Ulysses

    She has it, she got it,
    wherever she put it,
    the leg of the duck.

(Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his left hand, CHANTS with joy the
introit for PASCHAL time.  Lynch, his JOCKEYCAP low on his brow, ATTENDS
him, A SNEER of discontent WRINKLING his face.)

Stephen:  VIDI AQUAM EGREDIENTEM de TEMPLO A LATERE DEXTRO.  Alleluia.

(The famished SNAGGLETUSKS of an elderly bawd PROTRUDE from A doorway.)

The bawd:  (Her voice whispering HUSKILY) Sst!  Come here till I tell you. 
Maidenhead inside.  Sst!

Stephen:  (ALTIUS ALIQUANTULUM) et OMNES ad QUOS PERVENIT AQUA ISTA.

The bawd:  (SPITS in their trail her jet of VENOM) Trinity medicals. 
Fallopian tube.  All prick and no pence.

(Edy Boardman, sniffling, crouched with Bertha supple, draws her shawl
across her nostrils.)

Edy Boardman:  (BICKERING) And says the one:  I seen you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in his cometobed hat.  Did you, says I. That’s not for you to say, says I. You never seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The likes of her!  Stag that one is!  Stubborn as a mule!  And her walking with two fellows the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant.

Stephen:  (TRIUMPHALITER) SALVI FACTI SUNT.

(He flourishes his ashplant, SHIVERING the lamp image, shattering light
over the world.  A liver and white SPANIEL on the prowl SLINKS after him,
growling.  Lynch SCARES it with A kick.)

Lynch:  So that?

Stephen:  (Looks behind) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm.

Lynch:  Pornosophical philotheology.  Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street!

Stephen:  We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates.  Even the allwisest Stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love.

Lynch:  Ba!

Stephen:  Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug?  This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar.  Hold my stick.

Lynch:  Damn your yellow stick.  Where are we going?

Stephen:  Lecherous lynx, to la belle dame SANS MERCI, Georgina Johnson,
ad DEAM qui LAETIFICAT IUVENTUTEM MEAM.

(Stephen THRUSTS the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands, his
head going back till both hands are A span from his breast, down turned,
in planes INTERSECTING, the fingers about to part, the left being
higher.)

Lynch:  Which is the jug of bread?  It skills not.  That or the customhouse. 
Illustrate thou.  Here take your crutch and walk.

(They pass.  Tommy Caffrey SCRAMBLES to A GASLAMP and, clasping, CLIMBS in
SPASMS. From the top spur he slides down.  Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb. 
The NAVVY LURCHES against the lamp.  The twins SCUTTLE off in the dark. 
The NAVVY, swaying, PRESSES A forefinger against A wing of his nose and
EJECTS from the farther nostril A long liquid jet of snot.  Shouldering
the lamp he STAGGERS away through the crowd with his FLARING CRESSET.

SNAKES of river fog creep slowly.  From drains, CLEFTS, CESSPOOLS, MIDDENS
arise on all sides stagnant fumes.  A glow LEAPS in the south beyond the
seaward reaches of the river.  The NAVVY, staggering forward, CLEAVES the
crowd and LURCHES towards the TRAMSIDING on the farther side under the
railway bridge bloom appears, flushed, panting, cramming bread and
chocolate into A sidepocket.  From GILLEN’S HAIRDRESSER’S window A
composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson’s image.  A concave mirror at
the side presents to him lovelorn LONGLOST LUGUBRU BOOLOOHOOM.  GRAVE
Gladstone sees him level, bloom for bloom.  He passes, struck by the stare
of truculent Wellington, but in the convex mirror grin UNSTRUCK the
BONHAM eyes and FATCHUCK CHEEKCHOPS of JOLLYPOLDY the RIXDIX DOLDY.

At Antonio PABAIOTTI’S door bloom HALTS, sweated under the bright
ARCLAMP.  He DISAPPEARS.  In A moment he REAPPEARS and hurries on.)

Bloom:  Fish and taters.  N. g.  Ah!

(He DISAPPEARS into OLHAUSEN’S, the porkbutcher’s, under the DOWNCOMING
ROLLSHUTTER.  A few moments later he EMERGES from under the shutter,
puffing Poldy, blowing BLOOHOOM.  In each hand he holds A parcel, one
containing A lukewarm pig’s crubeen, the other A cold sheep’s Trotter,
sprinkled with WHOLEPEPPER.  He gasps, standing upright.  Then bending to
one side he PRESSES A parcel against his ribs and GROANS.)

Bloom:  Stitch in my side.  Why did I run?

(He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the LAMPSET
siding.  The glow LEAPS again.)

Bloom:  What is that?  A flasher?  Searchlight.

(He stands at CORMACK’S corner, watching)

Bloom:  Aurora BOREALIS or a steel foundry?  Ah, the brigade, of course.  South side anyhow.  Big blaze.  Might be his house.  Beggar’s bush.  We’re safe. (He HUMS cheerfully) London’s burning, London’s burning!  On fire, on fire! (He catches sight of the NAVVY lurching through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street) I’ll miss him.  Run.  Quick.  Better cross here.

(He DARTS to cross the road.  URCHINS shout.)

The urchins:  Mind out, mister! (Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns
ASWING, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling)

The bells:  Haltyaltyaltyall.

Bloom:  (HALTS erect, STUNG by A spasm) Ow!

(He looks round, DARTS forward suddenly.  Through rising fog A dragon
sandstrewer, travelling at caution, SLEWS heavily down upon him, its huge
red HEADLIGHT winking, its trolley hissing on the wire.  The MOTORMAN
BANGS his FOOTGONG.)

The gong:  Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo.

(The brake cracks violently.  Bloom, raising A Policeman’s WHITEGLOVED
hand, BLUNDERS STIFFLEGGED out of the track.  The MOTORMAN, thrown
forward, pugnosed, on the GUIDEWHEEL, yells as he slides past over chains
and keys.)

The MOTORMAN:  Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?

Bloom:  (Bloom TRICKLEAPS to the curbstone and HALTS again.  He brushes A MUDFLAKE from his cheek with A PARCELLED hand.) No thoroughfare.  Close shave that but cured the stitch.  Must take up Sandow’s exercises again.  On the hands down.  Insure against street accident too.  The Providential.  (He feels his trouser pocket) Poor mamma’s panacea.  Heel easily catch in track or bootlace in a cog.  Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled off my shoe at Leonard’s corner.  Third time is the charm.  Shoe trick.  Insolent driver.  I ought to report him.  Tension makes them nervous.  Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman.  Same style of beauty.  Quick of him all the same.  The stiff walk.  True word spoken in jest.  That awful cramp in Lad lane.  Something poisonous I ate.  Emblem of luck.  Why?  Probably lost cattle.  Mark of the beast. (He closes his eyes an instant) Bit light in the head.  Monthly or effect of the other.  Brainfogfag.  That tired feeling.  Too much for me now.  Ow!

(A sinister figure LEANS on plaited legs against O’BEIRNE’S wall, A
visage unknown, injected with dark MERCURY.  From under A wideleaved
sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye.)

Bloom:  BUENAS NOCHES, senorita BLANCA.  Que Calle ES esta?

The figure:  (IMPASSIVE, RAISES A signal arm) Password.  SRAID MABBOT.

Bloom:  Haha.  MERCI.  Esperanto.  SLAN LEATH. (He MUTTERS) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater.

(He steps forward.  A SACKSHOULDERED RAGMAN bars his path.  He steps left,
RAGSACKMAN left.)

Bloom:  I beg. (He SWERVES, SIDLES, Stepaside, slips past and on.)

Bloom:  Keep to the right, right, right.  If there is a signpost planted by the Touring Club at Stepaside who procured that public boon?  I who lost my way and contributed to the columns of the irish cyclist the letter headed in darkest Stepaside.  Keep, keep, keep to the right.  Rags and bones at midnight.  A fence more likely.  First place murderer makes for.  Wash off his sins of the world.

(Jacky Caffrey, HUNTED by Tommy Caffrey, runs full tilt against bloom.)