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Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning. Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him.

Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief. But, hush!

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Not a word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet. Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag.

And when I makes water I makes water. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. Do you think she was? Quite charming! Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:.

But, hising up her petticoats He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times.

A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

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Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she slights. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk.

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Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and cried:. Hurry out to your school kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his duty. Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.

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I was just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in. He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour:. Stephen said.

Learning from the octopus

The problem is to get money. From whom?

From the milkwoman or from him. Damn all else they are good for. To hell with them all. Let us get out of the kip. And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. I want puce gloves and green boots. Do I contradict myself?

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Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. Come out, Kinch.