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From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring 

whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back 

kick? 

—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy 

said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the 

manifestation of God. 

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: 

—That is God. 

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! 

—What? Mr Deasy asked. 

—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging 

his shoulders. 

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings 

of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again 

he set them free. 

—I am happier than you are, he said. We have 

committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought 

sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than 

she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten 

years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first 

brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s 

wife and her leman, O’Rourke, prince of Breffni. A 

woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many 

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failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the 

end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end. 

For Ulster will fight 

And Ulster will be right. 

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand. 

—Well, sir, he began ... 

—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain 

here very long at this work. You were not born to be a 

teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong. 

—A learner rather, Stephen said. 

And here what will you learn more? 

Mr Deasy shook his head. 

—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. 

But life is the great teacher. 

Stephen rustled the sheets again. 

—As regards these, he began. 

—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If 

you can have them published at once. 

 Telegraph. Irish Homestead. 

—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. 

I know two editors slightly. 

—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last 

night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the 

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cattletraders’ association today at the City Arms hotel. I 

asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if 

you can get it into your two papers. What are they? 

—The Evening Telegraph ... 

—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to 

lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin. 

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets 

in his pocket. Thank you. 

—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers 

on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am. 

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to 

his bent back. 

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel 

path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack 

of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the 

pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors. 

Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a 

new name: the bullockbefriending bard. 

—Mr Dedalus! 

Running after me. No more letters, I hope. 

—Just one moment. 

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate. 

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his 

breath. 

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—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the 

honour of being the only country which never persecuted 

the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know 

why? 

He frowned sternly on the bright air. 

—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile. 

—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said 

solemnly. 

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging 

after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, 

coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. 

—She never let them in, he cried again through his 

laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of 

the path. That’s why. 

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of 

leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins. 

 

* * * * *  

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no 

more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I 

am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, 

that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. 

Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he 

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was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? 

By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald 

he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of 

the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can 

put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. 

Shut your eyes and see. 

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush 

crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it 

howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of 

time through very short times of space. Five, six: the 

nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality 

of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a 

cliff that beetles o’er his base, fell through the nebeneinander 

ineluctably! I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash 

sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet 

in his boots are at the ends of his legs, nebeneinander. 

Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I 

walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, 

crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens 

them a’. 

Won’t you come to Sandymount, 

Madeline the mare? 

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