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16. Juni 1904

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

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