Houses of decay， mine， his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them， Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom？ The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness， his mane foaming in the moon， his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm， horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple， Buck Mulligan， Foxy Campbell. Lantern jaws. Abbas father， furious dean， what offence laid fire to their brains？ Paff！ Descende， calve， ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende)， clutching a monstrance， basiliskeyed. Get down， bald poll！ A choir gives back menace and echo， assisting about the altar's horns， the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs， tonsured and oiled and gelded， fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.
And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring！ And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring！ And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdringl Down， up， forward， back. Dan Occam thought of that， invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and， rising， heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.
Cousin Stephen， you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy， weren't you？ You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si， certo！ Sell your soul for that， do， dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me， more still！ On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain： naked women！ What about that， eh？
What about what？ What else were they invented for？
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night， eh？ I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror， stepping forward to applause earnestly， striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot！ Hray！ No-one saw： tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F？ O yes， but I prefer Q. Yes， but W is wonderful. O yes， W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves， deeply deep， copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world， including Alexandria？ Someone was to read them there after a few thousand year， a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay， very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once...
The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast， razorshells， squeaking pebbles， that on the unnumbered pebbles beats， wood sieved by the shipworm， lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles， breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them， walking warily. A porter-bottle stood up， stogged to its waist， in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel： isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore； at the land a maze of dark cunning nets； farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend： wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.
He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there？ Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.
-- Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position？
-- C'est le pigeon， Joseph.
Patrice， home on furlough， lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose， Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird， he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue， plump bunny's face. Lap， lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.
-- C'est tordant， vows savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.
-- Il croit？
-- Mon père， oui.
Schluss. He laps.
My Latin quarter hat. God， we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student， weren't you？ Of what in the other devil's name？ Paysayenn. P. C. N.， you know： physiques， chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet， fleshpots of Egypt， elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone： when I was in Paris， boul' Mich'， I used to. Yes， used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it： other me. Hat， tie， overcoat， nose. Lui， c'est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.
Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like？ Forget： a dispossessed. With mother's money order， eight shillings， the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog！ Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun， bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt？ O， that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant， see？ O， that's all right. Shake a shake. O， that's all only all right.
You were going to do wonders， what？ Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots， loudlatinlaughing： Euge！ Euge！ Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise， porter threepence， across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment？ Rich booty you brought back； Le Tutu， five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge， a blue French telegram， curiosity to show：
-- Mother dying come home father.
