amy on some school break, i forced myself through Portrait because i had a lit professor who glowed about Joyce and Portrait. i say forced because everytime i picked it up i was falling asleep in like five minutes, so i would make myself stay awake to finish the stupid little Dover paperback. needless to say, i wasn't really paying attention and didn't really follow. however, i have a vivid memory of me waiting outside a suburban courthouse with my troublemaker brother, reading the book. the artist seemed to be breaking through his concepts of heaven, hell, purgatory, limbo. again, i didn't really get it, but i thought jesus christ what an effort. it was that day that i thanked my lucky stars i wasn't catholic. (however my mom tells me that catholics really aren't religious at all, and she should have raised us catholic.)

just read girlish, since my attention span for blather is now, and i was frankly captivated. the kind of thing that makes you wish you were a boy.
Quintessensual about being raised catholic, both you and your mom were right.

about wishing to be a boy, i don't get why. you, a girl, could have done and appreciated, although probably in a somewhat different way, everything the boy in the "girlish"/"boyish" passage from Portrait did and appreciated. my hunch is that the way of appreciating that a boy would have, averaged over all of the beautiful women and men he would observe over his lifetime, is not better than what a girl would have, averaged over all of the beautiful women and men she would observe over her lifetime. by "beautiful" i mean not only physical but also spiritual/mental beauty.
amy then i must be thanking my stars for "ish"es. 991210
tarin without whom terence mckenna would have never surfed finnegans wake...

in that particular form, that is.
joyce ONCE upon a time and
a very good time it was
there was a moocow
coming down along the
road and this moocow
that was coming down
along the road met a
nicens little boy named
baby tuckoo....

His father told him that
story: his father looked
at him through a glass:
he had a hairy face.

He was baby tuckoo.
The moocow came
down the road where
Betty Byrne lived: she
sold lemon platt.

O, the wild rose blossoms
On the little green place.

He sang that song. That
was his song.

O, the green wothe botheth.

When you wet the bed
first it is warm then it
gets cold. His mother
put on the oilsheet.
That had the queer

His mother had a nicer
smell than his father.
She played on the
piano the sailor's
hornpipe for him to
dance. He danced:

Tralala lala
Tralala tralaladdy
Tralala lala
Tralala lala.

Uncle Charles and
Dante clapped. They
were older than his
father and mother but
uncle Charles was
older than Dante.

Dante had two brushes
in her press. The brush
with the maroon velvet
back was for Michael
Davitt and the brush
with the green velvet
back was for Parnell.
Dante gave him a
cachou every time he
brought her a piece of
tissue paper.

The Vances lived in
number seven. They
had a different father
and mother. They were
Eileen's father and
mother. When they
were grown up he was
going to marry Eileen.
He hid under the table.
His mother said:

-O, Stephen will

Dante said:

-O, if not, the eagles will come and pull
out his eyes.
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes.
Pull out his eyes,
Pull out his eyes,

* * *

The wide playgrounds
were swarming with
boys. All were shouting
and the prefects urged
them on with strong
cries. The evening air
was pale and chilly and
after every charge and
thud of the footballers
the greasy leather orb
flew like a heavy bird
through the grey light.
He kept on the fringe
of his line, out of sight
of his prefect, out of
the reach of the rude
feet, feigning to run
now and then. He felt
his body small and
weak amid the throng
of players and his eyes
were weak and watery.
Rody Kickham was not
like that: he would be
captain of the third line
all the fellows said.

Rody Kickham was a
decent fellow but Nasty
Roche was a stink.
Rody Kickham had
greaves in his number
and a hamper in the
refectory. Nasty Roche
had big hands. He
called the Friday
And one day he had

-What is your name?

Stephen had

-Stephen Dedalus.

Then Nasty Roche had

-What kind of a name is

And when Stephen had
not been able to
answer Nasty Roche
had asked:

-What is your father?

Stephen had

-A gentleman.

Then Nasty Roche had

-Is he a magistrate?

He crept about from
point to point on the
fringe of his line,
making little runs now
and then. But his hands
were bluish with cold.
He kept his hands in
the sidepockets of his
belted grey suit. That
was a belt round his
pocket. And belt was
also to give a fellow a
belt. One day a fellow
had said to Cantwell:

-I'd give you such a belt
in a second.

Cantwell had

-Go and fight your
match. Give Cecil
Thunder a belt. I'd like
to see you. He'd give
you a toe in the rump
for yourself.

That was not a nice
expression. His mother
had told him not to
speak with the rough
boys in the college.
Nice mother! The first
day in the hall of the
castle when she had
said goodbye she had
put up her veil double
to her nose to kiss him:
and her nose and eyes
were red. But he had
pretended not to see
that she was going to
cry. She was a nice
mother but she was not
so nice when she cried.
And his father had
given him two
fiveshilling pieces for
pocket money. And his
father had told him if
he wanted anything to
write home to him and,
whatever he did, never
to peach on a fellow.
Then at the door of the
castle the rector had
shaken hands with his
father and mother, his
soutane fluttering in
the breeze, and the car
had driven off with his
father and mother on
it. They had cried to
him from the car,
waving their hands:

-Goodbye, Stephen,

-Goodbye, Stephen,

He was caught in the
whirl of a scrimmage
and, fearful of the
flashing eyes and
muddy boots, bent
down to look through
the legs. The fellows
were struggling and
groaning and their legs
were rubbing and
kicking and stamping.
Then Jack Lawton's
yellow boots dodged
out the ball and all the
other boots and legs
ran after. He ran after
them a little way and
then stopped. It was
useless to run on. Soon
they would be going
home for the holidays.
After supper in the
studyhall he would
change the number
pasted up inside his
desk from
seventyseven to

It would be better to be
in the studyhall than
out there in the cold.
The sky was pale and
cold but there were
lights in the castle. He
wondered from which
window Hamilton
Rowan had thrown his
hat on the haha and
had there been
flowerbeds at that time
under the windows.
One day when he had
been called to the
castle the butler had
shown him the marks
of the soldiers' slugs in
the wood of the door
and had given him a
piece of shortbread
that the community
ate. It was nice and
warm to see the lights
in the castle. It was like
something in a book.
Perhaps Leicester
Abbey was like that.
And there were nice
sentences in Doctor
Cornwell's Spelling
Book. They were like
poetry but they were
only sentences to learn
the spelling from.

Wolsey died in Leicester Abbey
Where the abbots buried him.
Canker is a disease of plants,
Cancer one of animals.

It would be nice to lie
on the hearthrug
before the fire, leaning
his head upon his
hands, and think on
those sentences. He
shivered as if he had
cold slimy water next
his skin. That was mean
of Wells to shoulder
him into the square
ditch because he would
not swop his little
snuffbox for Wells's
seasoned hacking
chestnut, the
conqueror of forty.
How cold and slimy the
water had been! A
fellow had once seen a
big rat jump into the
scum. Mother was
sitting at the fire with
Dante waiting for
Brigid to bring in the
tea. She had her feet on
the fender and her
jewelly slippers were
so hot and they had
such a lovely warm
smell! Dante knew a lot
of things. She had
taught him where the
Mozambique Channel
was and what was the
longest river in
America and what was
the name of the highest
mountain in the moon.
Father Arnall knew
more than Dante
because he was a priest
but both his father and
uncle Charles said that
Dante was a clever
woman and a wellread
woman. And when
Dante made that noise
after dinner and then
put up her hand to her
mouth: that was

A voice cried far out on
the playground:

-All in!

Then other voices cried
from the lower and
third lines:

-All in! All in!

The players closed
around, flushed and
muddy, and he went
among them, glad to go
in. Rody Kickham held
the ball by its greasy
lace. A fellow asked
him to give it one last:
but he walked on
without even
answering the fellow.
Simon Moonan told
him not to because the
prefect was looking.
The fellow turned to
Simon Moonan and

-We all know why you
speak. You are
McGlade's suck.

Suck was a queer word.
The fellow called
Simon Moonan that
name because Simon
Moonan used to tie the
prefect's false sleeves
behind his back and the
prefect used to let on
to be angry. But the
sound was ugly. Once
he had washed his
hands in the lavatory
of the Wicklow Hotel
and his father pulled
the stopper up by the
chain after and the
dirty water went down
through the hole in the
basin. And when it had
all gone down slowly
the hole in the basin
had made a sound like
that: suck. Only

To remember that and
the white look of the
lavatory made him feel
cold and then hot.
There were two cocks
that you turned and
water came out: cold
and hot. He felt cold
and then a little hot:
and he could see the
names printed on the
cocks. That was a very
queer thing.

And the air in the
corridor chilled him
too. It was queer and
wettish. But soon the
gas would be lit and in
burning it made a light
noise like a little song.
Always the same: and
when the fellows
stopped talking in the
playroom you could
hear it.

It was the hour for
sums. Father Arnall
wrote a hard sum on
the board and then

-Now then, who will
win? Go ahead, York!
Go ahead, Lancaster!

Stephen tried his best
but the sum was too
hard and he felt
confused. The little silk
badge with the white
rose on it that was
pinned on the breast of
his jacket began to
flutter. He was no good
at sums but he tried his
best so that York might
not lose. Father
Arnall's face looked
very black but he was
not in a wax: he was
laughing. Then Jack
Lawton cracked his
fingers and Father
Arnall looked at his
copybook and said:

-Right. Right. Bravo
Lancaster! The red
rose wins. Come on
now, York! Forge

Jack Lawton looked
over from his side. The
little silk badge with
the red rose on it
looked very rich
because he had a blue
sailor top on. Stephen
felt his own face red
too, thinking of all the
bets about who would
get first place in
elements, Jack Lawton
or he. Some weeks
Jack Lawton got the
card for first and some
weeks he got the card
for first. His white silk
badge fluttered and
fluttered as he worked
at the next sum and
heard Father Arnall's
voice. Then all his
eagerness passed away
and he felt his face
quite cool. He thought
his face must be white
because it felt so cool.
He could not get out
the answer for the sum
but it did not matter.
White roses and red
roses: those were
beautiful colours to
think of. And the cards
for first place and
second place and third
place were beautiful
colours too: pink and
cream and lavender.
Lavender and cream
and pink roses were
beautiful to think of.
Perhaps a wild rose
might be like those
colours and he
remembered the song
about the wild rose
blossoms on the little
green place. But you
could not have a green
rose. But perhaps
somewhere in the
world you could.

The bell rang and then
the classes began to file
out of the rooms and
along the corridors
towards the refectory.
He sat looking at the
two prints of butter on
his plate but could not
eat the damp bread.
The tablecloth was
damp and limp. But he
drank off the hot weak
tea which the clumsy
scullion, girt with a
white apron, poured
into his cup. He
wondered whether the
scullion's apron was
damp too or whether
all white things were
cold and damp. Nasty
Roche and Saurin
drank cocoa that their
people sent them in
tins. They said they
could not drink the tea;
that it was hogwash.
Their fathers were
magistrates, the
fellows said.

All the boys seemed to
him very strange. They
had all fathers and
mothers and different
clothes and voices. He
longed to be at home
and lay his head on his
mother's lap. But he
could not: and so he
longed for the play and
study and prayers to be
over and to be in bed.

He drank another cup
of hot tea and Fleming

-What's up? Have you a
pain or what's up with

-I don't know, Stephen

-Sick in your
breadbasket, Fleming
said, because your face
looks white. It will go

-O yes, Stephen said.

But he was not sick
there. He thought that
he was sick in his heart
if you could be sick in
that place. Fleming was
very decent to ask him.
He wanted to cry. He
leaned his elbows on
the table and shut and
opened the flaps of his
ears. Then he heard the
noise of the refectory
every time he opened
the flaps of his ears. It
made a roar like a train
at night. And when he
closed the flaps the
roar was shut off like a
train going into a
tunnel. That night at
Dalkey the train had
roared like that and
then, when it went into
the tunnel, the roar
stopped. He closed his
eyes and the train went
on, roaring and then
stopping; roaring
again, stopping. It was
nice to hear it roar and
stop and then roar out
of the tunnel again and
then stop.

Then the higher line
fellows began to come
down along the matting
in the middle of the
refectory, Paddy Rath
and Jimmy Magee and
the Spaniard who was
allowed to smoke
cigars and the little
Portuguese who wore
the woolly cap. And
then the lower line
tables and the tables of
the third line. And
every single fellow had
a different way of

He sat in a corner of
the playroom
pretending to watch a
game of dominos and
once or twice he was
able to hear for an
instant the little song
of the gas. The prefect
was at the door with
some boys and Simon
Moonan was knotting
his false sleeves. He
was telling them
something about

Then he went away
from the door and
Wells came over to
Stephen and said:

-Tell us, Dedalus, do
you kiss your mother
before you go to bed?

Stephen answered:

-I do.

Wells turned to the
other fellows and said:

- O, I say, here's a
fellow says he kisses
his mother every night
before he goes to bed.

The other fellows
stopped their game and
turned round,
laughing. Stephen
blushed under their
eyes and said:

-I do not.

Wells said:

-O, I say, here's a
fellow says he doesn't
kiss his mother before
he goes to bed.

They all laughed again.
Stephen tried to laugh
with them. He felt his
whole body hot and
confused in a moment.
What was the right
answer to the question?
He had given two and
still Wells laughed. But
Wells must know the
right answer for he was
in third of grammar.
He tried to think of
Wells's mother but he
did not dare to raise his
eyes to Wells's face. He
did not like Wells's
face. It was Wells who
had shouldered him
into the square ditch
the day before because
he would not swop his
little snuffbox for
Wells's seasoned
hacking chestnut, the
conqueror of forty. It
was a mean thing to do;
all the fellows said it
was. And how cold and
slimy the water had
been! And a fellow had
once seen a big rat
jump plop into the

The cold slime of the
ditch covered his
whole body; and, when
the bell ring for study
and the lines filed out
of the playrooms, he
felt the cold air of the
corridor and staircase
inside his clothes. He
still tried to think what
was the right answer.
Was it right to kiss his
mother or wrong to
kiss his mother? What
did that mean, to kiss?
You put your face up
like that to say
goodnight and then his
mother put her face
down. That was to kiss.
His mother put her lips
on his cheek; her lips
were soft and they
wetted his cheek; and
they made a tiny little
noise: kiss. Why did
people do that with
their two faces?

Sitting in the studyhall
he opened the lid of his
desk and changed the
number pasted up
inside from
seventyseven to
seventysix. But the
Christmas vacation was
very far away: but one
time it would come
because the earth
moved round always.

There was a picture of
the earth on the first
page of his geography:
a big ball in the middle
of clouds. Fleming had
a box of crayons and
one night during free
study he had coloured
the earth green and the
clouds maroon. That
was like the two
brushes in Dante's
press, the brush with
the green velvet back
for Parnell and the
brush with the maroon
velvet back for Michael
Davitt. But he had not
told Fleming to colour
them those colours.
Fleming had done it

He opened the
geography to study the
lesson; but he could not
learn the names of
places in America. Still
they were all different
places that had those
different names. They
were all in different
countries and the
countries were in
continents and the
continents were in the
world and the world
was in the universe.

He turned to the flyleaf
of the geography and
read what he had
written there: himself,
his name and where he

Stephen Dedalus
Class of Elements
Clongowes Wood College
County Kildare
The World
The Universe

That was in his writing:
and Fleming one night
for a cod had written
on the opposite page:

Stephen Dedalus is my name,
Ireland is my nation.
Clongowes is my dwelling place
And heaven my expectation.

He read the verses
backwards but then
they were not poetry.
Then he read the
flyleaf from the bottom
to the top till he came
to his own name. That
was he: and he read
down the page again.
What was after the
universe? Nothing. But
was there anything
round the universe to
show where it stopped
before the nothing
place began? It could
not be a wall but there
could be a thin thin line
there all round
everything. It was very
big to think about
everything and
everywhere. Only God
could do that. He tried
to think what a big
thought that must be
but he could think only
of God. God was God's
name just as his name
was Stephen. Dieu was
the French for God and
that was God's name
too; and when anyone
prayed to God and said
Dieu then God knew at
once that it was a
French person that was
praying. But though
there were different
names for God in all
the different languages
in the world and God
understood what all
the people who prayed
said in their different
languages still God
remained always the
same God and God's
real name was God.

It made him very tired
to think that way. It
made him feel his head
very big. He turned
over the flyleaf and
looked wearily at the
green round earth in
the middle of the
maroon clouds. He
wondered which was
right, to be for the
green or for the
maroon, because Dante
had ripped the green
velvet back off the
brush that was for
Parnell one day with
her scissors and had
told him that Parnell
was a bad man. He
wondered if they were
arguing at home about
that. That was called
politics. There were
two sides in it: Dante
was on one side and his
father and Mr Casey
were on the other side
but his mother and
uncle Charles were on
no side. Every day
there was something in
the paper about it.

It pained him that he
did not know well what
politics meant and that
he did not know where
the universe ended. He
felt small and weak.
When would he be like
the fellows in poetry
and rhetoric? They had
big voices and big
boots and they studied
trigonometry. That was
very far away. First
came the vacation and
then the next term and
then vacation again
and then again another
term and then again
the vacation. It was like
a train going in and out
of tunnels and that was
like the noise of the
boys eating in the
refectory when you
opened and closed the
flaps of the ears. Term,
vacation; tunnel, out;
noise, stop. How far
away it was! It was
better to go to bed to
sleep. Only prayers in
the chapel and then
bed. He shivered and
yawned. It would be
lovely in bed after the
sheets got a bit hot.
First they were so cold
to get into. He shivered
to think how cold they
were first. But then
they got hot and then
he could sleep. It was
lovely to be tired. He
yawned again. Night
prayers and then bed:
he shivered and
wanted to yawn. It
would be lovely in a
few minutes. He felt a
warm glow creeping up
from the cold shivering
sheets, warmer and
warmer till he felt
warm all over, ever so
warm; ever so warm
and yet he shivered a
little and still wanted
to yawn.

The bell rang for night
prayers and he filed
out of the studyhall
after the others and
down the staircase and
along the corridors to
the chapel. The
corridors were darkly
lit and the chapel was
darkly lit. Soon all
would be dark and
sleeping. There was
cold night air in the
chapel and the marbles
were the colour the sea
was at night. The sea
was cold day and night:
but it was colder at
night. It was cold and
dark under the seawall
beside his father's
house. But the kettle
would be on the hob to
make punch.

The prefect of the
chapel prayed above
his head and his
memory knew the

O Lord, open our lips
And our mouth shall announce Thy
Incline unto our aid, O God!
O Lord, make haste to help us!

There was a cold night
smell in the chapel. But
it was a holy smell. It
was not like the smell
of the old peasants who
knelt at the back of the
chapel at Sunday mass.
That was a smell of air
and rain and turf and
corduroy. But they
were very holy
peasants. They
breathed behind him
on his neck and sighed
as they prayed. They
lived in Clane, a fellow
said: there were little
cottages there and he
had seen a woman
standing at the
halfdoor of a cottage
with a child in her
arms, as the cars had
come past from Sallins.
It would be lovely to
sleep for one night in
that cottage before the
fire of smoking turf, in
the dark lit by the fire,
in the warm dark,
breathing the smell of
the peasants, air and
rain and turf and
corduroy. But, O, the
road there between the
trees was dark! You
would be lost in the
dark. It made him
afraid to think of how
it was.

He heard the voice of
the prefect of the
chapel saying the last
prayer. He prayed it
too against the dark
outside under the

Visit, we beseech Thee,
O Lord, this habitation
and drive away from it
all the snares of the
enemy. May Thy holy
angels dwell herein to
preserve us in peace
and may Thy blessing
be always upon us
through Christ, Our
Lord. Amen.

His fingers trembled as
he undressed himself in
the dormitory. He told
his fingers to hurry up.
He had to undress and
then kneel and say his
own prayers and be in
bed before the gas was
lowered so that he
might not go to hell
when he died. He
rolled his stockings off
and put on his
nightshirt quickly and
knelt trembling at his
bedside and repeated
his prayers quickly
quickly, fearing that
the gas would go down.
He felt his shoulders
shaking as he

God bless my father
and my mother and
spare them to me!

God bless my little
brothers and sisters
and spare them to me!

God bless Dante and
uncle Charles and
spare them to me!

He blessed himself and
climbed quickly into
bed and, tucking the
end of the nightshirt
under his feet, curled
himself together under
the cold white sheets,
shaking and trembling.
But he would not go to
hell when he died; and
the shaking would stop.
A voice bade the boys
in the dormitory
goodnight. He peered
out for an instant over
the coverlet and saw
the yellow curtains
round and before his
bed that shut him off
on all sides. The light
was lowered quietly.

The prefect's shoes
went away. Where?
Down the staircase and
along the corridors or
to his room at the end?
He saw the dark. Was it
true about the black
dog that walked there
at night with eyes as
big as carriagelamps?
They said it was the
ghost of a murderer. A
long shiver of fear
flowed over his body.
He saw the dark
entrance hall of the
castle. Old servants in
old dress were in the
ironingroom above the
staircase. It was long
ago. The old servants
were quiet. There was
a fire there but the hall
was still dark. A figure
came up the staircase
from the hall. He wore
the white cloak of a
marshal; his face was
pale and strange; he
held his hand pressed
to his side. He looked
out of strange eyes at
the old servants. They
looked at him and saw
their master's face and
cloak and knew that he
had received his
deathwound. But only
the dark was where
they looked: only dark
silent air. Their master
had received his
deathwound on the
battlefield of Prague
far away over the sea.
He was standing on the
field; his hand was
pressed to his side; his
face was pale and
strange and he wore
the white cloak of a

O how cold and strange
it was to think of that!
All the dark was cold
and strange. There
were pale strange faces
there, great eyes like
carriagelamps. They
were the ghosts of
murderers, the figures
of marshals who had
received their
deathwound on
battlefields far away
over the sea. What did
they wish to say that
their faces were so

Visit, we beseech Thee,
O Lord, this habitation
and drive away from it

Going home for the
holidays! That would
be lovely: the fellows
had told him. Getting
up on the cars in the
early wintry morning
outside the door of the
castle. The cars were
rolling on the gravel.
Cheers for the rector!

Hurray! Hurray!

The cars drove past the
chapel and all caps
were raised. They
drove merrily along
the country roads. The
drivers pointed with
their whips to
Bodenstown. The
fellows cheered. They
passed the farmhouse
of the Jolly Farmer.
Cheer after cheer after
cheer. Through Clane
they drove, cheering
and cheered. The
peasant women stood
at the halfdoors, the
men stood here and
there. The lovely smell
there was in the wintry
air: the smell of Clane:
rain and wintry air and
turf smouldering and

The train was full of
fellows: a long long
chocolate train with
cream facings. The
guards went to and fro
opening, closing,
locking, unlocking the
doors. They were men
in dark blue and silver;
they had silvery
whistles and their keys
made a quick music:
click, click: click, click.

And the train raced on
over the flat lands and
past the Hill of Allen.
The telegraphpoles
were passing, passing.
The train went on and
on. It knew. There
were coloured lanterns
in the hall of his
father's house and
ropes of green
branches. There were
holly and ivy round the
pierglass and holly and
ivy, green and red,
twined round the
chandeliers. There
were red holly and
green ivy round the old
portraits on the walls.
Holly and ivy for him
and for Christmas.


All the people.
Welcome home,
Stephen! Noises of
welcome. His mother
kissed him. Was that
right? His father was a
marshal now: higher
than a magistrate.
Welcome home,


There was a noise of
curtainrings running
back along the rods, of
water being splashed in
the basins. There was a
noise of rising and
dressing and washing
in the dormitory: a
noise of clapping of
hands as the prefect
went up and down
telling the fellows to
look sharp. A pale
sunlight showed the
yellow curtains drawn
back, the tossed beds.
His bed was very hot
and his face and body
were very hot.

He got up and sat on
the side of his bed. He
was weak. He tried to
pull on his stocking. It
had a horrid rough
feel. The sunlight was
queer and cold.

Fleming said

-Are you not well?

He did not know; and
Fleming said:

-Get back into bed. I'll
tell McGlade you're not

-He's sick.

-Who is?

-Tell McGlade.

-Get back into bed.

-Is he sick?

A fellow held his arms
while he loosened the
stocking clinging to his
foot and climbed back
into the hot bed.

He crouched down
between the sheets,
glad of their tepid
glow. He heard the
fellows talk among
themselves about him
as they dressed for
mass. It was a mean
thing to do, to shoulder
him into the square
ditch, they were

Then their voices
ceased; they had gone.
A voice at his bed said:

-Dedalus, don't spy on
us, sure you won't?

Wells's face was there.
He looked at it and saw
that Wells was afraid.

-I didn't mean to. Sure
you won't?

His father had told
him, whatever he did,
never to peach on a
fellow. He shook his
head and answered no
and felt glad. Wells

-I didn't mean to,
honour bright. It was
only for cod. I'm sorry.

The face and the voice
went away. Sorry
because he was afraid.
Afraid that it was some
disease. Canker was a
disease of plants and
cancer one of animals:
or another different.
That was a long time
ago then out on the
playgrounds in the
evening light, creeping
from point to point on
the fringe of his line, a
heavy bird flying low
through the grey light.
Leicester Abbey lit up.
Wolsey died there. The
abbots buried him

It was not Wells's face,
it was the prefect's. He
was not foxing. No, no:
he was sick really. He
was not foxing. And he
felt the prefect's hand
on his forehead; and he
felt his forehead warm
and damp against the
prefect's cold damp
hand. That was the way
a rat felt, slimy and
damp and cold. Every
rat had two eyes to
look out of. Sleek slimy
coats, little little feet
tucked up to jump,
black shiny eyes to
look out of. They could
understand how to
jump. But the minds of
rats could not
trigonometry. When
they were dead they
lay on their sides. Their
coats dried then. They
were only dead things.

The prefect was there
again and it was his
voice that was saying
that he was to get up,
that Father Minister
had said he was to get
up and dress and go to
the infirmary. And
while he was dressing
himself as quickly as he
could the prefect said:

-We must pack off to
Brother Michael
because we have the
collywobbles! Terrible
thing to have the
collywobbles! How we
wobble when we have
the collywobbles!

He was very decent to
say that. That was all to
make him laugh. But he
could not laugh
because his cheeks and
lips were all shivery:
and then the prefect
had to laugh by

The prefect cried:

-Quick march!
Hayfoot! Strawfoot!

They went together
down the staircase and
along the corridor and
past the bath. As he
passed the door he
remembered with a
vague fear the warm
bogwater, the warm
moist air, the noise of
plunges, the smell of
the towels, like

Brother Michael was
standing at the door of
the infirmary and from
the door of the dark
cabinet on his right
came a smell like
medicine. That came
from the bottles on the
shelves. The prefect
spoke to Brother
Michael and Brother
Michael answered and
called the prefect sir.
He had reddish hair
mixed with grey and a
queer look. It was
queer that he would
always be a brother. It
was queer too that you
could not call him sir
because he was a
brother and had a
different kind of look.
Was he not holy enough
or why could he not
catch up on the others?

There were two beds in
the room and in one
bed there was a fellow:
and when they went in
he called out:

-Hello! It's young
Dedalus! What's up?

-The sky is up, Brother
Michael said.

He was a fellow out of
the third of grammar
and, while Stephen was
undressing, he asked
Brother Michael to
bring him a round of
buttered toast.

-Ah, do! he said.

-Butter you up! said
Brother Michael. You'll
get your walking
papers in the morning
when the doctor

-Will I? the fellow said.
I'm not well yet.

Brother Michael

-You'll get your
walking papers, I tell

He bent down to rake
the fire. He had a long
back like the long back
of a tramhorse. He
shook the poker
gravely and nodded his
head at the fellow out
of third of grammar.

Then Brother Michael
went away and after a
while the fellow out of
third of grammar
turned in towards the
wall and fell asleep.

That was the infirmary.
He was sick then. Had
they written home to
tell his mother and
father? But it would be
quicker for one of the
priests to go himself to
tell them. Or he would
write a letter for the
priest to bring.

Dear Mother

I am sick. I want to go
home. Please come and
take me home. I am in
the infirmary.

Your fond son,

How far away they
were! There was cold
sunlight outside the
window. He wondered
if he would die. You
could die just the same
on a sunny day. He
might die before his
mother came. Then he
would have a dead
mass in the chapel like
the way the fellows had
told him it was when
Little had died. All the
fellows would be at the
mass, dressed in black,
all with sad faces. Wells
too would be there but
no fellow would look at
him. The rector would
be there in a cope of
black and gold and
there would be tall
yellow candles on the
altar and round the
catafalque. And they
would carry the coffin
out of the chapel
slowly and he would be
buried in the little
graveyard of the
community off the
main avenue of limes.
And Wells would be
sorry then for what he
had done. And the bell
would toll slowly.

He could hear the
tolling. He said over to
himself the song that
Brigid had taught him.

Dingdong! The castle bell!
Farewell, my mother!
Bury me in the old churchyard
Beside my eldest brother.
My coffin shall be black,
Six angels at my back,
Two to sing and two to pray
And two to carry my soul away.

How beautiful and sad
that was! How
beautiful the words
were where they said
Bury me in the old
churchyard! A tremor
passed over his body.
How sad and how
beautiful! He wanted to
cry quietly but not for
himself: for the words,
so beautiful and sad,
like music. The bell!
The bell! Farewell! O

The cold sunlight was
weaker and Brother
Michael was standing
at his bedside with a
bowl of beeftea. He
was glad for his mouth
was hot and dry. He
could hear them
playing on the
playgrounds. And the
day was going on in the
college just as if he
were there.

Then Brother Michael
was going away and the
fellow out of third of
grammar told him to be
sure and come back
and tell him all the
news in the paper. He
told Stephen that his
name was Athy and
that his father kept a
lot of racehorses that
were spiffing jumpers
and that his father
would give a good tip
to Brother Michael any
time he wanted it
because Brother
Michael was very
decent and always told
him the news out of the
paper they got every
day up in the castle.
There was every kind
of news in the paper:
accidents, shipwrecks,
sports and politics.

-Now it is all about
politics in the paper, he
said. Do your people
talk about that too?

-Yes, Stephen said.

-Mine too, he said.

Then he thought for a
moment and said:

-You have a queer
name, Dedalus, and I
have a queer name too,
Athy. My name is the
name of a town. Your
name is like Latin.

Then he asked:

-Are you good at

-Not very good.

Then he said:

- Can you answer me
this one? Why is the
county Kildare like the
leg of a fellow's

Stephen thought what
could be the answer
and then said:

-I give it up.

-Because there is a
thigh in it, he said. Do
you see the joke? Athy
is the town in the
county Kildare and a
thigh is the other

-O, I see, Stephen said.

-That's an old riddle,
he said.

After a moment he

-I say!

-What? asked Stephen.

-You know, he said,
you can ask that riddle
another way?

-Can you? said

-The same riddle, he
said. Do you know the
other way to ask it?

-No, said Stephen.

-Can you not think of
the other way? he said.

He looked at Stephen
over the bedclothes as
he spoke. Then he lay
back on the pillow and

-There is another way
but I won't tell you
what it is.

Why did he not tell it?
His father, who kept
the racehorses, must be
a magistrate too like
Saurin's father and
Nasty Roche's father.
He thought of his own
father, of how he sang
songs while his mother
played and of how he
always gave him a
shilling when he asked
for sixpence and he felt
sorry for him that he
was not a magistrate
like the other boys'
fathers. Then why was
he sent to that place
with them? But his
father had told him
that he would be no
stranger there because
his granduncle had
presented in address to
the liberator there fifty
years before. You
could know the people
of that time by their
old dress. It seemed to
him a solemn time: and
he wondered if that
was the time when the
fellows in Clongowes
wore blue coats with
brass buttons and
yellow waistcoats and
caps of rabbitskin and
drank beer like
grownup people and
kept greyhounds of
their own to course the
hares with.

He looked at the
window and saw that
the daylight had grown
weaker. There would
be cloudy grey light
over the playgrounds.
There was no noise on
the playgrounds. The
class must be doing the
themes or perhaps
Father Arnall was
reading a legend out of
the book.

It was queer that they
had not given him any
medicine. Perhaps
Brother Michael would
bring it back when he
came. They said you
got stinking stuff to
drink when you were
in the infirmary. But he
felt better now than
before. It would be
nice getting better
slowly. You could get a
book then. There was a
book in the library
about Holland. There
were lovely foreign
names in it and
pictures of
strangelooking cities
and ships. It made you
feel so happy.

How pale the light was
at the window! But that
was nice. The fire rose
and fell on the wall. It
was like waves.
Someone had put coal
on and he heard voices.
They were talking. It
was the noise of the
waves. Or the waves
were talking among
themselves as they rose
and fell.

He saw the sea of
waves, long dark waves
rising and falling, dark
under the moonless
night. A tiny light
twinkled at the
pierhead where the
ship was entering: and
he saw a multitude of
people gathered by the
waters' edge to see the
ship that was entering
their harbour. A tall
man stood on the deck,
looking out towards
the flat dark land: and
by the light at the
pierhead he saw his
face, the sorrowful
face of Brother

He saw him lift his
hand towards the
people and heard him
say in a loud voice of
sorrow over the

-He is dead. We saw
him lying upon the

A wail of sorrow went
up from the people.

-Parnell! Parnell! He is

They fell upon their
knees, moaning in

And he saw Dante in a
maroon velvet dress
and with a green velvet
mantle hanging from
her shoulders walking
proudly and silently
past the people who
knelt by the waters'

* * *

A great fire, banked
high and red, flamed in
the grate and under the
ivytwined branches of
the chandelier the
Christmas table was
spread. They had come
home a little late and
still dinner was not
ready: but it would be
ready in a jiffy, his
mother had said. They
were waiting for the
door to open and for
the servants to come in,
holding the big dishes
covered with their
heavy metal covers.

All were waiting: uncle
Charles, who sat far
away in the shadow of
the window, Dante and
Mr Casey, who sat in
the easychairs at either
side of the hearth,
Stephen, seated on a
chair between them,
his feet resting on the
toasted boss. Mr
Dedalus looked at
himself in the pierglass
above the mantelpiece,
waxed out his
moustache-ends and
then, parting his
coattails, stood with his
back to the glowing
fire: and still, from
time to time, he
withdrew a hand from
his coattail to wax out
one of his
moustache-ends. Mr
Casey leaned his head
to one side and,
smiling, tapped the
gland of his neck with
his fingers. And
Stephen smiled too for
he knew now that it
was not true that Mr
Casey had a purse of
silver in his throat. He
smiled to think how the
silvery noise which Mr
Casey used to make
had deceived him. And
when he had tried to
open Mr Casey's hand
to see if the purse of
silver was hidden there
he had seen that the
fingers could not be
straightened out: and
Mr Casey had told him
that he had got those
three cramped fingers
making a birthday
present for Queen

Mr Casey tapped the
gland of his neck and
smiled at Stephen with
sleepy eyes: and Mr
Dedalus said to him:

-Yes. Well now, that's
all right. O, we had a
good walk, hadn't we,
John? Yes... I wonder if
there's any likelihood
of dinner this evening.
Yes.... O, well now, we
got a good breath of
ozone round the Head
today. Ay, bedad.

He turned to Dante and

-You didn't stir out at
all, Mrs Riordan?

Dante frowned and
said shortly:


Mr Dedalus dropped
his coattails and went
over to the side-board.
He brought forth a
great stone jar of
whisky from the locker
and filled the decanter
slowly, bending now
and then to see how
much he had poured in.
Then replacing the jar
in the locker he poured
a little of the whisky
into two glasses, added
a little water and came
back with them to the

-A thimbleful, John, he
said, just to whet your

Mr Casey took the
glass, drank, and
placed it near him on
the mantelpiece. Then
he said:

-Well, I can't help
thinking of our friend

He broke into a fit of
laughter and coughing
and added:

-...manufacturing that
champagne for those

Mr Dedalus laughed

-Is it Christy? he said.
There's more cunning
in one of those warts
on his bald head than in
a pack of jack foxes.

He inclined his head,
closed his eyes, and,
licking his lips
profusely, began to
speak with the voice of
the hotelkeeper.

-And he has such a soft
mouth when he's
speaking to you, don't
you know. He's very
moist and watery about
the dewlaps, God bless

Mr Casey was still
struggling through his
fit of coughing and
laughter. Stephen,
seeing and hearing the
hotelkeeper through
his father's face and
voice, laughed.

Mr Dedalus put up his
eyeglass and, staring
down at him, said
quietly and kindly:

-What are you laughing
at, you little puppy,

The servants entered
and placed the dishes
on the table. Mrs
Dedalus followed and
the places were

-Sit over, she said.

Mr Dedalus went to the
end of the table and

-Now, Mrs Riordan, sit
over. John, sit you
down, my hearty.

He looked round to
where uncle Charles
sat and said:

-Now then, sir, there's
a bird here waiting for

When all had taken
their seats he laid his
hand on the cover and
then said quickly,
withdrawing it:

-Now, Stephen.

Stephen stood up in his
place to say the grace
before meals:

Bless us, O Lord, and
these Thy gifts which
through Thy bounty we
are about to receive
through Christ Our
Lord. Amen.

All blessed themselves
and Mr Dedalus with a
sigh of pleasure lifted
from the dish the heavy
cover pearled around
the edge with
glistening drops.

Stephen looked at the
plump turkey which
had lain, trussed and
skewered, on the
kitchen table. He knew
that his father had paid
a guinea for it in
Dunn's of D'Olier
Street and that the man
had prodded it often at
the breastbone to show
how good it was: and
he remembered the
man's voice when he
had said:

-Take that one, sir.
That's the real Ally

Why did Mr Barrett in
Clongowes call his
pandybat a turkey? But
Clongowes was far
away: and the warm
heavy smell of turkey
and ham and celery
rose from the plates
and dishes and the
great fire was banked
high and red in the
grate and the green ivy
and red holly made you
feel so happy and when
dinner was ended the
big plumpudding
would be carried in,
studded with peeled
almonds and sprigs of
holly, with bluish fire
running around it and a
little green flag flying
from the top.

It was his first
Christmas dinner and
he thought of his little
brothers and sisters
who were waiting in
the nursery, as he had
often waited, till the
pudding came. The
deep low collar and the
Eton jacket made him
feel queer and oldish:
and that morning when
his mother had brought
him down to the
parlour, dressed for
mass, his father had
cried. That was
because he was
thinking of his own
father. And uncle
Charles had said so

Mr Dedalus covered
the dish and began to
eat hungrily. Then he

-Poor old Christy, he's
nearly lopsided now
with roguery.

-Simon, said Mrs
Dedalus, you haven't
given Mrs Riordan any

Mr Dedalus seized the

-Haven't I? he cried.
Mrs Riordan, pity the
poor blind.

Dante covered her
plate with her hands
and said:

-No, thanks.

Mr Dedalus turned to
uncle Charles.

-How are you off, sir?

-Right as the mail,

-You, John?

-I'm all right. Go on

-Mary? Here, Stephen,
here's something to
make your hair curl.

He poured sauce freely
over Stephen's plate
and set the boat again
on the table. Then he
asked uncle Charles
was it tender. Uncle
Charles could not
speak because his
mouth was full but he
nodded that it was.

-That was a good
answer our friend
made to the canon.
What? said Mr Dedalus.

-I didn't think he had
that much in him, said
Mr Casey.

-I'll pay you your dues,
father, when you cease
turning the house of
God into a

-A nice answer, said
Dante, for any man
calling himself a
catholic to give to his

-They have only
themselves to blame,
said Mr Dedalus
suavely. If they took a
fool's advice they
would confine their
attention to religion.

-It is religion, Dante
said. They are doing
their duty in warning
the people.

-We go to the house of
God, Mr Casey said, in
all humility to pray to
our Maker and not to
hear election

-It is religion, Dante
said again. They are
right. They must direct
their flocks.

-And preach politics
from the altar, is it?
asked Mr Dedalus.

-Certainly, said Dante.
It is a question of
public morality. A
priest would not be a
priest if he did not tell
his flock what is right
and what is wrong.

Mrs Dedalus laid down
her knife and fork,

-For pity's sake and for
pity sake let us have no
political discussion on
this day of all days in
the year.

-Quite right, ma'am,
said uncle Charles.
Now, Simon, that's
quite enough now. Not
another word now.

-Yes, yes, said Mr
Dedalus quickly.

He uncovered the dish
boldly and said:

-Now then, who's for
more turkey?

Nobody answered.
Dante said:

-Nice language for any
catholic to use!

-Mrs Riordan, I appeal
to you, said Mrs
Dedalus, to let the
matter drop now.

Dante turned on her
and said:

-And am I to sit here
and listen to the
pastors of my church
being flouted?

-Nobody is saying a
word against them,
said Mr Dedalus, so
long as they don't
meddle in politics.

-The bishops and
priests of Ireland have
spoken, said Dante, and
they must be obeyed.

-Let them leave
politics alone, said Mr
Casey, or the people
may leave their church

-You hear? said Dante
turning to Mrs

-Mr Casey! Simon! said
Mrs Dedalus. Let it end

-Too bad! Too bad! said
uncle Charles.

-What? cried Mr
Dedalus. Were we to
desert him at the
bidding of the English

-He was no longer
worthy to lead, said
Dante. He was a public

-We are all sinners and
black sinners, said Mr
Casey coldly.

-Woe be to the man by
whom the scandal
cometh! said Mrs
Riordan. It would he
better for him that a
millstone were tied
about his neck and that
he were cast into the
depth of the sea rather
than that he should
scandalise one of these,
my least little ones.
That is the language of
the Holy Ghost.

-And very bad
language if you ask me,
said Mr Dedalus

-Simon! Simon! said
uncle Charles. The

-Yes, yes, said Mr
Dedalus. I meant about
the... I was thinking
about the bad language
of that railway porter.
Well now, that's all
right. Here, Stephen,
show me your plate,
old chap. Eat away
now. Here.
moonshine So tiny, so fair. So old so withered. So soon, so quick. Your wild white hair. Death Mingling near. I was the first one too see. The first one to hear. I was asleep on the lawn. A crisp day. Your picnic basket dog, Our little shop. I dialed 911. You died two weeks before Christmas. Presents unopened. You came and said goodbye. in that stadium from... way up top. 000602
Earindel Joyce was my brothers wife, but now he is dead. Joyce is a meth head with 3 kids wich she cares nothing about. Who is Joyce? Joyce is no one. 000602
Neville "Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger." 000602
st3fan anybody here
ulysses ?
kingsuperspecial is the enigma,
the loaded gun,
a ticket to forever,
my latest reason to twist.

the saga is unfolding,
and it will take all my patience
to not fuck it up.
and all my courage
to face the worst.
shit .. .. .. .. .. .. .. and I fear I cannot live up to her. 011029
PIso Mojado

O Jamesy let me up out of this
epitome of incomprehensibility Why why why would anyone bother to write so much, and a direct quote at that? It's not as if anyone is going to actually read it...whatever. Epitome is currently reading A Portrait etc. and it's fascinating, it really is, except hard to read a lot of pages at a time. It's good for epitome that James Joyce is dead, otherwise she would have competition in the epitome_of_incomprehensibility field. Quitely much. 060127
stork daddy did joyce indeed bottleneck the world at the last moment it could be bottlenecked?

did he do this by showing the complexity and necessity of such a task, the inevitablity of ancient methods, in myth and song, of doing so? did he show the modern world was as present in myth as myth was in the modern world?
what's it to you?
who go