THE WHORES: Bravo! Parleyvoo!
STEPHEN: _(Grimacing with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself.)_
Great success of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like and holy
apostles big damn ruffians. _Demimondaines_ nicely handsome sparkling
of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or do you are fond better what
belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans? _(He points about
him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to.)_
Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins
nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see
in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also
if desire act awfully bestial butcher’s boy pollutes in warm veal liver
or omlet on the belly _pièce de Shakespeare._
BELLA: _(Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa, with a shout of
laughter.)_ An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... omelette on the...
STEPHEN: _(Mincingly.)_ I love you, sir darling. Speak you englishman
tongue for _double entente cordiale._ O yes, _mon loup_. How much cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. _(He ceases suddenly and holds up a
forefinger.)_
BELLA: _(Laughing.)_ Omelette...
THE WHORES: _(Laughing.)_ Encore! Encore!
STEPHEN: Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
LYNCH: Across the world for a wife.
FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries.
STEPHEN: _(Extends his arms.)_ It was here. Street of harlots. In
Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Where’s the
red carpet spread?
BLOOM: _(Approaching Stephen.)_ Look...
STEPHEN: No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World
without end. _(He cries.) Pater!_ Free!
BLOOM: I say, look...
STEPHEN: Break my spirit, will he? _O merde alors! (He cries, his
vulture talons sharpened.)_ Hola! Hillyho!
_(Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)_
SIMON: That’s all right. _(He swoops uncertainly through the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard
wings.)_ Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with
those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up!
Keep our flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent
displayed. Ulster king at arms! Haihoop! _(He makes the beagle’s call,
giving tongue.)_ Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!
_(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. A
stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his
grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth,
under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows, nose to the ground,
sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward
Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six
Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with
knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with
stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, grey
negroes waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor
players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in
high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)_