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.

Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: 

    John Eglinton, my Jo, John,
    why won’t you wed A wife?

He spluttered to the air: 

—­O, the chinless Chinaman!  Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton.  We went over to their playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers’ hall.  Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck.  Abbey Theatre!  I smell the pubic sweat of monks.

He spat blank.

Forgot:  any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him.  And left the femme de trente ANS.  And why no other children born?  And his first child a girl?

Afterwit.  Go back.

The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo’s toyable fair hair.

Eh ...  I just eh ... wanted ...  I forgot ... he ...

—­Longworth and M’Curdy Atkinson were there ...

Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: 

    I hardly hear the purlieu cry
    or A Tommy talk as I pass one by
    before my thoughts begin to run
    on F. M’CURDY Atkinson,
    the same that had the wooden leg
    and that filibustering FILIBEG
    that never dared to slake his drouth,
    Magee that had the chinless mouth. 
    Being afraid to marry on earth
    they masturbated for all they were worth.

Jest on.  Know thyself.

Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me.  I halt.

—­Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned.  Synge has left off wearing black to be like nature.  Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

A laugh tripped over his lips.

—­Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory.  O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit!  She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus.  Couldn’t you do the Yeats touch?