Chapter. III

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thoughtrnthrough my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawnrnand seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver,rnrust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.rnThen he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? Byrnknocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and arnmillionaire, _maestro di color che sanno_. Limit of the diaphane in.rnWhy in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers throughrnit it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.rnrnStephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack andrnshells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at arntime. A very short space of time through very short times of space.rnFive, six: the _nacheinander_. Exactly: and that is the ineluctablernmodality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over arncliff that beetles o’er his base, fell through the _nebeneinander_rnineluctably! I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs atrnmy side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the endsrnof his legs, _nebeneinander_. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of _LosrnDemiurgos_. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush,rncrack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a’.rnrn     Won’t you come to Sandymount,     Madeline the mare?rnrnRhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambsrnmarching. No, agallop: _deline the mare_.rnrnOpen your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If Irnopen and am for ever in the black adiaphane. _Basta!_ I will see if Irncan see.rnrnSee now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, worldrnwithout end.rnrnThey came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently,rn_Frauenzimmer_: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayedrnfeet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to ourrnmighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag, the other’srngamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. MrsrnFlorence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, ofrnBride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life.rnCreation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with arntrailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back,rnstrandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will yournbe as gods? Gaze in your _omphalos_. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on tornEdenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.rnrnSpouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel.rnGaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no,rnwhiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting torneverlasting. Womb of sin.rnrnWombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the manrnwith my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath.rnThey clasped and sundered, did the coupler’s will. From before the agesrnHe willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A _lex eterna_ staysrnabout Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son arernconsubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warringrnhis life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarredrnheresiarch! In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: _euthanasia_.rnWith beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower ofrna widowed see, with upstiffed _omophorion_, with clotted hinderparts.rnrnAirs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves.rnThe whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds ofrnMananaan.rnrnI mustn’t forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, halfrntwelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile.rnYes, I must.rnrnHis pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara’s or not? Myrnconsubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artistrnbrother Stephen lately? No? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terracernwith his aunt Sally? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh? Andrnand and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God, thernthings I married into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken littlerncostdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectablerngondoliers! And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes,rnsir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ!rnrnI pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They takernme for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.rnrn—It’s Stephen, sir.rnrn—Let him in. Let Stephen in.rnrnA bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.rnrn—We thought you were someone else.rnrnIn his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends overrnthe hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washedrnthe upper moiety.rnrn—Morrow, nephew.rnrnHe lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for therneyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents andrncommon searches and a writ of _Duces Tecum_. A bogoak frame over hisrnbald head: Wilde’s _Requiescat_. The drone of his misleading whistlernbrings Walter back.rnrn—Yes, sir?rnrn—Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?rnrn—Bathing Crissie, sir.rnrnPapa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.rnrn—No, uncle Richie...rnrn—Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!rnrn—Uncle Richie, really...rnrn—Sit down or by the law Harry I’ll knock you down.rnrnWalter squints vainly for a chair.rnrn—He has nothing to sit down on, sir.rnrn—He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair.rnWould you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airsrnhere. The rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much thernbetter. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.rnrn_All’erta!_rnrnHe drones bars of Ferrando’s _aria di sortita_. The grandest number,rnStephen, in the whole opera. Listen.rnrnHis tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of thernair, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.rnrnThis wind is sweeter.rnrnHouses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry yournhad an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out ofrnthem, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh’srnlibrary where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. Forrnwhom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of hisrnkind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in thernmoon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equinernfaces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,rnfurious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! _Descende,rncalve, ut ne nimium decalveris_. A garland of grey hair on hisrncomminated head see him me clambering down to the footpacern(_descende!_), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down,rnbaldpoll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about thernaltar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in theirrnalbs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys ofrnwheat.rnrnAnd at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevatingrnit. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.rnDringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his ownrncheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,rninvincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickledrnhis brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with hisrnsecond bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and,rnrising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twangrnin diphthong.rnrnCousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You werernawfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that yournmight not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenuernthat the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more fromrnthe wet street. _O si, certo!_ Sell your soul for that, do, dyed ragsrnpinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howthrntram alone crying to the rain: _Naked women! Naked women!_ What aboutrnthat, eh?rnrnWhat about what? What else were they invented for?rnrnReading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young.rnYou bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applausernearnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-onernsaw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters forrntitles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W isrnwonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green ovalrnleaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the greatrnlibraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read themrnthere after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico dellarnMirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strangernpages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one whornonce...rnrnThe grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again arndamp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on thernunnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada.rnUnwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathingrnupward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under arnmidden of man’s ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottlernstood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel:rnisle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a mazernof dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on thernhigher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwamsrnof brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.rnrnHe halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there?rnSeems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmerrnsand towards the Pigeonhouse.rnrn_—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?_rnrn_—C’est le pigeon, Joseph._rnrnPatrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the barrnMacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father’s arnbird, he lapped the sweet _lait chaud_ with pink young tongue, plumprnbunny’s face. Lap, _lapin._ He hopes to win in the _gros lots_. Aboutrnthe nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me _La Vie dernJésus_ by M. Léo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.rnrn_—C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pasrnen l’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père._rnrn_—Il croit?_rnrn_—Mon père, oui._rnrn_Schluss_. He laps.rnrnMy Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I wantrnpuce gloves. You were a student, weren’t you? Of what in the otherrndevil’s name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: _physiques, chimiques etrnnaturelles_. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of _mou en civet_, fleshpotsrnof Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most naturalrntone: when I was in Paris; _boul’ Mich’_, I used to. Yes, used to carryrnpunched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murderrnsomewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904rnthe prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me.rnHat, tie, overcoat, nose. _Lui, c’est moi_. You seem to have enjoyedrnyourself.rnrnProudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: arndispossessed. With mother’s money order, eight shillings, the bangingrndoor of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hungerrntoothache. _Encore deux minutes_. Look clock. Must get. _Fermé_. Hiredrndog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spatteredrnwalls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Notrnhurt? O, that’s all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O,rnthat’s all right. Shake a shake. O, that’s all only all right.rnrnYou were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fieryrnColumbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spiltrnfrom their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: _Euge! Euge!_ Pretending tornspeak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence,rnacross the slimy pier at Newhaven. _Comment?_ Rich booty you broughtrnback; _Le Tutu_, five tattered numbers of _Pantalon Blanc et CulotternRouge_; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:rnrn—Mother dying come home father.rnrnThe aunt thinks you killed your mother. That’s why she won’t.rnrn     Then here’s a health to Mulligan’s auntrn     And I’ll tell you the reason why.     She always kept things decent inrn     The Hannigan famileye.rnrnHis feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along byrnthe boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stonernmammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun isrnthere, the slender trees, the lemon houses.rnrnParis rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith ofrnfarls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court thernair. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife’s lover’s wife, thernkerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. InrnRodot’s Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shatteringrnwith gold teeth _chaussons_ of pastry, their mouths yellowed with thern_pus_ of _flan bréton_. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleasedrnpleasers, curled conquistadores.rnrnNoon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingersrnsmeared with printer’s ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice hisrnwhite. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. _Un demirnsétier!_ A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She servesrnme at his beck. _Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deuxrnirlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui!_ She thought you wanted arncheese _hollandais_. Your postprandial, do you know that word?rnPostprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queerrnfellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: _slainte!_ Around thernslabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. Hisrnbreath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy’s fangrnthrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes,rnconspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd ofrnmen. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You’rernyour father’s son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt,rnsanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M.rnDrumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queenrnVictoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. _Vieille ogresse_ with thern_dents jaunes_. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, _La Patrie_, M. Millevoye,rnFélix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, _bonne àrntout faire_, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. _Moirnfaire_, she said, _Tous les messieurs_. Not this _Monsieur_, I said.rnMost licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn’t let myrnbrother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, Irnsee you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.rnrnThe blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Looserntobaccoshreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Rawrnfacebones under his peep of day boy’s hat. How the head centre gotrnaway, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil,rnorangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lostrnleaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, notrnhere.rnrnSpurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tellrnyou. I’ll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for herrnlove he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, underrnthe walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurlrnthem upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gayrnParee he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making hisrnday’s stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, thernMontmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d’Or,rndamascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless,rnwifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame inrnrue Gît-le-Cœur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebrarnskirt, frisky as a young thing’s. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Patrnyou saw me, won’t you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. _Monrnfils_, soldier of France. I taught him to sing _The boys of Kilkennyrnare stout roaring blades_. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that.rnOld Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow’s castle on the Nore. Goes likernthis. _O, O_. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.rnrn     O, O the boys ofrn     Kilkenny...rnrnWeak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.rnRemembering thee, O Sion.rnrnHe had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.rnThe new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air ofrnseeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship,rnam I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in thernquaking soil. Turn back.rnrnTurning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly inrnnew sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through thernbarbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feetrnare sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk,rnnightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait,rntheir pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandonedrnplatters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there whenrnthis night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their blindrnbodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He liftedrnhis feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Takernall, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon’srnmidwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearingrnElsinore’s tempting flood.rnrnThe flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get backrnthen by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedgernand eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in arngrike.rnrnA bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him therngunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. _Un coche ensablé_ Louis Veuillotrncalled Gautier’s prose. These heavy sands are language tide and windrnhave silted here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warrenrnof weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands andrnstones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout’s toys. Mind you don’t get one bangrnon the ear. I’m the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody wellrnboulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodzrnodz an Iridzman.rnrnA point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.rnLord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not bernmaster of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. Fromrnfarther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures,rntwo. The two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes.rnPeekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?rnrnGalleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, theirrnbloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings,rntorcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore therncollar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon,rnspouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cageworkrncity a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers’ knives,rnrunning, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plaguernand slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I movedrnamong them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among thernspluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.rnrnThe dog’s bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. Irnjust simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. _Terribilia meditans_. Arnprimrose doublet, fortune’s knave, smiled on my fear. For that are yournpining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. ThernBruce’s brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck,rnYork’s false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of arnday, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullionrncrowned. All kings’ sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He savedrnmen from drowning and you shake at a cur’s yelping. But the courtiersrnwho mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of...rnWe don’t want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do whatrnhe did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. _Natürlich_, put there forrnyou. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days agornoff Maiden’s rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit itrnout. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Waterrncold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can’trnsee! Who’s behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowingrnquickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly,rnshellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life stillrnto be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to mernout of horror of his death. I... With him together down... I could notrnsave her. Waters: bitter death: lost.rnrnA woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.rnrnTheir dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing onrnall sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he madernoff like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of arnlowskimming gull. The man’s shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. Hernturned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On arnfield tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe ofrnthe tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snoutrnlifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpentedrntowards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth,rnbreaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.rnrnCocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping,rnsoused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelpedrnrunning to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, againrnreared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by themrnas they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf’s tongue redpantingrnfrom his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then lopedrnoff at a calf’s gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped,rnsniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it,rnsniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog’s bedraggled fell.rnDogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah,rnpoor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody’s body.rnrn—Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel!rnrnThe cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootlessrnkick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. Hernslunk back in a curve. Doesn’t see me. Along by the edge of the mole hernlolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissedrnagainst it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissedrnquick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. Hisrnhindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.rnSomething he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand,rndabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sandrnagain with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got inrnspousebreach, vulturing the dead.rnrnAfter he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway.rnStreet of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. Thatrnman led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held againstrnmy face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come.rnRed carpet spread. You will see who.rnrnShouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feetrnout of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick mufflerrnstrangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: thernruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sandrnand shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hairrntrailed. Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. Whenrnnight hides her body’s flaws calling under her brown shawl from anrnarchway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two RoyalrnDublins in O’Loughlin’s of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues’ rumrnlingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell! A shefiend’s whiteness under herrnrancid rags. Fumbally’s lane that night: the tanyard smells.rnrn     White thy fambles, red thy ganrn     And thy quarrons dainty is.     Couch a hogshead with me then.     In the darkmans clip and kiss.rnrnMorose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, _frate porcospino_.rnUnfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: _thy quarronsrndainty is_. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeadsrnjabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in theirrnpockets.rnrnPassing now.rnrnA side eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? Irnam not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun’srnflaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges,rnschlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering,rnmoondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood notrnmine, _oinopa ponton_, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon.rnIn sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed,rnchildbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. _Omnis caro ad te veniet_. Herncomes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodyingrnthe sea, mouth to her mouth’s kiss.rnrnHere. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.rnNo. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth’s kiss.rnrnHis lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb.rnOomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched:rnooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaringrnwayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy’srnletter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off.rnTurning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock andrnscribbled words. That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the libraryrncounter.rnrnHis shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless tillrnthe farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darknessrnshining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits therernwith his augur’s rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a lividrnsea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouthrnstars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call itrnback. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here?rnWho ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a whiternfield. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop ofrnCloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of spacernwith coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on arnflat: yes, that’s right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far,rnflat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back suddenly, frozen inrnstereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness isrnin our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by ourrnsins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more thernmore.rnrnShe trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the bluernhell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modalityrnof the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin atrnHodges Figgis’ window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabetrnbooks you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist throughrnthe braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with arngrief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else,rnStevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspendersrnand yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about applerndumplings, _piuttosto_. Where are your wits?rnrnTouch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch mernsoon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone.rnSad too. Touch, touch me.rnrnHe lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming thernscribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on hisrneyes. That is Kevin Egan’s movement I made, nodding for his nap,rnsabbath sleep. _Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona_. Alo! _Bonjour_.rnWelcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched throughrnpeacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burningrnscene. Pan’s hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants,rnmilkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain isrnfar.rnrn     And no more turn aside and brood.rnrnHis gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck’s castoffs,rn_nebeneinander_. He counted the creases of rucked leather whereinrnanother’s foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground inrntripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt’srnshoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. _Tiens, quel petit pied!_rnStaunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak itsrnname. His arm: Cranly’s arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As Irnam. As I am. All or not at all.rnrnIn long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, coveringrngreengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will floatrnaway. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against thernlow rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: arnfourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath ofrnwaters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks itrnslops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speechrnceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flowerrnunfurling.rnrnUnder the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly andrnsway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering waterrnswaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night:rnlifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary; and, whispered to,rnthey sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting,rnawaiting the fullness of their times, _diebus ac noctibus iniuriasrnpatiens ingemiscit_. To no end gathered; vainly then released,rnforthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight ofrnlovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she drawsrna toil of waters.rnrnFive fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, hernsaid. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it arnloose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpsernrising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoisernlandward. There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneathrnthe watery floor. We have him. Easy now.rnrnBag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of arnspongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. Godrnbecomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbedrnmountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour arnurinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathesrnupward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring tornthe sun.rnrnA seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deathsrnknown to man. Old Father Ocean. _Prix de Paris_: beware of imitations.rnJust you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.rnrnCome. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there?rnThunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect,rn_Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum_. No. My cockle hat and staff andrnhismy sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.rnrnHe took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallyingrnstill. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days makerntheir end. By the way next when is it Tuesday will be the longest day.rnOf all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. LawnrnTennyson, gentleman poet. _Già_. For the old hag with the yellow teeth.rnAnd Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. _Già_. My teeth are veryrnbad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go torna dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch,rnthe superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?rnrnMy handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?rnrnHis hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn’t. Better buy one.rnrnHe laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock,rncarefully. For the rest let look who will.rnrnBehind. Perhaps there is someone.rnrnHe turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through thernair high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on therncrosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.