Page 388 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

The constant readers’ room. In the readers’ book
Cashel 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 spluttered 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 pubic sweat of monks.
He spat blank.

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