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?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalec­tic tetram­e­ter of iambs march­ing. No, agal­lop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all van­ished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adi­aphane. Bas­ta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time with­out you: and ever shall be, world with­out end.

They came down the steps from Leahy’s ter­race pru­dent­ly, Frauen­z­im­mer: and down the shelv­ing shore flab­bi­ly, their splayed feet sink­ing in the silt­ed sand. Like me, like Algy, com­ing down to our mighty moth­er. Num­ber one swung lour­di­ly her midwife’s bag, the other’s gamp poked in the beach. From the lib­er­ties, out for the day. Mrs Flo­rence Mac­Cabe, relict of the late Patk Mac­Cabe, deeply lament­ed, of Bride Street. One of her sis­ter­hood lugged me squeal­ing into life. Cre­ation from noth­ing. What has she in the bag? A mis­birth with a trail­ing navel­cord, hushed in rud­dy wool. The cords of all link back, stran­den­twin­ing cable of all flesh. That is why mys­tic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your ompha­los. Hel­lo! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and help­mate of Adam Kad­mon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Bel­ly with­out blem­ish, bulging big, a buck­ler of taut vel­lum, no, white­heaped corn, ori­ent and immor­tal, stand­ing from ever­last­ing to ever­last­ing. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin dark­ness I was too, made not begot­ten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghost­woman with ash­es on her breath. They clasped and sun­dered, did the coupler’s will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eter­na stays about Him. Is that then the divine sub­stance where­in Father and Son are con­sub­stan­tial? Where is poor dear Arius to try con­clu­sions? War­ring his life long upon the con­trans­mag­nif­i­can­d­jew­bang­tan­tial­i­ty. Ill­starred here­siarch’ In a Greek water­clos­et he breathed his last: euthana­sia. With bead­ed mitre and with crozi­er, stalled upon his throne, wid­ow­er of a wid­owed see, with ups­tiffed omophori­on, with clot­ted hin­der­parts.

Airs romped round him, nip­ping and eager airs. They are com­ing, waves. The white­maned sea­hors­es, champ­ing, brightwind­bri­dled, the steeds of Man­anaan.

I must­n’t for­get his let­ter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that mon­ey like a good young imbe­cile.

Yes, I must.

His pace slack­ened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara’s or not? My con­sub­stan­tial father’s voice. Did you see any­thing of your artist broth­er Stephen late­ly? No? Sure he’s not down in Stras­burg ter­race with his aunt Sal­ly? Could­n’t he fly a bit high­er than that, eh? And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weep­ing God, the things I mar­ried into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunk­en lit­tle cost­draw­er and his broth­er, the cor­net play­er. High­ly respectable gon­do­liers! And skeweyed Wal­ter sir­ring his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no won­der, by Christ!

I pull the wheezy bell of their shut­tered cot­tage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of van­tage.

James Joyce, Ulysses