-- Man delights him not nor woman neither， Stephen said. He returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born， where he has always been， man and boy， a silent witness and there， his journey of life ended， he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet pére and Hamlet fils. A king and a prince at last in death， with incidental music. And， what though murdered and betrayed， bewept by all frail tender hearts for， Dane or Dubliner， sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it： prosperous Prospero， the good man rewarded， Lizzie， grandpa's lump of love， and nuncle Richie， the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck says： If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days， day after day. We walk through ourselves， meeting robbers， ghosts， giants， old men， young men， wives， widows， brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later)， the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call dio boia， hangman god， is doubtless all in all in all of us， ostler and butcher， and would be bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven， foretold by Hamlet， there are no more marriages， glorified man， an androgynous angel， being a wife unto himself.
-- Eureka！ Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka！
Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk.
-- May I？ he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.
He began to scribble on a slip of paper.
Take some slips from the counter going out.
-- Those who are married， Mr Best， douce herald， said， all save one， shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.
He laughed， unmarried， at Eglinton Johannes， of arts a bachelor.
Unwed， unfancied， ware of wiles， they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew.
-- You are a delusion， said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory？
-- No， Stephen said promptly.
-- Are you going to write it？ Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue， don't you know， like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.
John Eclecticon doubly smiled.
-- Well， in that case， he said， I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu， the man Piper met in Berlin， who is working up that Rutland theory， believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present duke， Piper says， and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.
I believe， O Lord， help my unbelief. That is， help me to believe or help me to unbelieve？ Who helps to believe？ Egomen. Who to unbelieve？ Other chap.
-- You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.
Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.
-- For a guinea， Stephen said， you can publish this interview.
Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling， laughing： and then gravely said， honeying malice：
-- I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies， Fresh Nelly and Rosalie， the coalquay whore.
He broke away.
-- Come， Kinch. Come， wandering &Aelig；ngus of the birds.
Come， Kinch， you have eaten all we left. Ay， I will serve you your orts and offals.
Stephen rose.
Life is many days. This will end.
-- We shall see you tonight， John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.
Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.
-- Monsieur Moore， he said， lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland. I'll be there. Come， Kinch， the bards must drink. Can you walk straight？
Laughing he...
Swill till eleven. Irish nights' entertainment.
Lubber...
Stephen followed a lubber...
One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After his lub back I followed. I gall his kibe.
Stephen， greeting， then all amort， followed a lubber jester， a wellkempt head， newbarbered， out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thoughts.
What have I learned？ Of them？ Of me？
Walk like Haines now.
The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashe 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 sputtered 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 public 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...
