—I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.
He broke away.
—Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Ængus of the birds.
Come, Kinch, you have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts and offals.
Stephen rose.
Life is many days. This will end.
—We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.
Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.
—Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland. I’ll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk straight?
Laughing he…
Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.
Lubber…
Stephen followed a lubber…
One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After his lub back I followed. I gall his kibe.
Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thoughts.
What have I learned? Of them? Of me?
Walk like Haines now.
The constant readers’ room. In the readers’ book Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet mad? The quaker’s pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.
—O please do, sir… I shall be most pleased…
Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:
—A pleased bottom.
The turnstile.
Is that?… Blueribboned hat… Idly writing… What? Looked?…
The curving balustrade; smoothsliding Mincius.
