013
Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is now.
21 mai 2013
On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog : and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles : world without end.
22 mai 2013
A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.
— First, our little financial settlement, he said.
23 mai 2013
He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table.
24 mai 2013
—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.
25 mai 2013
And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar : whelks and money cowries and leopard shells : and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, and this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.
26 mai 2013
A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.
27 mai 2013
—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.
28 mai 2013
He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.
— Three twelve, he said. I think you’ll find that’s right.
29 mai 2013
—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.
30 mai 2013
—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.
31 mai 2013
Stephen’s hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket : symbols soiled by greed and misery.
1er juin 2013
—Don’t carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You’ll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You’ll find them very handy.
2 juin 2013
— Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.
3 juin 2013
The same room and hour, the same wisdom : and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. Well ? I can break them in this instant if I will.
4 juin 2013
—Because you don’t save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don’t know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say ? Put but money in thy purse.
5 juin 2013
—Iago, Stephen murmured.
6 juin 2013
He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man’s stare.
7 juin 2013
—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English ? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman’s mouth ?
8 juin 2013
The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay : it seems history is to blame : on me and on my words, unhating.
9 juin 2013
—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.
10 juin 2013
—Ba ! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
11 juin 2013
—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.
12 juin 2013
Good man, good man.
13 juin 2013
—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that ? I owe nothing. Can you ?
14 juin 2013
Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.
15 juin 2013
—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
16 juin 2013
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
— I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
17 juin 2013
—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
18 juin 2013
Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs : Albert Edward, prince of Wales.
19 juin 2013
—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O’Connell’s time. I remember the famine in ’46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O’Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue ? You fenians forget some things.
20 juin 2013
Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters’ covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.
21 juin 2013
Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
22 juin 2013
—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings’ sons.
23 juin 2013
—Alas, Stephen said.
24 juin 2013
—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.
Lal the ral the ra
The rocky road to Dublin.
25 juin 2013
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John ! Soft day, your honour !… Day !… Day !… Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.
26 juin 2013
—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
27 juin 2013
He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
28 juin 2013
—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common
sense. Just a moment.
29 juin 2013
He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
30 juin 2013
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence.
1er juillet 2013
Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air : lord Hastings’ Repulse, the duke of Westminster’s Shotover, the duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866.
2 juillet 2013
Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king’s colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.
3 juillet 2013
—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question…
4 juillet 2013
Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel ! Fair Rebel ! Even money the favourite : ten to one the field.
5 juillet 2013
Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
6 juillet 2013
Shouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a whirring whistle.
7 juillet 2013
Again : a goal.
8 juillet 2013
I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life.
9 juillet 2013
You mean that knockkneed mother’s darling who seems to be slightly crawsick ? Jousts.
10 juillet 2013
Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
11 juillet 2013
Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied guts.
12 juillet 2013
—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
13 juillet 2013
He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.
14 juillet 2013
—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It’s about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.
15 juillet 2013
May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
16 juillet 2013
—I don’t mince words, do I ? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.
17 juillet 2013
Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
18 juillet 2013
—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I’m going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by… intrigues by… backstairs influence by…
19 juillet 2013
He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.
20 juillet 2013
—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places : her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation’s decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation’s vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.
21 juillet 2013
He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.
22 juillet 2013
—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.
23 juillet 2013
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s windingsheet.
24 juillet 2013
His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.
25 juillet 2013
—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not ?
26 juillet 2013
—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day.
27 juillet 2013
On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese.
28 juillet 2013
They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs : these clothes, this speech, these gestures.
29 juillet 2013
Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all.
30 juillet 2013
A hoard heaped by the roadside : plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
31 juillet 2013
—Who has not ? Stephen said.
1er août 2013
—What do you mean ? Mr Deasy asked.
2 août 2013
He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom ? He waits to hear from me.
3 août 2013
—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
4 août 2013
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle : goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick ?
5 août 2013
—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
6 août 2013
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying :
— That is God.
7 août 2013
Hooray ! Ay ! Whrrwhee !
8 août 2013
—What ? Mr Deasy asked.
9 août 2013
—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
10 août 2013
Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.
11 août 2013
—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s wife and her leman, O’Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.
For Ulster will fight
And Ulster will be right.
12 août 2013
Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
— Well, sir, he began…
13 août 2013
—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.
14 août 2013
—A learner rather, Stephen said.
15 août 2013
And here what will you learn more ?
16 août 2013
Mr Deasy shook his head.
— Who knows ? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.
17 août 2013
Stephen rustled the sheets again.
— As regards these, he began.
18 août 2013
—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once.
Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
19 août 2013
—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly.
20 août 2013
—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at the City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they ?
21 août 2013
—The Evening Telegraph…
22 août 2013
—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.
23 août 2013
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you.
24 août 2013
—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
25 août 2013
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
26 août 2013
He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.
27 août 2013
The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate : toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name : the bullockbefriending bard.
28 août 2013
—Mr Dedalus !
Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
29 août 2013
—Just one moment.
30 août 2013
—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
31 août 2013
Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
— I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that ? No. And do you know why ?
1er septembre 2013
He frowned sternly on the bright air.
2 septembre 2013
—Why, sir ? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
3 septembre 2013
—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
4 septembre 2013
A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.
5 septembre 2013
—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That’s why.
6 septembre 2013
On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
7 septembre 2013
Ineluctable modality of the visible : at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.
8 septembre 2013
Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust : coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds : in bodies.
9 septembre 2013
Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How ? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy.
10 septembre 2013
Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in ? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
11 septembre 2013
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time.
12 septembre 2013
A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six :
the nacheinander. Exactly : and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible.
13 septembre 2013
Open your eyes. No. Jesus ! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o’er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably !
14 septembre 2013
I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it : they do.
15 septembre 2013
My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid : made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.
16 septembre 2013
Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand ?
17 septembre 2013
Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a’. Won’t you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare ?
18 septembre 2013
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.
No, agallop : deline the mare.
19 septembre 2013
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since ? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta ! I will see if I can see.
20 septembre 2013
See now. There all the time without you : and ever shall be, world without end.
21 septembre 2013
They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer : and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand.
22 septembre 2013
Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother.
23 septembre 2013
Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’s gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day.
24 septembre 2013
Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street.
25 septembre 2013
One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag ?
26 septembre 2013
A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh.
27 septembre 2013
That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods ? Gaze in your omphalos.
28 septembre 2013
Hello ! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha : nought, nought, one
29 septembre 2013
Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon : Heva, naked Eve.
30 septembre 2013
She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.
1er octobre 2013
Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.
2 octobre 2013
By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath.
3 octobre 2013
They clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before the ages.
4 octobre 2013
He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays about Him.
5 octobre 2013
Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial ?
6 octobre 2013
Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions ? Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality.
7 octobre 2013
Illstarred heresiarch’. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last : euthanasia.
8 octobre 2013
With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.
9 octobre 2013
Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.
10 octobre 2013
I mustn’t forget his letter for the press. And after ? The Ship, half twelve.
11 octobre 2013
By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must.
12 octobre 2013
His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara’s or not ?
13 octobre 2013
My consubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately ? No ? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally ? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh ?
14 octobre 2013
And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si ? O, weeping God, the things I married into !
15 octobre 2013
De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers ! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less ! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept : and no wonder, by Christ !
16 octobre 2013
I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage : and wait.
17 octobre 2013
They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.
18 octobre 2013
—It’s Stephen, sir.
19 octobre 2013
—Let him in. Let Stephen in.
20 octobre 2013
A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.
— We thought you were someone else.
21 octobre 2013
In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.
— Morrow, nephew.
22 octobre 2013
He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum.
23 octobre 2013
A bogoak frame over his bald head : Wilde’s Requiescat.
24 octobre 2013
The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.
— Yes, sir ?
25 octobre 2013
—Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she ?
26 octobre 2013
—Bathing Crissie, sir.
27 octobre 2013
Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.
28 octobre 2013
29 octobre 2013
—Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky !
30 octobre 2013
—Uncle Richie, really…
31 octobre 2013
—Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.
1er novembre 2013
Walter squints vainly for a chair.
— He has nothing to sit down on, sir.
2 novembre 2013
—He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something ? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring ? Sure ? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills. All’erta !.
3 novembre 2013
He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria di sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.
4 novembre 2013
His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.
5 novembre 2013
This wind is sweeter.
6 novembre 2013
Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen.
7 novembre 2013
Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas.
8 novembre 2013
For whom ? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close.
9 novembre 2013
A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars.
10 novembre 2013
Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws.
11 novembre 2013
Abbas father,— furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains ? Paff ! Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris.
12 novembre 2013
A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende !), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll !
13 novembre 2013
A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.
14 novembre 2013
And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
15 novembre 2013
Dringdring ! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
16 novembre 2013
Dringadring ! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek.
17 novembre 2013
Dringdring ! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor.
18 novembre 2013
A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain.
19 novembre 2013
Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.
20 novembre 2013
Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints.
21 novembre 2013
You were awfully holy, weren’t you ? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose.
22 novembre 2013
You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo !
23 novembre 2013
Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still !!
24 novembre 2013
On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain : Naked women ! naked women ! What about that, eh ?
25 novembre 2013
What about what ? What else were they invented for ?
26 novembre 2013
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh ? I was young.
27 novembre 2013
You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot ! Hray !
28 novembre 2013
No-one saw : tell no-one.
29 novembre 2013
Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F ? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W.
30 novembre 2013
Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria ?
1er décembre 2013
Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale.
2 décembre 2013
When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…
3 décembre 2013
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet.
4 décembre 2013
His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.
5 décembre 2013
Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man’s ashes.
6 décembre 2013
He coasted them, walking warily.
7 décembre 2013
A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel : isle of dreadful thirst.
8 décembre 2013
Broken hoops on the shore ; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets ; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.
9 décembre 2013
Ringsend : wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
10 décembre 2013
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there ? Seems not.
11 décembre 2013
No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.
—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position ?
— C’est le pigeon, Joseph.
12 décembre 2013
Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris.
13 décembre 2013
My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin.
14 décembre 2013
He hopes to win in the gros lots.
15 décembre 2013
About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
—C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en
’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon père.
— Il croit ?
— Mon père, oui.
Schluss. He laps.
16 décembre 2013
My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves.
17 décembre 2013
You were a student, weren’t you ? Of what in the other devil’s name ? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know : physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha.
18 décembre 2013
Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone : when I was in Paris ; boul’ Mich’, I used to.
19 décembre 2013
Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice.
20 décembre 2013
On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it : other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c’est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.
21 décembre 2013
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like ? Forget : a disposssed.
22 décembre 2013
With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache.
23 décembre 2013
Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Ferme. Hired dog !
24 décembre 2013
Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back.
25 décembre 2013
Not hurt ? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see ? O, that’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.
26 décembre 2013
You were going to do wonders, what ? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus.
27 décembre 2013
Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing : Euge ! Euge !
28 décembre 2013
Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment ? Rich booty you brought back ; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge ; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show :
— Nother dying come home father.
29 décembre 2013
The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That’s why she won’t.
Then here’s a health to Mulligan’s aunt
And I’ll tell you the reason why.
She always kept things decent in
The Hannigan famileye.
30 décembre 2013
His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls.
31 décembre 2013
Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.
1er janvier 2014
Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets.
2 janvier 2014
Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.
3 janvier 2014
Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.
4 janvier 2014
In Rodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton.
5 janvier 2014
Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.
6 janvier 2014
Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer’s ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white.
7 janvier 2014
About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier !
8 janvier 2014
A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais ? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui !
9 janvier 2014
She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word ? Postprandial.
10 janvier 2014
There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial.
11 janvier 2014
Well : slainte ! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges.
12 janvier 2014
His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fang thrusting between his lips.
13 janvier 2014
Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men.
14 janvier 2014
To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’re your father’s son. I know the voice.
15 janvier 2014
His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets.
16 janvier 2014
M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria ? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes.
17 janvier 2014
Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died ? Licentious men.
18 janvier 2014
The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who rubs male
nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, Tous les messieurs.
Not this Monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom.
19 janvier 2014
Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing.
20 janvier 2014
Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.
21 janvier 2014
The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear.
22 janvier 2014
Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire : a flame and acrid smoke light our corner.
23 janvier 2014
Raw facebones under his peep of day boy’s hat.
24 janvier 2014
How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.
25 janvier 2014
Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you.
26 janvier 2014
I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith.
27 janvier 2014
Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog.
28 janvier 2014
Shattered glass and toppling masonry.
29 janvier 2014
In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me.
30 janvier 2014
Making his day’s stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone.
31 janvier 2014
Loveless, landless, wifeless.
1er février 2014
She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers.
2 février 2014
Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and undespairing.
3 février 2014
Tell Pat you saw me, won’t you ? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay ? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny : saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.
O, O THE BOYS OF
4 février 2014
Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.
5 février 2014
He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.
6 février 2014
The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness.
7 février 2014
Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I ?
8 février 2014
He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back.
9 février 2014
Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets.
10 février 2014
The cold domed room of the tower waits.
11 février 2014
Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor.
12 février 2014
Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night.
13 février 2014
In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it ? He has the key.
14 février 2014
I will not sleep there when this night comes.
15 février 2014
A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call : no answer.
16 février 2014
He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders.
17 février 2014
Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms.
18 février 2014
So in the moon’s midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore’s tempting flood.
19 février 2014
The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here.
20 février 2014
Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there.
21 février 2014
He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.
22 février 2014
A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot called Gautier’s prose.
23 février 2014
These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.
24 février 2014
Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout’s toys. Mind you don’t get one bang on the ear. I’m the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.
25 février 2014
A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.
26 février 2014
Lord, is he going to attack me ? Respect his liberty.
27 février 2014
You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight.
28 février 2014
From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries.
1er mars 2014
They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who ?
2 mars 2014
Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf.
3 mars 2014
Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold.
4 mars 2014
A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows.
5 mars 2014
Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers’ knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters.
6 mars 2014
Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves.
7 mars 2014
I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one : none to me.
8 mars 2014
I spoke to no-one : none to me.
9 mars 2014
The dog’s bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy.
10 mars 2014
I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans.
11 mars 2014
A primrose doublet, fortune’s knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause ?
12 mars 2014
Pretenders : live their lives. The Bruce’s brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York’s false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings’ sons.
13 mars 2014
Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur’s yelping.
14 mars 2014
But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of… We don’t want any of your medieval abstrusiosities.
15 mars 2014
Would you do what he did ? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. Natürlich, put there for you. Would you or would you not ?
16 mars 2014
The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden’s rock. They are waiting for him now.
17 mars 2014
The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft.
18 mars 2014
When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can’t see ! Who’s behind me ? Out quickly, quickly !
19 mars 2014
Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured ?
20 mars 2014
If I had land under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man.
21 mars 2014
His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I… With him together down… I could not save her. Waters : bitter death : lost.
22 mars 2014
A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.
23 mars 2014
Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides.
24 mars 2014
Looking for something lost in a past life.
25 mars 2014
Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull.
26 mars 2014
The man’s shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks.
27 mars 2014
On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.
28 mars 2014
At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears
29 mars 2014
His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse.
30 mars 2014
They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.
31 mars 2014
Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out.
1er avril 2014
The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning.
2 avril 2014
Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s tongue redpanting from his jaws.
3 avril 2014
His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf’s gallop.
4 avril 2014
The carcass lay on his path.
5 avril 2014
He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell.
6 avril 2014
Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody ! Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.
7 avril 2014
—Tatters ! Out of that, you mongrel !
8 avril 2014
The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight.
9 avril 2014
He slunk back in a curve. Doesn’t see me.
10 avril 2014
Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.
11 avril 2014
He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor.
12 avril 2014
His hindpaws then scattered the sand : then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother.
13 avril 2014
He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the dead.
14 avril 2014
After he woke me last night same dream or was it ?
15 avril 2014
Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled : creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.
16 avril 2014
Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.
17 avril 2014
His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck.
18 avril 2014
With woman steps she followed : the ruffian and his strolling mort.
19 avril 2014
Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.
20 avril 2014
Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville.
21 avril 2014
When night hides her body’s flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired.
22 avril 2014
Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues’ rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell !
23 avril 2014
A shefiend’s whiteness under her rancid rags.
24 avril 2014
Fumbally’s lane that night : the tanyard smells.
White thy fambles, red thy gan
And thy quarrons dainty is.
Couch a hogshead with me then.
In the darkmans clip and kiss.
25 avril 2014
Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.
26 avril 2014
Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted.
27 avril 2014
Call away let him : thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his.
28 avril 2014
Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles : roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.
29 avril 2014
30 avril 2014
A side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit ? I am not.
1er mai 2014
Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun’s flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands.
2 mai 2014
She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.
3 mai 2014
A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake.
4 mai 2014
Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon.
5 mai 2014
In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise.
6 mai 2014
Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te veniet.
7 mai 2014
He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth’s kiss.
8 mai 2014
Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you ? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.
9 mai 2014
No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth’s kiss.
10 mai 2014
His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air : mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb.
11 mai 2014
His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched : ooeeehah : roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway.
12 mai 2014
Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy’s letter.
13 mai 2014
Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.
14 mai 2014
Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words.
15 mai 2014
That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.
16 mai 2014
His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star ?
17 mai 2014
Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.
18 mai 2014
Me sits there with his augur’s rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.
19 mai 2014
I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back.
20 mai 2014
Endless, would it be mine, form of my form ? Who watches me here ? Who ever anywhere will read these written words ?
21 mai 2014
Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice.
22 mai 2014
The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat : veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field.
23 mai 2014
24 mai 2014
Coloured on a flat : yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back.
25 mai 2014
Ah, see now ! Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick.
26 mai 2014
You find my words dark.
27 mai 2014
Darkness is in our souls do you not think ? Flutier.
28 mai 2014
Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.
29 mai 2014
She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes.
30 mai 2014
Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil ?
31 mai 2014
Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality.
1er juin 2014
She, she, she. What she ?
2 juin 2014
The virgin at Hodges Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet
books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her.
3 juin 2014
Wrist through the braided jesse of her sunshade.
4 juin 2014
She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters.
5 juin 2014
Talk that to someone else, Stevie : a pickmeup.
6 juin 2014
Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.
7 juin 2014
Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits ?
8 juin 2014
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now.
9 juin 2014
What is that word known to all men ? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
10 juin 2014
He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes.
11 juin 2014
That is Kevin Egan’s movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo ! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in May.
12 juin 2014
Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun.
13 juin 2014
I am caught in this burning scene.
14 juin 2014
Pan’s hour, the faunal noon.
15 juin 2014
16 juin 2014
Pain is far.
And no more turn aside and brood.
17 juin 2014
His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck’s castoffs, nebeneinander.
18 juin 2014
He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another’s foot had nested warm.
19 juin 2014
The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove.
20 juin 2014
But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt’s shoe went on you : girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied !
21 juin 2014
Staunch friend, a brother soul : Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name.
22 juin 2014
His arm : Cranly’s arm.
23 juin 2014
He now will leave me. And the blame ? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.
24 juin 2014
In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing.
25 juin 2014
My ashplant will float away. I shall wait.
26 juin 2014
No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing.
27 juin 2014
Better get this job over quick. Listen : a fourworded wavespeech : seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.
28 juin 2014
Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.
29 juin 2014
In cups of rocks it slops : flop, slop, slap : bounded in barrels.
30 juin 2014
And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.
1er juillet 2014
Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds.
2 juillet 2014
Day by day : night by night : lifted, flooded and let fall.
3 juillet 2014
Lord, they are weary ; and, whispered to, they sigh.
4 juillet 2014
Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit.
5 juillet 2014
To no end gathered ; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back : loom of the moon.
6 juillet 2014
Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.
7 juillet 2014
Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies.
8 juillet 2014
At one, he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar.
9 juillet 2014
Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells.
10 juillet 2014
A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.
11 juillet 2014
There he is. Hook it quick. Pull.
12 juillet 2014
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor
13 juillet 2014
We have him. Easy now.
14 juillet 2014
Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine.
15 juillet 2014
A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly.
16 juillet 2014
God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed
17 juillet 2014
Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead.
18 juillet 2014
Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.
19 juillet 2014
A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean.
20 juillet 2014
Prix de paris : beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.
21 juillet 2014
Come. I thirst.
22 juillet 2014
Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there ? Thunderstorm.
23 juillet 2014
Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.
24 juillet 2014
No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Where ? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.
25 juillet 2014
He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still.
26 juillet 2014
Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me.
27 juillet 2014
All days make their end.
28 juillet 2014
By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day.
29 juillet 2014
Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. Già.
30 juillet 2014
For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Già.
31 juillet 2014
My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells.
1er août 2014
Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money ? That one. This. Toothless Kinch, the superman.
2 août 2014
Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps ?
3 août 2014
My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up ?
4 août 2014
His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn’t. Better buy one.
5 août 2014
He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will.
6 août 2014
Behind. Perhaps there is someone.
7 août 2014
He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship. +
8 août 2014
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
9 août 2014
He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes.
10 août 2014
Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
11 août 2014
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray.
12 août 2014
Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.
13 août 2014
The coals were reddening.
14 août 2014
Another slice of bread and butter : three, four : right. She didn’t like her plate full. Right.
15 août 2014
He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire.
16 août 2014
It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.
17 août 2014
Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry.
18 août 2014
The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
— Mkgnao !
19 août 2014
—O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
20 août 2014
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing.
21 août 2014
Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
22 août 2014
23 août 2014
Clean to see : the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes.
24 août 2014
He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
— Milk for the pussens, he said.
25 août 2014
—Mrkgnao ! the cat cried.
26 août 2014
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to.
27 août 2014
Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
28 août 2014
Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower ? No, she can jump me.
29 août 2014
—Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
30 août 2014
—Mrkrgnao ! the cat said loudly.
31 août 2014
She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth.
1er septembre 2014
He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones.
2 septembre 2014
Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon’s milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
3 septembre 2014
—Gurrhr ! she cried, running to lap.
4 septembre 2014
He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly.
5 septembre 2014
Wonder is it true if you clip them they can’t mouse after.
6 septembre 2014
7 septembre 2014
They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
8 septembre 2014
He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water.
9 septembre 2014
Thursday : not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz’s. While the kettle is boiling.
10 septembre 2014
She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean.
11 septembre 2014
Why are their tongues so rough ? To lap better, all porous holes.
12 septembre 2014
Nothing she can eat ? He glanced round him. No.
13 septembre 2014
On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door.
14 septembre 2014
She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps : once in a way.
15 septembre 2014
He said softly in the bare hall :
— I’m going round the corner. Be back in a minute.
16 septembre 2014
And when he had heard his voice say it he added :
— You don’t want anything for breakfast ?
17 septembre 2014
A sleepy soft grunt answered :
18 septembre 2014
No. She didn’t want anything.
19 septembre 2014
He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled.
20 septembre 2014
Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew.
21 septembre 2014
Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style. Ah yes ! of course. Bought it at the governor’s auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir.
22 septembre 2014
At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I’m proud of it.
23 septembre 2014
Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing.
24 septembre 2014
His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office secondhand waterproof.
25 septembre 2014
Stamps : stickyback pictures.
26 septembre 2014
Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do.
27 septembre 2014
The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely : Plasto’s high grade ha.
28 septembre 2014
He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe.
29 septembre 2014
On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there.
30 septembre 2014
In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her.
1er octobre 2014
She turned over sleepily that time.
2 octobre 2014
He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back anyhow.
3 octobre 2014
He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive.
4 octobre 2014
The sun was nearing the steeple of George’s church.
5 octobre 2014
Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more.
6 octobre 2014
Black conducts, reflects, (refracts is it ?), the heat.
7 octobre 2014
But I couldn’t go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it.
8 octobre 2014
His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth.
9 octobre 2014
Boland’s breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday’s loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel young.
10 octobre 2014
Somewhere in the east : early morning : set off at dawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a day’s march on him.
11 octobre 2014
Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically.
12 octobre 2014
Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy’s big moustaches, leaning on a long kind of a spear.
13 octobre 2014
Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by.
14 octobre 2014
Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe.
15 octobre 2014
Cries of sellers in the streets.
16 octobre 2014
Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Dander along all day.
17 octobre 2014
Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him.
18 octobre 2014
Getting on to sundown.
19 octobre 2014
The shadows of the mosques among the pillars : priest with a scroll rolled up.
20 octobre 2014
A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind.
21 octobre 2014
I pass on. Fading gold sky.
22 octobre 2014
A mother watches me from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language.
23 octobre 2014
24 octobre 2014
25 octobre 2014
26 octobre 2014
Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read : in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage.
27 octobre 2014
28 octobre 2014
What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader : a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland.
29 octobre 2014
He prolonged his pleased smile.
30 octobre 2014
Ikey touch that : homerule sun rising up in the north-west.
31 octobre 2014
He approached Larry O’Rourke’s.
1er novembre 2014
From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter.
2 novembre 2014
Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush.
3 novembre 2014
Good house, however : just the end of the city traffic.
4 novembre 2014
For instance M’Auley’s down there : n. g. as position.
5 novembre 2014
Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot.
6 novembre 2014
Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger.
7 novembre 2014
No use canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his own business best.
8 novembre 2014
There he is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket.
9 novembre 2014
Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up.
10 novembre 2014
Do you know what I’m going to tell you ? What’s that, Mr O’Rourke ? Do you know what ? The Russians, they’d only be an eight o’clock breakfast for the Japanese.
11 novembre 2014
Stop and say a word : about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O’Rourke.
12 novembre 2014
Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway :
— Good day, Mr O’Rourke.
13 novembre 2014
—Good day to you.
14 novembre 2014
—Lovely weather, sir.
15 novembre 2014
—’Tis all that.
16 novembre 2014
Where do they get the money ?
17 novembre 2014
Coming up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then thin of the competition. General thirst.
18 novembre 2014
Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can’t. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down three and carry five.
19 novembre 2014
What is that, a bob here and there, dribs and drabs.
20 novembre 2014
On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the town travellers. Square it you with the boss and we’ll split the job, see ?
21 novembre 2014
How much would that tot to off the porter in the month ?
22 novembre 2014
Say ten barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen.
23 novembre 2014
He passed Saint Joseph’s National school. Brats’ clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps memory. Or a lilt.
24 novembre 2014
Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou.
25 novembre 2014
26 novembre 2014
27 novembre 2014
The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved : displeased, he let them fade.
28 novembre 2014
29 novembre 2014
30 novembre 2014
1er décembre 2014
Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand ?
2 décembre 2014
Chapped : washingsoda. And a pound and a half of Denny’s sausages.
3 décembre 2014
His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.
4 décembre 2014
Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack.
5 décembre 2014
The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.
6 décembre 2014
Sound meat there : like a stallfed heifer.
7 décembre 2014
8 décembre 2014
Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping.
9 décembre 2014
He held the page from him : interesting : read it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling.
10 décembre 2014
A young white heifer.
11 décembre 2014
12 décembre 2014
He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest.
13 décembre 2014
The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack.
14 décembre 2014
The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace.
— Now, my miss, he said.
15 décembre 2014
She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.
16 décembre 2014
—Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please ?
17 décembre 2014
Mr Bloom pointed quickly.
18 décembre 2014
To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning.
19 décembre 2014
Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines.
20 décembre 2014
She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right.
21 décembre 2014
He sighed down his nose : they never understand.
22 décembre 2014
Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways.
23 décembre 2014
The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast.
24 décembre 2014
25 décembre 2014
26 décembre 2014
27 décembre 2014
Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers’ pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles.
28 décembre 2014
They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the till.
29 décembre 2014
—Thank you, sir. Another time.
30 décembre 2014
A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No : better not : another time.
— Good morning, he said, moving away.
31 décembre 2014
—Good morning, sir.
1er janvier 2015
2 janvier 2015
He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely.
3 janvier 2015
Agendath Netaim : planters’ company.
4 janvier 2015
5 janvier 2015
Excellent for shade, fuel and construction.
6 janvier 2015
Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa.
7 janvier 2015
You pay eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper : oranges need artificial irrigation.
8 janvier 2015
Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.
9 janvier 2015
Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it.
10 janvier 2015
He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees.
11 janvier 2015
Quiet long days : pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh ?
12 janvier 2015
I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now.
13 janvier 2015
Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too.
14 janvier 2015
Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin’s parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron’s basketchair.
15 janvier 2015
Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year.
16 janvier 2015
They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me.
17 janvier 2015
Arbutus place : Pleasants street : pleasant old times.
18 janvier 2015
Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way : Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant.
19 janvier 2015
Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees.
20 janvier 2015
There’s whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you ? Doesn’t see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain’s. Wonder if I’ll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven.
21 janvier 2015
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far.
22 janvier 2015
No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste.
23 janvier 2015
Vulcanic lake, the dead sea : no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth.
24 janvier 2015
No wind could lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down : the cities of the plain : Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names.
25 janvier 2015
A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now.
26 janvier 2015
It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy’s, clutching a naggin
bottle by the neck. The oldest people.
27 janvier 2015
Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now.
28 janvier 2015
Now it could bear no more.
29 janvier 2015
Dead : an old woman’s : the grey sunken cunt of the world.
30 janvier 2015
31 janvier 2015
Grey horror seared his flesh.
1er février 2015
Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward.
2 février 2015
Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood : age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here now.
3 février 2015
Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed.
4 février 2015
Must begin again those Sandow’s exercises. On the hands down.
5 février 2015
Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that ?
6 février 2015
Valuation is only twenty-eight.
7 février 2015
8 février 2015
To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter.
9 février 2015
Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes.
10 février 2015
Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath.
11 février 2015
Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind.
12 février 2015
Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered them.
13 février 2015
Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion.
14 février 2015
15 février 2015
Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.
16 février 2015
—Who are the letters for ?
17 février 2015
He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly.
18 février 2015
—A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you.
19 février 2015
He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees.
— Do you want the blind up ?
20 février 2015
Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.
— That do ? he asked, turning.
21 février 2015
She was reading the card, propped on her elbow.
— She got the things, she said.
22 février 2015
He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh.
23 février 2015
—Hurry up with that tea, she said. I’m parched.
24 février 2015
—The kettle is boiling, he said.
25 février 2015
But he delayed to clear the chair : her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen : and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.
26 février 2015
As he went down the kitchen stairs she called :
— Poldy !
27 février 2015
28 février 2015
—Scald the teapot.
1er mars 2015
On the boil sure enough : a plume of steam from the spout.
2 mars 2015
He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in.
3 mars 2015
4 mars 2015
While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him.
5 mars 2015
Give her too much meat she won’t mouse. Say they won’t eat pork. Kosher.
6 mars 2015
7 mars 2015
8 mars 2015
Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over.
9 mars 2015
10 mars 2015
The tea was drawn.
11 mars 2015
12 mars 2015
I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her.
13 mars 2015
He smiled, pouring.
14 mars 2015
O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling.
You are my lookingglass from night to morning.
I’d rather have you without a farthing
Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden.
15 mars 2015
Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he was a courteous old chap.
16 mars 2015
Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat.
17 mars 2015
The night Milly brought it into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin’s hat !
18 mars 2015
All we laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was.
19 mars 2015
He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over : then fitted the teapot on the tray.
20 mars 2015
Its hump bumped as he took it up.
21 mars 2015
Everything on it ? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes.
22 mars 2015
He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.
23 mars 2015
Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.
24 mars 2015
25 mars 2015
She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow.
26 mars 2015
He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder.
27 mars 2015
The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.
28 mars 2015
29 mars 2015
Bold hand. Marion.
— O, Boylan, she said. He’s bringing the programme.
30 mars 2015
—What are you singing ?
31 mars 2015
—La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love’s Old Sweet Song.
1er avril 2015
Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater.
2 avril 2015
—Would you like the window open a little ?
3 avril 2015
She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking :
— What time is the funeral ?
4 avril 2015
—Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn’t see the paper.
5 avril 2015
Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No ? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking : rumpled, shiny sole.
6 avril 2015
—No : that book.
Other stocking. Her petticoat.
7 avril 2015
—It must have fell down, she said.
8 avril 2015
He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorrei. Wonder if she pronounces that right : voglio.
9 avril 2015
Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orangekeyed chamberpot.
10 avril 2015
—Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There’s a word I wanted to ask you.
11 avril 2015
She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word.
12 avril 2015
—Met him what ? he asked.
13 avril 2015
—Here, she said. What does that mean ?
14 avril 2015
He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.
— Metempsychosis ?
15 avril 2015
—Yes. Who’s he when he’s at home ?
16 avril 2015
—Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It’s Greek : from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls.
17 avril 2015
—O, rocks ! she said. Tell us in plain words.
18 avril 2015
He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes.
19 avril 2015
The first night after the charades. Dolphin’s Barn.
20 avril 2015
He turned over the smudged pages. Ruby : the Pride of the Ring. Hello. Illustration. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent.
21 avril 2015
The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath.
22 avril 2015
Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler’s. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we’ll break our sides.
23 avril 2015
24 avril 2015
—Did you finish it ? he asked.
25 avril 2015
—Yes, she said. There’s nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time ?
26 avril 2015
—Never read it. Do you want another ?
27 avril 2015
—Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock’s. Nice name he has.
28 avril 2015
She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways.
29 avril 2015
Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they’ll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation : that’s the word.
30 avril 2015
—Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.
1er mai 2015
The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind her of the word : metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example ?
2 mai 2015
3 mai 2015
Tea before you put milk in.
4 mai 2015
Not unlike her with her hair down : slimmer.
5 mai 2015
Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed.
6 mai 2015
7 mai 2015
He turned the pages back.
8 mai 2015
—Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example.
9 mai 2015
Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.
10 mai 2015
—There’s a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire ?
11 mai 2015
—The kidney ! he cried suddenly.
12 mai 2015
He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork’s legs.
13 mai 2015
Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of the pan.
14 mai 2015
By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burnt.
15 mai 2015
He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.
16 mai 2015
Cup of tea now.
17 mai 2015
He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat.
18 mai 2015
Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn.
19 mai 2015
A mouthful of tea.
20 mai 2015
Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth.
21 mai 2015
22 mai 2015
He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth.
23 mai 2015
Thanks ever so much for the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I am quite the belle in my new tam. I got mummy’s Iovely box of creams and am writing. They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr Coghlan took one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells and he sings Boylan’s (I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan’s) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. I must now close with fondest love
Your fond daughter, MILLY.
P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby. M.
24 mai 2015
Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. Separation.
25 mai 2015
Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the world.
26 mai 2015
She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn’t live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived.
27 mai 2015
His vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry. Piano downstairs.
28 mai 2015
Coming out of her shell.
29 mai 2015
Row with her in the XL Cafe about the bracelet. Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox.
30 mai 2015
He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney.
31 mai 2015
Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young student.
1er juin 2015
He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read the letter again : twice.
2 juin 2015
3 juin 2015
Vain : very.
4 juin 2015
He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window.
5 juin 2015
Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was given milk too long.
6 juin 2015
On the ERIN’S KING that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky.
7 juin 2015
8 juin 2015
Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers’ pockets, jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band,
Those girls, those girls,
Those lovely seaside girls.
9 juin 2015
Milly too. Young kisses : the first. Far away now past. Mrs Marion. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling, braiding.
10 juin 2015
A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will happen, yes. Prevent. Useless : can’t move. Girl’s sweet light lips. Will happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman’s lips.
11 juin 2015
Better where she is down there : away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off, however. Might work a press pass. Or through M’Coy.
12 juin 2015
The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the door.
13 juin 2015
She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out.
14 juin 2015
Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the fire too.
15 juin 2015
16 juin 2015
He stood up, undoing the waistband of his trousers.
17 juin 2015
The cat mewed to him.
— Miaow ! he said in answer. Wait till I’m ready.
18 juin 2015
Heaviness : hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the landing.
19 juin 2015
A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I’m.
20 juin 2015
In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it.
21 juin 2015
The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.
22 juin 2015
Listening, he heard her voice :
— Come, come, pussy. Come.
23 juin 2015
He went out through the backdoor into the garden : stood to listen towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine morning.
24 juin 2015
He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.
25 juin 2015
Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers.
26 juin 2015
Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur.
27 juin 2015
All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is ?
28 juin 2015
29 juin 2015
Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes.
30 juin 2015
Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies’ kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too.
1er juillet 2015
Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.
2 juillet 2015
He walked on.
3 juillet 2015
Where is my hat, by the way ? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor.
4 juillet 2015
Funny I don’t remember that. Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters. Drago’s shopbell ringing.
5 juillet 2015
Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup.
6 juillet 2015
Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. O’Brien.
7 juillet 2015
Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it ? Now, my miss. Enthusiast.
8 juillet 2015
He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes.
9 juillet 2015
Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral.
10 juillet 2015
He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel.
11 juillet 2015
Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces.
12 juillet 2015
Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his countinghouse. Nobody.
13 juillet 2015
Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit.
14 juillet 2015
Our prize titbit : Matcham’s Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers’ Club, London.
15 juillet 2015
Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six.
16 juillet 2015
Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second.
17 juillet 2015
Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone.
18 juillet 2015
Hope it’s not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So.
19 juillet 2015
Ah ! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so.
20 juillet 2015
It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat.
21 juillet 2015
Print anything now. Silly season.
22 juillet 2015
He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now.
23 juillet 2015
Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart.
24 juillet 2015
He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.
25 juillet 2015
Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb. Which ?
26 juillet 2015
Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving.
27 juillet 2015
Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.l5. Did Roberts pay you yet ? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on ? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb ? 9.24. I’m swelled after that cabbage.
28 juillet 2015
A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot : rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf.
29 juillet 2015
Morning after the bazaar dance when May’s band played Ponchielli’s dance of the hours.
30 juillet 2015
Explain that : morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours.
31 juillet 2015
Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking.
1er août 2015
Is that Boylan well off ?
2 août 2015
He has money. Why ?
3 août 2015
I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing.
4 août 2015
No use humming then. Allude to it.
5 août 2015
Strange kind of music that last night.
6 août 2015
The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn’t pan out somehow.
7 août 2015
Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then : black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea : pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day : then the night.
8 août 2015
He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.
9 août 2015
10 août 2015
He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.
11 août 2015
In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers : the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral ? Better find out in the paper.
12 août 2015
A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George’s church. They tolled the hour : loud dark iron.
Heigho ! Heigho !
Heigho ! Heigho !
Heigho ! Heigho !
13 août 2015
Quarter to. There again : the overtone following through the air, third.
14 août 2015
Poor Dignam !
15 août 2015
By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.
16 août 2015
He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.
17 août 2015
18 août 2015
A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.
19 août 2015
Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O let him ! His life isn’t such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.
20 août 2015
Slack hour : won’t be many there.
21 août 2015
He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes : house of : Aleph, Beth.
22 août 2015
And past Nichols’ the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough.
23 août 2015
Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny.
Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout.
24 août 2015
Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.
25 août 2015
O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
26 août 2015
27 août 2015
Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though.
28 août 2015
While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning.
29 août 2015
30 août 2015
His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.
31 août 2015
1er septembre 2015
His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow
2 septembre 2015
Then he put on his hat again, relieved : and read again : choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east.
3 septembre 2015
Lovely spot it must be : the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that.
4 septembre 2015
Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand’s turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel.
5 septembre 2015
Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere ?
6 septembre 2015
Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open.
7 septembre 2015
Couldn’t sink if you tried : so thick with salt.
8 septembre 2015
Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what ? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight ? It’s a law something like that.
9 septembre 2015
Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum.
10 septembre 2015
What is weight really when you say the weight ? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies : per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It’s the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.
11 septembre 2015
He turned away and sauntered across the road.
12 septembre 2015
13 septembre 2015
As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg.
14 septembre 2015
Careless air : just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it means.
15 septembre 2015
From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
16 septembre 2015
He handed the card through the brass grill.
— Are there any letters for me ? he asked.
17 septembre 2015
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade : and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.
18 septembre 2015
The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter.
19 septembre 2015
He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City.
20 septembre 2015
21 septembre 2015
He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade.
22 septembre 2015
Where’s old Tweedy’s regiment ? Castoff soldier. There : bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he’s a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is : royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy.
23 septembre 2015
That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill.
24 septembre 2015
Maud Gonne’s letter about taking them off O’Connell street at night : disgrace to our Irish capital.
25 septembre 2015
Griffith’s paper is on the same tack now : an army rotten with venereal disease : overseas or halfseasover empire.
26 septembre 2015
27 septembre 2015
He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right.
28 septembre 2015
Talk : as if that would mend matters.
29 septembre 2015
His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks.
30 septembre 2015
1er octobre 2015
His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on : photo perhaps. Hair ? No.
2 octobre 2015
M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.
— Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to ?
3 octobre 2015
—Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular.
4 octobre 2015
—How’s the body ?
5 octobre 2015
—Fine. How are you ?
6 octobre 2015
—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.
7 octobre 2015
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect :
— Is there any… no trouble I hope ? I see you’re…
8 octobre 2015
—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
9 octobre 2015
—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time ?
10 octobre 2015
A photo it isn’t. A badge maybe.
11 octobre 2015
—E… eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
12 octobre 2015
—I must try to get out there, M’Coy said. Eleven, is it ? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me ? Holohan. You know Hoppy ?
13 octobre 2015
14 octobre 2015
Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor.
15 octobre 2015
The porter hoisted the valise up on the well.
16 octobre 2015
She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change.
17 octobre 2015
Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth.
18 octobre 2015
Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets.
19 octobre 2015
Like that haughty creature at the polo match.
20 octobre 2015
Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.
21 octobre 2015
—I was with Bob Doran, he’s on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway’s we were.
22 octobre 2015
Doran Lyons in Conway’s.
23 octobre 2015
She raised a gloved hand to her hair.
24 octobre 2015
In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums.
25 octobre 2015
Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums.
26 octobre 2015
Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady’s hand. Which side will she get up ?
27 octobre 2015
28 octobre 2015
Off to the country : Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for ? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow.
29 octobre 2015
—Why ? I said. What’s wrong with him ? I said.
30 octobre 2015
Proud : rich : silk stockings.
31 octobre 2015
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
1er novembre 2015
He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head. Getting up in a minute.
2 novembre 2015
—What’s wrong with him ? He said. He’s dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam ? I said. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He’s gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.
3 novembre 2015
Watch ! Watch ! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch !
4 novembre 2015
5 novembre 2015
Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment.
6 novembre 2015
Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the
display of esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at ?
7 novembre 2015
8 novembre 2015
—One of the best, M’Coy said.
9 novembre 2015
The tram passed.
10 novembre 2015
11 novembre 2015
—Wife well, I suppose ? M’Coy’s changed voice said.
12 novembre 2015
—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.
13 novembre 2015
14 novembre 2015
—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it’s not settled yet.
15 novembre 2015
Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that, thanks.
16 novembre 2015
Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.
— My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.
18 novembre 2015
—That so ? M’Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who’s getting it up ?
20 novembre 2015
Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens.
21 novembre 2015
Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.
Comes lo-ove’s old…
22 novembre 2015
—It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweeeet song. There’s a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.
23 novembre 2015
M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.
— O, well, he said. That’s good news.
24 novembre 2015
He moved to go.
25 novembre 2015
—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.
26 novembre 2015
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
27 novembre 2015
—Tell you what, M’Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you ? I’d like to go but I mightn’t be able, you see. There’s a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I’m not there, will you ?
28 novembre 2015
—I’ll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That’ll be all right.
29 novembre 2015
— Right, M’Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I’d go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M’Coy will do.
30 novembre 2015
—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.
1er décembre 2015
Didn’t catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I’d like my job.
2 décembre 2015
Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock.
3 décembre 2015
Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.
4 décembre 2015
Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled.
5 décembre 2015
My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way : for a little ballad. No guts in it.
6 décembre 2015
You and me, don’t you know : in the same boat. Softsoaping.
7 décembre 2015
Give you the needle that would. Can’t he hear the difference ? Think he’s that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him.
8 décembre 2015
I hope that smallpox up there doesn’t get worse. Suppose she wouldn’t let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.
9 décembre 2015
Wonder is he pimping after me ?
10 décembre 2015
Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings.
11 décembre 2015
Cantrell and Cochrane’s Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery’s Summer Sale. No, he’s going on straight.
12 décembre 2015
Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that.
13 décembre 2015
Hamlet she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide.
14 décembre 2015
Poor papa ! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that.
15 décembre 2015
Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in.
16 décembre 2015
Year before I was born that was : sixtyfive.
17 décembre 2015
And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is ? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it ?
18 décembre 2015
No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.
19 décembre 2015
Nathan’s voice ! His son’s voice ! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father.
20 décembre 2015
Every word is so deep, Leopold.
21 décembre 2015
Poor papa ! Poor man !
22 décembre 2015
I’m glad I didn’t go into the room to look at his face. That day !
23 décembre 2015
24 décembre 2015
Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard.
25 décembre 2015
No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn’t met that M’Coy fellow.
26 décembre 2015
He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth.
27 décembre 2015
Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses !
28 décembre 2015
Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words.
29 décembre 2015
Still they get their feed all right and their doss.
30 décembre 2015
Gelded too : a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches.
31 décembre 2015
Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.
1er janvier 2016
He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.
2 janvier 2016
He passed the cabman’s shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non.
3 janvier 2016
Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed :
La ci darem la mano
La la lala la la.
4 janvier 2016
He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall.
5 janvier 2016
6 janvier 2016
With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner.
7 janvier 2016
Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb.
8 janvier 2016
A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them.
9 janvier 2016
10 janvier 2016
And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame’s school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s. And Mr ?
11 janvier 2016
12 janvier 2016
A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then ? What does she say ?
13 janvier 2016
I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter.
14 janvier 2016
Why did you enclose the stamps ? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that.
15 janvier 2016
I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word ? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy ?
16 janvier 2016
I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me.
17 janvier 2016
I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet ? I think of you so often you have no idea.
18 janvier 2016
I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about.
19 janvier 2016
Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you.
20 janvier 2016
So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote.
21 janvier 2016
O how I long to meet you.
22 janvier 2016
Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all.
23 janvier 2016
Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing
24 janvier 2016
P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.
25 janvier 2016
He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket.
26 janvier 2016
Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down.
27 janvier 2016
Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word.
28 janvier 2016
Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus iif you don’t please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha’s perfume.
29 janvier 2016
Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.
30 janvier 2016
Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself.
31 janvier 2016
Doing the indignant : a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you : not having any.
1er février 2016
Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly.
2 février 2016
Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic.
3 février 2016
Go further next time.
4 février 2016
Naughty boy : punish : afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not ? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.
5 février 2016
Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh ? He threw it on the road.
6 février 2016
Out of her clothes somewhere : pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns.
7 février 2016
Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.
O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
She didn’t know what to do
To keep it up
To keep it up.
8 février 2016
It ? Them.
9 février 2016
Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use. Now could you make out a thing like that ?
10 février 2016
To keep it up.
11 février 2016
Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
12 février 2016
To keep it up.
13 février 2016
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there : quiet dusk : let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs.
14 février 2016
The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper : fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches.
15 février 2016
16 février 2016
17 février 2016
Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper.
18 février 2016
Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter.
19 février 2016
Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin.
20 février 2016
A million pounds, wait a moment.
21 février 2016
Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty : fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.
22 février 2016
What am I saying barrels ? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.
23 février 2016
An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head : dull porter slopped and churned inside.
24 février 2016
The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
25 février 2016
He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows.
26 février 2016
Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband.
27 février 2016
Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy for a pass to Mullingar.
28 février 2016
Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants are the same.
29 février 2016
Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true religion. Save China’s millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee.
1er mars 2016
Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them.
2 mars 2016
Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross.
3 mars 2016
Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks ? Conmee : Martin Cunningham knows him : distinguishedlooking.
4 mars 2016
Sorry I didn’t work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t. They’re taught that.
5 mars 2016
He’s not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he ?
6 mars 2016
The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.
7 mars 2016
The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.
8 mars 2016
Something going on : some sodality.
9 mars 2016
Pity so empty.
10 mars 2016
Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour ? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven.
11 mars 2016
Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails.
12 mars 2016
The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands.
13 mars 2016
He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water ?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank.
14 mars 2016
Then the next one. Her hat sank at once.
15 mars 2016
Then the next one : a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin.
16 mars 2016
The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What ? Corpus : body. Corpse.
17 mars 2016
Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying.
18 mars 2016
19 mars 2016
Rum idea : eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.
20 mars 2016
He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places.
21 mars 2016
He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper.
22 mars 2016
These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads.
23 mars 2016
They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs.
24 mars 2016
Something like those mazzoth : it’s that sort of bread : unleavened shewbread. Look at them.
25 mars 2016
Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does.
26 mars 2016
Yes, bread of angels it’s called.
27 mars 2016
There’s a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel.
28 mars 2016
First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump.
29 mars 2016
Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I’m sure of that.
30 mars 2016
Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam.
31 mars 2016
Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.
1er avril 2016
Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.
2 avril 2016
He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on.
3 avril 2016
Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know what to do to.
4 avril 2016
5 avril 2016
Letters on his back : I.N.R.I ? No : I.H.S.
6 avril 2016
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned : or no : I have suffered, it is. And the other one ? Iron nails ran in.
7 avril 2016
Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her.
8 avril 2016
She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character.
9 avril 2016
That fellow that turned queen’s evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church.
10 avril 2016
Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey.
11 avril 2016
And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all the time.
12 avril 2016
Those crawthumpers, now that’s a good name for them, there’s always something shiftylooking about them.
13 avril 2016
They’re not straight men of business either.
14 avril 2016
O, no, she’s not here : the flower : no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope ? Yes : under the bridge.
15 avril 2016
By the way, did I tear up that envelope ? Yes : under the bridge.
16 avril 2016
The priest was rinsing out the chalice : then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine.
17 avril 2016
Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness’s porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley’s Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane’s ginger ale (aromatic).
18 avril 2016
Doesn’t give them any of it : shew wine : only the other. Cold comfort.
19 avril 2016
Pious fraud but quite right : otherwise they’d have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink.
20 avril 2016
Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.
21 avril 2016
Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity.
22 avril 2016
Who has the organ here I wonder ?
23 avril 2016
Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato : fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street.
24 avril 2016
Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini.
25 avril 2016
Father Bernard Vaughan’s sermon first.
26 avril 2016
Christ or Pilate ? Christ, but don’t keep us all night over it. Music they wanted.
27 avril 2016
Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop.
28 avril 2016
I told her to pitch her voice against that corner.
29 avril 2016
I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up :
Quis est homo.
30 avril 2016
Some of that old sacred music splendid.Mercadante : seven last words. Mozart’s twelfth mass : Gloria in that.
1er mai 2016
Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too.
2 mai 2016
They had a gay old time while it lasted.
3 mai 2016
Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.
4 mai 2016
Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it ? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs.
5 mai 2016
Suppose they wouldn’t feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don’t they ? Gluttons, tall, long legs.
6 mai 2016
Who knows ? Eunuch. One way out of it.
7 mai 2016
He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people.
8 mai 2016
All crossed themselves and stood up.
9 mai 2016
Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course.
10 mai 2016
Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench.
11 mai 2016
The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin.
12 mai 2016
Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card :
— O God, our refuge and our strength…
13 mai 2016
Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass ?
14 mai 2016
Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about.
15 mai 2016
Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork.
16 mai 2016
Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please.
17 mai 2016
Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor.
18 mai 2016
Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha ? And why did you ? Look down at her ring to find an excuse.
19 mai 2016
Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God’s little joke. Then out she comes.
20 mai 2016
Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes.
21 mai 2016
Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord.
22 mai 2016
Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome : they work the whole show. And don’t they rake in the money too ?
23 mai 2016
Bequests also : to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents.
24 mai 2016
The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything.
25 mai 2016
Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church : they mapped out the whole theology of it.
26 mai 2016
The priest prayed :
— Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray !) : and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.
27 mai 2016
The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind : thanksgiving.
28 mai 2016
Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.
29 mai 2016
He stood up. Hello.
30 mai 2016
Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time ? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s a (whh !) just a (whh !) fluff.
31 mai 2016
Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell me before.
1er juin 2016
Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn’t farther south.
2 juin 2016
He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the light.
3 juin 2016
He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water.
4 juin 2016
Trams : a car of Prescott’s dyeworks : a widow in her weeds. Notice because I’m in mourning myself.
5 juin 2016
He covered himself.
6 juin 2016
How goes the time ? Quarter past. Time enough yet.
7 juin 2016
Better get that lotion made up. Where is this ? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place.
8 juin 2016
Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir.
9 juin 2016
Hamilton Long’s, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.
10 juin 2016
He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too.
11 juin 2016
Bore this funeral affair.
12 juin 2016
O well, poor fellow, it’s not his fault.
13 juin 2016
When was it I got it made up last ? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember.
14 juin 2016
First of the month it must have been or the second.
15 juin 2016
16 juin 2016
The chemist turned back page after page.
17 juin 2016
Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old.
18 juin 2016
Quest for the philosopher’s stone. The alchemists.
19 juin 2016
Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why ? Reaction. A lifetime in a night.
20 juin 2016
Gradually changes your character.
21 juin 2016
Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist’s doorbell.
22 juin 2016
Doctor Whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion.
23 juin 2016
The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck.
24 juin 2016
Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you.
25 juin 2016
Test : turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.
26 juin 2016
—About a fortnight ago, sir ?
27 juin 2016
—Yes, Mr Bloom said.
28 juin 2016
He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.
29 juin 2016
—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water…
30 juin 2016
It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.
1er juillet 2016
—And white wax also, he said.
2 juillet 2016
Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs.
3 juillet 2016
Those homely recipes are often the best : strawberries for the teeth : nettles and rainwater : oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood.
4 juillet 2016
One of the old queen’s sons, duke of Albany was it ? had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse.
5 juillet 2016
But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your ? Peau d’Espagne.
6 juillet 2016
That orangeflower water is so fresh.
7 juillet 2016
Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap.
8 juillet 2016
Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel.
9 juillet 2016
Nicer if a nice girl did it.
10 juillet 2016
Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath.
11 juillet 2016
Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure.
12 juillet 2016
Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.
13 juillet 2016
—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle ?
14 juillet 2016
—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later in the day and I’ll take one of these soaps. How much are they ?
15 juillet 2016
16 juillet 2016
Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.
— I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.
17 juillet 2016
—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.
18 juillet 2016
—Good, Mr Bloom said.
19 juillet 2016
He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
20 juillet 2016
At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said :
— Hello, Bloom. What’s the best news ? Is that today’s ? Show us a minute.
21 juillet 2016
Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove ! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.
22 juillet 2016
Bantam Lyons’s yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’ soap ? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.
23 juillet 2016
—I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it ?
24 juillet 2016
He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber’s itch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.
25 juillet 2016
—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
26 juillet 2016
—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.
27 juillet 2016
28 juillet 2016
Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.
— What’s that ? his sharp voice said.
29 juillet 2016
—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.
30 juillet 2016
Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering : then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.
— I’ll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.
31 juillet 2016
He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.
1er août 2016
Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling.
2 août 2016
Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.
3 août 2016
He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see.
4 août 2016
He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park : cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes : sports, sports, sports : and the hub big : college. Something to catch the eye.
5 août 2016
There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him on hands : might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower ? How do you do, sir ?
6 août 2016
Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can’t play it here. Duck for six wickets.
7 août 2016
Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg.
8 août 2016
Donnybrook fair more in their line.
9 août 2016
And the skulls we were acracking when M’Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won’t last.
10 août 2016
Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer thaaan them all.
11 août 2016
Enjoy a bath now : clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body.
12 août 2016
He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved.
13 août 2016
He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow : his navel, bud of flesh : and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.
14 août 2016
Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.
15 août 2016
Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
16 août 2016
—Come on, Simon.
17 août 2016
—After you, Mr Bloom said.
18 août 2016
Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying : Yes, yes.
19 août 2016
—Are we all here now ? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.
20 août 2016
Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place.
21 août 2016
He pulled the door to after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight.
22 août 2016
He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside : an old woman peeping.
23 août 2016
Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse.
24 août 2016
Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he’d wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out.
25 août 2016
Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet.
26 août 2016
Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo.
27 août 2016
I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean job.
28 août 2016
29 août 2016
Nothing was said.
30 août 2016
Stowing in the wreaths probably.
31 août 2016
I am sitting on something hard.
1er septembre 2016
Ah, that soap : in my hip pocket.
2 septembre 2016
Better shift it out of that.
3 septembre 2016
Wait for an opportunity.
4 septembre 2016
5 septembre 2016
Then wheels were heard from in front, turning : then nearer : then horses’ hoofs. A jolt.
6 septembre 2016
Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind.
7 septembre 2016
The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace.
8 septembre 2016
They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker.
9 septembre 2016
The wheels rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes.
10 septembre 2016
—What way is he taking us ? Mr Power asked through both windows.
11 septembre 2016
—Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
12 septembre 2016
Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
13 septembre 2016
—That’s a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.
All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect.
14 septembre 2016
The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.
15 septembre 2016
—There’s a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
16 septembre 2016
—Who is that ?
17 septembre 2016
—Your son and heir.
18 septembre 2016
—Where is he ? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.
19 septembre 2016
The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.
20 septembre 2016
Mr Dedalus fell back, saying :
— Was that Mulligan cad with him ? His fidus Achates !
21 septembre 2016
—No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone.
22 septembre 2016
—Down with his aunt Sally, I suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa’s little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own father.
23 septembre 2016
Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros : the bottleworks : Dodder bridge.
24 septembre 2016
Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding, Collis and Ward he calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp.
25 septembre 2016
Great card he was. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday morning, the landlady’s two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all night.
26 septembre 2016
Beginning to tell on him now : that backache of his, I fear. Wife ironing his back. Thinks he’ll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are. About six hundred per cent profit.
27 septembre 2016
—He’s in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His blessed mother I’ll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a gate. I’ll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me.
28 septembre 2016
He cried above the clatter of the wheels :
— I won’t have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A counterjumper’s son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M’Swiney’s. Not likely.
29 septembre 2016
30 septembre 2016
Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power’s mild face and Martin Cunningham’s eyes and beard, gravely shaking.
1er octobre 2016
Noisy selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on.
2 octobre 2016
If little Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside Molly in an Eton suit.
3 octobre 2016
My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be. From me. Just a chance.
4 octobre 2016
Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the sergeant grinning up.
5 octobre 2016
She had that cream gown on with the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I’m dying for it. How life begins.
6 octobre 2016
Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn German too.
7 octobre 2016
—Are we late ? Mr Power asked.
8 octobre 2016
—Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at his watch.
9 octobre 2016
Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy oaths. O jumping Jupiter ! Ye gods and little fishes ! Still, she’s a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes : a woman too. Life, life.
10 octobre 2016
The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.
11 octobre 2016
—Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said.
12 octobre 2016
—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint troubling him. Do you follow me ?
He closed his left eye.
13 octobre 2016
Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.
— What is this, he said, in the name of God ? Crumbs ?
14 octobre 2016
—Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said.
15 octobre 2016
All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless leather of the seats.
16 octobre 2016
Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said :
— Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin ?
17 octobre 2016
—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.
18 octobre 2016
Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.
19 octobre 2016
Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.
— After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
20 octobre 2016
—Did Tom Kernan turn up ? Martin Cunningham asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently.
21 octobre 2016
—Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes.
22 octobre 2016
—And Corny Kelleher himself ? Mr Power asked.
23 octobre 2016
—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.
24 octobre 2016
—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he’d try to come.
25 octobre 2016
The carriage halted short.
— What’s wrong ?
26 octobre 2016
27 octobre 2016
—Where are we ?
28 octobre 2016
Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.
— The grand canal, he said.
29 octobre 2016
Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good job Milly never got it. Poor children ! Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. Shame really. Got off lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death. Don’t miss this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old Athos ! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s dogs usually are.
30 octobre 2016
A raindrop spat on his hat.
31 octobre 2016
He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember now.
1er novembre 2016
—The weather is changing, he said quietly.
2 novembre 2016
—A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham said.
3 novembre 2016
—Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the sun again coming out.
4 novembre 2016
Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky.
— It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.
5 novembre 2016
—We’re off again.
6 novembre 2016
The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently.
7 novembre 2016
Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.
— Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face.
8 novembre 2016
—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of The Croppy Boy.
9 novembre 2016
—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience.
10 novembre 2016
—Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement.
11 novembre 2016
—Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech ? Martin Cunningham asked.
12 novembre 2016
—I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it ?
13 novembre 2016
—In the paper this morning.
14 novembre 2016
Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her.
15 novembre 2016
—No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.
16 novembre 2016
Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths : Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that ? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s ? no, Sexton, Urbright.
17 novembre 2016
Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month’s mind : Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.
18 novembre 2016
It is now a month since dear Henry fled
To his home up above in the sky
While his family weeps and mourns his loss
Hoping some day to meet him on high.
19 novembre 2016
I tore up the envelope ? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath ? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are exhausted.
20 novembre 2016
National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nod- ding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.
21 novembre 2016
A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window. Couldn’t they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier ? Well but that fellow would lose his job then ? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention ?
22 novembre 2016
Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law perhaps.
23 novembre 2016
They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under the railway bridge, past the Queen’s theatre : in silence.
24 novembre 2016
Hoardings : Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or the Lily of Killarney ? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on the Bristol. Martin Cun- ningham could work a pass for the Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it’s long.
25 novembre 2016
He’s coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
26 novembre 2016
Plasto’s. Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust. Who was he ?
27 novembre 2016
—How do you do ? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.
28 novembre 2016
—He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How do you do ?
29 novembre 2016
—Who ? Mr Dedalus asked.
30 novembre 2016
—Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his quiff.
1er décembre 2016
Just that moment I was thinking.
2 décembre 2016
Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply : spruce figure : passed.
3 décembre 2016
Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him that they she sees ?
4 décembre 2016
Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive.
5 décembre 2016
They sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that.
6 décembre 2016
My nails. I am just looking at them : well pared.
7 décembre 2016
And after : thinking alone. Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that : from remembering.
8 décembre 2016
What causes that ? I suppose the skin can’t contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off.
9 décembre 2016
But the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.
10 décembre 2016
He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.
11 décembre 2016
Mr Power asked :
— How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom ?
12 décembre 2016
—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It’s a good idea, you see...
13 décembre 2016
—Are you going yourself ?
14 décembre 2016
—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to go down to the county Clare on some private business. You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the other.
15 décembre 2016
—Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now. Have you good artists ?
16 décembre 2016
—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes, we’ll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.
17 décembre 2016
—And Madame, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least.
18 décembre 2016
Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.
19 décembre 2016
Smith O’Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his deathday. For many happy returns.
20 décembre 2016
The carriage wheeling by Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
21 décembre 2016
Oot : a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening : oot.
22 décembre 2016
—Four bootlaces for a penny.
23 décembre 2016
Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street. Same house as Molly’s namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible comedown, poor wretch ! Kicked about like snuff at a wake. O’Callaghan on his last legs.
24 décembre 2016
And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean. Doing her hair, humming. voglio e non vorrei. No. vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her voice is : weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a word throstle that expresses that.
25 décembre 2016
His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power’s goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears.
26 décembre 2016
Madame : smiling. I smiled back. A smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow.
27 décembre 2016
Who knows is that true about the woman he keeps ? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was ? Barmaid in Jury’s. Or the Moira, was it ?
28 décembre 2016
They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator’s form.
29 décembre 2016
Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
— Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
30 décembre 2016
A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping round the corner of Elvery’s Elephant house, showed them a curved hand open on his spine.
31 décembre 2016
—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
1er janvier 2017
Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly :
— The devil break the hasp of your back !
2 janvier 2017
Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the carriage passed Gray’s statue.
— We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.
3 janvier 2017
His eyes met Mr Bloom’s eyes.
4 janvier 2017
He caressed his beard, adding :
— Well, nearly all of us.
5 janvier 2017
Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions’ faces.
— That’s an awfully good one that’s going the rounds about Reuben J and the son.
6 janvier 2017
—About the boatman ? Mr Power asked.
7 janvier 2017
—Yes. Isn’t it awfully good ?
8 janvier 2017
—What is that ? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn’t hear it.
9 janvier 2017
—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined to send him to the Isle of Man out of harm’s way but when they were both ...
10 janvier 2017
—What ? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it ?
11 janvier 2017
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried to drown...
12 janvier 2017
—Drown Barabbas ! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did !
13 janvier 2017
Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.
14 janvier 2017
—No, Mr Bloom said, the son himself...
15 janvier 2017
Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely :
— Reuben and the son were piking it down the quay next the river on their way to the Isle of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.
16 janvier 2017
17 janvier 2017
—Dead ! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he ! A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there.
18 janvier 2017
—Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is...
19 janvier 2017
—And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son’s life.
20 janvier 2017
A stifled sigh came from under Mr Power’s hand.
21 janvier 2017
—O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.
22 janvier 2017
—Isn’t it awfully good ? Mr Bloom said eagerly.
23 janvier 2017
—One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily.
24 janvier 2017
Mr Power’s choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage.
25 janvier 2017
26 janvier 2017
—Eight plums a penny ! Eight for a penny !
27 janvier 2017
—We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.
28 janvier 2017
Mr Dedalus sighed.
— Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn’t grudge us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself.
29 janvier 2017
—The Lord forgive me ! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy ! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that I’d be driving after him like this. He’s gone from us.
30 janvier 2017
—As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went very suddenly.
31 janvier 2017
—Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.
He tapped his chest sadly.
1er février 2017
Blazing face : redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it.
2 février 2017
Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension.
— He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.
3 février 2017
—The best death, Mr Bloom said.
4 février 2017
Their wide open eyes looked at him.
5 février 2017
—No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep. No-one spoke.
6 février 2017
7 février 2017
Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents, temper- ance hotel, Falconer’s railway guide, civil service college, Gill’s, catholic club, the industrious blind. Why ? Some reason. Sun or wind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.
8 février 2017
White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourn- ing coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun.
9 février 2017
—Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.
10 février 2017
A dwarf’s face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy’s was. Dwarf’s body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it’s healthy it’s from the mother. If not from the man. Better luck next time.
11 février 2017
—Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It’s well out of it.
12 février 2017
The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns.
13 février 2017
—In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.
14 février 2017
—But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life.
15 février 2017
Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.
16 février 2017
—The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
17 février 2017
—Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it.
18 février 2017
—They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.
19 février 2017
—It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.
20 février 2017
Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again.
21 février 2017
Martin Cunningham’s large eyes. Looking away now.
22 février 2017
Sympathetic human man he is. Intelli- gent. Like Shakespeare’s face. Always a good word to say.
23 février 2017
They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Found in the river- bed clutching rushes. He looked at me.
24 février 2017
And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and caper- ing with Martin’s umbrella.
And they call me the jewel of Asia,
25 février 2017
He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
26 février 2017
That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner’s sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict : overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.
27 février 2017
No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.
28 février 2017
The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.
1er mars 2017
—We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.
2 mars 2017
—God grant he doesn’t upset us on the road, Mr Power said.
3 mars 2017
—I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.
4 mars 2017
—Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.
5 mars 2017
As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly ? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March from Saul. He’s as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette ! The Mater Misericordiae.
6 mars 2017
Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for in- curables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady’s Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died.
7 mars 2017
They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die.
8 mars 2017
Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He’s gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.
9 mars 2017
The carriage galloped round a corner : stopped.
10 mars 2017
—What’s wrong now ?
11 mars 2017
A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear.
12 mars 2017
—Emigrants, Mr Power said.
13 mars 2017
—Huuuh ! the drover’s voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks. Huuuh ! out of that !
14 mars 2017
Thursday, of course. Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter lost : all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla.
15 mars 2017
The carriage moved on through the drove.
16 mars 2017
—I can’t make out why the corporation doesn’t run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats.
17 mars 2017
—Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to.
18 mars 2017
—Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all. Don’t you see what I mean ?
19 mars 2017
—O, that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon diningroom.
20 mars 2017
—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added.
21 mars 2017
—Why ? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn’t it be more decent than galloping two abreast ?
22 mars 2017
—And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn’t have scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy’s and upset the coffin on to the road.
23 mars 2017
—That was terrible, Mr Power’s shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road. Terrible !
24 mars 2017
—First round Dunphy’s, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.
25 mars 2017
—Praises be to God ! Martin Cunningham said piously.
26 mars 2017
Bom ! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face : grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what’s up now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decom- pose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.
27 mars 2017
—Dunphy’s, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.
28 mars 2017
Dunphy’s corner. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we’ll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life.
Ce(tte) œuvre est mise à disposition selon les termes de la Licence Creative Commons Attribution - Partage dans les Mêmes Conditions 3.0 France.