The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 042

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641291The Annotated "Ulysses"Page 042James Joyce

you for murder somewhere. Justice. 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.

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget : a dispos-
sessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post
office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes.
Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang
shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place
clack back. 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.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery
Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their
pintpots, loudlatinlaughing : Euge! Euge! 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 :

Mother dying come home father.

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.

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. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there,
the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of
farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air.
Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, the kerchiefed housewife
is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hands. 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 bréton. Faces of Paris men
go by, their well pleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Annotations[edit]