He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: 

—­The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time. 
One thinks of Homer.

He stopped at the stairfoot.

—­I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.

The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined.  Gone the nine men’s morrice with caps of indices.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: 

        Everymanhis own wife
                or
        A honeymoon in the hand
    (A national immorality in three orgasms)
                by
        BALLOCKY Mulligan

He turned a happy patch’s smirk to Stephen, saying: 

—­The disguise, I fear, is thin.  But listen.

He read, MARCATO: 

—­Characters: 

    Tody TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
    crab (a bushranger)
    medical Dick )
        and ) (two birds with one stone)
    medical Davy )
    mother Grogan (a watercarrier)
    fresh Nelly
        and
    Rosalie (the coalquay whore).

He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen:  and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men: 

—­O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!

—­The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them.

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.

Part.  The moment is now.  Where then?  If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight.  Why?  That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably.

My will:  his will that fronts me.  Seas between.

A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.

—­Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.

The portico.

Here I watched the birds for augury.  Aengus of the birds.  They go, they come.  Last night I flew.  Easily flew.  Men wondered.  Street of harlots after.  A creamfruit melon he held to me.  In.  You will see.

—­The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown’s awe.  Did you see his eye?  He looked upon you to lust after you.  I fear thee, ancient mariner.  O, Kinch, thou art in peril.  Get thee a breechpad.

Manner of Oxenford.

Day.  Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs.

They followed.

Offend me still.  Speak on.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street.  No birds.  Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown.