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Ulysses 

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their way through miles of omnivorous forest to 

sucksucculent her breast dry. Like those bubblyjocular 

Roman matrons one reads of in Elephantuliasis. 

VIRAG: (His mouth projected in hard wrinkles, eyes stonily 

forlornly closed, psalms in outlandish monotone) That the cows 

with their those distended udders that they have been the 

the known ... 

BLOOM: I am going to scream. I beg your pardon. 

Ah? So. (He repeats) Spontaneously to seek out the 

saurian’s lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid 

suction. Ant milks aphis. (Profoundly) Instinct rules the 

world. In life. In death. 

VIRAG:  (Head askew, arches his back and hunched 

wingshoulders, peers at the moth out of blear bulged eyes, points a 

horning claw and cries) Who’s moth moth? Who’s dear 

Gerald? Dear Ger, that you? O dear, he is Gerald. O, I 

much fear he shall be most badly burned. Will some 

pleashe pershon not now impediment so catastrophics mit 

agitation of firstclass tablenumpkin? (He mews) Puss puss 

puss puss! (He sighs, draws back and stares sideways down with 

dropping underjaw) Well, well. He doth rest anon. (he snaps 

his jaws suddenly on the air) 

THE MOTH: 

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I’m a tiny tiny thing 

Ever flying in the spring 

Round and round a ringaring. 

Long ago I was a king 

Now I do this kind of thing 

On the wing, on the wing! 

Bing! 

(He rushes against the mauve shade, flapping noisily) Pretty 

pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. 

(From left upper entrance with two gliding steps Henry Flower 

comes forward to left front centre. He wears a dark mantle and 

drooping plumed sombrero. He carries a silverstringed inlaid 

dulcimer and a longstemmed bamboo Jacob’s pipe, its clay bowl 

fashioned as a female head. He wears dark velvet hose and 

silverbuckled pumps. He has the romantic Saviour’s face with 

flowing locks, thin beard and moustache. His spindlelegs and 

sparrow feet are those of the tenor Mario, prince of Candia. He 

settles down his goffered ruffs and moistens his lips with a passage 

of his amorous tongue.) 

HENRY:  (In a low dulcet voice, touching the strings of his 

guitar) There is a flower that bloometh. 

(Virag truculent, his jowl set, stares at the lamp. Grave 

Bloom regards Zoe’s neck. Henry gallant turns with pendant 

dewlap to the piano.) 

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STEPHEN:  (To himself) Play with your eyes shut. 

Imitate pa. Filling my belly with husks of swine. Too 

much of this. I will arise and go to my. Expect this is the. 

Steve, thou art in a parlous way. Must visit old Deasy or 

telegraph. Our interview of this morning has left on me a 

deep impression. Though our ages. Will write fully 

tomorrow. I’m partially drunk, by the way. (He touches the 

keys again) Minor chord comes now. Yes. Not much 

however. 

(Almidano Artifoni holds out a batonroll of music with 

vigorous moustachework.) 

ARTIFONI: Ci rifletta. Lei rovina tutto. 

FLORRY: Sing us something. Love’s old sweet song. 

STEPHEN: No voice. I am a most finished artist. 

Lynch, did I show you the letter about the lute? 

FLORRY: (Smirking) The bird that can sing and won’t 

sing. 

(The Siamese twins, Philip Drunk and Philip Sober, two 

Oxford dons with lawnmowers, appear in the window embrasure. 

Both are masked with Matthew Arnold’s face.) 

PHILIP SOBER: Take a fool’s advice. All is not well. 

Work it out with the buttend of a pencil, like a good 

young idiot. Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, 

one sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew. Mooney’s 

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en ville, Mooney’s sur mer, the Moira, Larchet’s, Holles 

street hospital, Burke’s. Eh? I am watching you. 

PHILIP DRUNK: (Impatiently) Ah, bosh, man. Go to 

hell! I paid my way. If I could only find out about octaves. 

Reduplication of personality. Who was it told me his 

name? (His lawnmower begins to purr) Aha, yes. Zoe mou sas 

agapo. Have a notion I was here before. When was it not 

Atkinson his card I have somewhere. Mac Somebody. 

Unmack I have it. He told me about, hold on, Swinburne, 

was it, no? 

FLORRY: And the song? 

STEPHEN: Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. 

FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? You’re like 

someone I knew once. 

STEPHEN: Out of it now. (To himself) Clever. 

PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER: (Their 

lawnmowers purring with a rigadoon of grasshalms) Clever ever. 

Out of it out of it. By the bye have you the book, the 

thing, the ashplant? Yes, there it, yes. Cleverever 

outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us. 

ZOE: There was a priest down here two nights ago to 

do his bit of business with his coat buttoned up. You 

needn’t try to hide, I says to him. I know you’ve a Roman 

collar. 

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