buck mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.
-- monsieur moore， he said， lecturer on french letters to the youth of ireland. i'll be there. come， kinch， the bards must drink. can you walk straight？
laughing he...
swill till eleven. irish nights' entertainment.
lubber...
stephen followed a lubber...
one day in the national library we had a discussion. shakes. after his lub back i followed. i gall his kibe.
stephen， greeting， then all amort， followed a lubber jester， a wellkempt head， newbarbered， out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thoughts.
what have i learned？ of them？ of me？
walk like haines now.
the constant readers' room. in the readers' book cashe boyle o'connor fitzmaurice tisdall farrell parafes his polysyllables. item： was hamlet mad？ the quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.
-- o please do， sir... i shall be most pleased...
amused buck mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself， selfnodding：
-- a pleased bottom.
the turnstile.
is that？... blueribboned hat... idly writing... what？ looked？...
the curving balustrade； smoothsliding mincius.
puck mulligan， panamahelmeted， went step by step， iambing， trolling：
john eglinton， my jo， john.
why won't you wed a wife？
he sputtered to the air：
o， the chinless chinaman！ chin chon eg lin ton. we went over to their playbox， haines and i， the plumbers' hall. our players are creating a new art for europe like the greeks or m. maeterlinck. abbey theatre！ i smell the public sweat of monks.
he spat blank.
forgot： any more than he forgot the whipping lousy lucy gave him. and left the femme de trente ans. and why no other children born？ and his first child a girl？
afterwit. go back.
the dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling， minion of pleasure， phedo's toyable fair hair.
eh... i just eh... wanted... i forgot... he...