ULYSSES. James Joyce
the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man’s contumely upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore worthless.
He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus.
IMPROMPTU
In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O’Molloy :
— Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sick bed. That he had prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. He wore a loose neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was not) a dying man.
His gaze turned at once but slowly from J.J. O’Molloy’s towards Stephen’s face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair. Still seeking, he said : — When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended John F. Taylor rose to reply. Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.
He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more. Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.
He began :
— Mr chairman, ladies and gentlemen : Great was my admiration in listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by my learned friend. It senned to me that I had been transported into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses.
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smoke ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech.And let our crooked smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it yourself?
— And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his words and their meaning was revealed to me.
FROM THE FATHERS
It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good, could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.
— Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen; we are a mighty people. You have no cities nor no wealth : our cities are hives of humanity and our galleys, tireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from primitive conditions : we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity.
Nile.
Child, man, effigy.
By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes : a man supple in combat : stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
— You pray to a local and obscure idol : our temples, majestic and mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness : ours thunder and the seas. Israel is weak and few are her children : Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called : the world trembles at our name.
A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it boldly :
— But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai’s mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw.
He ceased and looked at them, enjoying silence.
OMINOUS — FOR HIM!
J.J. O’Molloy said not without regret :
— And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
— A-sudden-at-the-moment-though-from-lingering-illness-often-previously-expectorated-demise, Lenehan said. And with a great future behind him.
The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering up the staircase.
— That is oratory, the professor said, uncontradicted.
Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles of ears of porches. The tribune’s words howled and scattered to the four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him : me no more.
I have money.
— Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I suggest that the house do now adjourn?
— You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr O’Madden Burke asked. ’Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.
— That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All who are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To which particular boosing shed…? My casting vote is : Mooney’s!
He led the way, admonishing :
— We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes, we will not. By no manner of means.
Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally’s lunge of his umbrella :
— Lay on, Macduff!
— Chip of the old block! the editor cried, slapping Stephen on the shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?
He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the crushed typesheets.
— Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll go in. Where are they? That’s all night.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.
LET US HOPE
J.J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen :
— I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
— Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn’t it? It has the prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling :
— Racing special!
Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
— I have a vision too, Stephen said.
— Yes, the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran :
— Racing special!
DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN
Dubliners.
— Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.
— Where is that? the professor asked.
— Off Blackpitts.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistening tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
— They want to see the views of Dublin from