-
Notifications
You must be signed in to change notification settings - Fork 0
/
episode2.shtml
590 lines (520 loc) · 46.6 KB
/
episode2.shtml
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"
xml:lang="en" lang="en"> <head> <title>www.UlyssesUlysses.com</title> <meta
http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> <link rel="stylesheet"
type="text/css" href="css/default.css" title="default" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet"
type="text/css" href="css/none.css" title="none" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet"
type="text/css" href="css/bio.css" title="bio" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet" type="text/css"
href="css/puzzles.css" title="puzzles" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet" type="text/css"
href="css/style.css" title="style" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet" type="text/css"
href="css/historical.css" title="historical" /> <link rel="alternate stylesheet" type="text/css"
href="css/vocab.css" title="vocab" />
<script type="text/javascript" src="script/styleswitcher.js"></script>
<link rel="Shortcut Icon" href="http://www.ulyssesulysses.com/images/favicon.ico" />
</head> <body>
<!--#include virtual="includes/topper.shtml" -->
<div id="underline1"> </div>
<div id="chapter"> <a href="episode2.shtml"> <img src="images/episode2.jpg" width="699" height="33"
border=0 alt="Link to episode2.shtml" style="opacity:1.0;filter:alpha(opacity=100)"
onmouseover="this.style.opacity=0.4;this.filters.alpha.opacity=40"
onmouseout="this.style.opacity=1.0;this.filters.alpha.opacity=100"></a> </div>
<div id="prede">
<div id="pre"> <a href="preepisode2.shtml"><img src="images/briefing.jpg" width="213" height="41"
border=0 alt="Link to preepisode2.shtml" style="opacity:1.0;filter:alpha(opacity=100)"
onmouseover="this.style.opacity=0.4;this.filters.alpha.opacity=40"
onmouseout="this.style.opacity=1.0;this.filters.alpha.opacity=100"></a> </div>
<div id="post"> <a href="postepisode2.shtml"><img src="images/debriefing.jpg" width="263"
height="33" border=0 alt="Link to postepisode2.shtml" style="opacity:1.0;filter:alpha(opacity=100)"
onmouseover="this.style.opacity=0.4;this.filters.alpha.opacity=40"
onmouseout="this.style.opacity=1.0;this.filters.alpha.opacity=100"></a> </div>
</div>
<div id="left"> <p> <span class="partial"> Click to limit the notes to specific areas: </span> </p>
<span class="defaultselected"> <a href="#" onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('default'); return
false;">All Notes</a> </span><br> <span class="noneselected"> <a href="#"
onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('none'); return false;">No Notes</a> </span><br> <span
class="bioselected"> <a href="#" onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('bio'); return
false;">Biographical</a> </span><br> <span class="historicalselected"> <a href="#"
onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('historical'); return false;">Historical</a> </span><br> <span
class="vocabselected"> <a href="#" onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('vocab'); return
false;">Vocabulary</a> </span><br> <span class="styleselected"> <div class="style"> <a href="#"
onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('style'); return false;">Style<span>This episode's writing style, as
identified by Stuart Gilbert in his scheme of Ulysses (as cited on Moxham,
http://www.ulysses-art.demon.co.uk/scheme.html), is "Narrative: Young". The narrative style is
probably the style you are most used to with storytelling; notable here is the "young" morning
style, as delivered by the young Stephen Dedalus, as opposed to the "mature" narrative style used
during the description of Bloom's adult habits in the "Calypso" episode, and the "old" narrative
style used in the "Eumaeus" episode at the low point of the day. </span></a></div> </span><br>
</span> <span class="puzzlesselected"> <a href="#" onclick="setActiveStyleSheet('puzzles'); return
false;">Puzzles</a> </span><br>
<img src="images/nestor/clock2.jpg" width="80" height="80" alt="">
<span class="button"> <a href="http://www.ulyssesulysses.com/comments.shtml">Comments <br> &
<br>Questions</a> </span>
<span class="help"> <a href="http://www.ulyssesulysses.com/howtouse.shtml">Help!</a> </span> </div>
</div>
<div id="tick"> <img src="images/tick.jpg" width="17" height="545" alt=""> </div>
<div id="booktext"> <div class="booklinks">
<p> —You, <a href=''#''>Cochrane<span>one of Stephen's students</span></a>, <a href=''#''>what
city<span>Stephen is in the middle of quizzing the boys on ancient history, specifically a battle of
the Greek Pyrrhus.</span></a> sent for him? </p> <p> —Tarentum, sir. </p> <p>
—Very good. Well? </p> <p> —There was a battle, sir. </p> <p> —Very good. Where?
</p> <p> The boy's blank face asked the blank window. </p> <p> Fabled by the daughters of memory.
And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of <a
href=''#''>Blake's wings of excess.<span>A compound of two of William Blake's proverbs: ''The road
of excess leads to the palace of wisdom'' and ''No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own
wings'' (Gifford & Seidman 30)</span></a> <a href=''#''>I hear the ruin of all space<span>Stephen
combines the idea of the ruin of Troy (referenced by both Pyrrhus's failure to save Greece from the
Romans, and Mr. Deasy's later reference to Cassandra) with the Blakean concept of the world ending
'''consumed by fire'... 'the ruins of Time build mansions in Eternity''' (Gifford & Seidman
30)</span></a>, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us
then? </p> <p> —I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C. </p>
<p><div class="historical"> —<a href=''#''>Asculum<span>the site of Pyrrhus's ultimately
disastrous (to Pyrrhus's cause) victory over the Romans</span></a>, Stephen said, glancing at the
name and date in the gorescarred book.</div> </p> <p> —Yes, sir. And he said: <em>Another
victory like that and we are done for.</em> </p> <p> <a href=''#''>That phrase the world had
remembered<span>''Another victory like that and we are done for''; Stephen imagines the sentence
being spoken.</span></a>. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general
speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear. </p>
<p><div class="historical"> —You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of <a
href=''#''>Pyrrhus<span>''another hero who suffered from usurpation'', Pyrrhus failed to save the
Greek people from bondage to Rome (Blamires 10); his example echoes the present-day plight of both
the jews and the Irish. The term ''Pyrrhic victory'' is named after him, as many of his battles were
won only through heavy losses that were ultimately disastrous (''Another victory like that and we
are done for''). Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Arta-Pyrrhus.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/pyrrhus.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Arta-Pyrrhus.jpg"></center></span></a>?</div> </p> <p>
—End of Pyrrhus, sir? </p>
<p> —I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said. </p> <p> —Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know
anything about Pyrrhus? </p> <p><div class="vocab"> A bag of <a href=''#''>figrolls<span>sweet
pastry containing figs. Image from http://www.inklingmagazine.com/images/article-images/fig_rolls.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/figrolls.jpg"
alt="http://www.inklingmagazine.com/images/article-images/fig_rolls.jpg"></center></span></a> lay
snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly.
Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their
eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.</div> </p> <p><div class="historical">
—Pyrrhus, sir? <a href=''#''>Pyrrhus, a pier<span>Armstrong, not knowing the answer, jokes by
declining the word as if it were a Latin noun.</span></a>.</div> </p> <p> All laughed. Mirthless
high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a
moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay. </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> —Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book,
what is a <a href=''#''>pier?<span>a dock or other walkway extending into water upon
supports. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Clevedon_Victorian_pier.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/pier.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Clevedon_Victorian_pier.jpg"></center></span></a></div>
</p> <p><div class="default"> —A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind
of a bridge. <a href=''#''>Kingstown pier<span>From the boys' laughter, obviously a popular place
for spooning with girls. Image from http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Kingstown%20CoDublin.JPG<br><center><img src="images/nestor/kingstown.JPG"
alt="http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Kingstown%20CoDublin.JPG"></center></span></a>, sir.
</div></p> <p> Some laughed again: <a href=''#''>mirthless but with meaning<span>though they might
not enjoy the joke, the boys do enjoy being able to laugh condescendingly at their
teacher</span></a>. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. <a href=''#''>They knew<span>The boys,
despite their relative youth, have all had or know about sexual encounters. </span></a>: had never
learned nor ever been innocent. All. With envy he watched their faces: <a href=''#''>Edith, Ethel,
Gerty, Lily<span>Girls the boys know; Gerty is possibly the Gerty who narrates the ''Nausicaa''
episode later in the book. </span></a>. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam,
their bracelets tittering in the struggle. </p> <p> —Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, <a
href=''#''>a disappointed bridge<span>Disappointed in that it doesn't cross any water.</span></a>.
</p> <p> The words troubled their gaze. </p> <p> —How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a
river. </p> <p>
<a href=''#''>For Haines's chapbook<span>Stephen remarks that his joke on Kingstown Pier would
probably please Haines enough to record, as with his earlier words on the cracked mirror as ''the
symbol of Irish art''.</span></a>. <a href=''#''>No-one here to hear<span>Stephen considers that
since no one who heard his joke was able to appreciate it, he should save it for a witticism during
tonight's drinking with Mulligan and Haines.</span></a>. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to
pierce the polished mail of his mind. <a href=''#''>What then?<span>Repeating his witticism for
Haines and Mulligan would only make Stephen into a jester or servant, offering up his mind in return
for a little laughter.</span></a> A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed,
winning a clement master's praise. <a href=''#''>Why had they chosen all that part?<span>Stephen
feels that all the Irish have taken on the role of jesters or servants to others, perhaps because
their land had been so long run under by foreign people.</span></a> Not wholly for the smooth
caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop. </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> <a href=''#''>Had Pyrrhus not fallen<span>Stephen wonders what would have
happened if significant moments history had ended differently. Had Pyrrhus not fallen, Greece might
have remained a free country.</span></a> by a <a href=''#''>beldam's<span>a hag</span></a> hand in
Argos or Julius Caesar not been</div>knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has
branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the <a href=''#''>infinite
possibilities<span>all the other events in history that didn't occur because another event did;
Stephen wonders if it's even worth thinking of these alternate realities as existing, since they
never came to pass.</span></a> they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they
never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? <a href=''#''>Weave, weaver of the
wind<span>dreaming about alternate histories and what could have been instead of focusing on what
did happen is foolish</span></a>. </p> <p> —Tell us a story, sir. </p> <p> —O, do, sir.
A ghoststory. </p> <p> —<a href=''#''>Where do you begin in this?<span>Stephen ignores the
students' request and moves on to their recitation lesson, asking for the line the students were
supposed to begin from</span></a> Stephen asked, opening another book. </p> <p> -<em>-Weep no
more,</em> Comyn said.
</p> <p> —Go on then, Talbot. </p> <p> —And the story, sir? </p> <p> —After,
Stephen said. Go on, Talbot. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> A <a href=''#''>swarthy<span>having dark,
olive-toned skin</span></a> boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the <a
href=''#''>breastwork<span>fortification</span></a> of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with
odd glances at the text:</div> </p> <p> <br> <em>—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no
more<br> For </em><a href=''#''><em>Lycidas</em><span>a Milton poem</span></a><em>, your sorrow, is
not dead,<br> Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...</em><br> <br> </p> <p> <a href=''#''>It
must be a movement then<span>From Aristotle: '''The fulfillment of what exists potentially, in so
far as it exists potentially, is motion...'' (Gifford & Seidman 32)</span></a>, an actuality of the
possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the <a href=''#''>gabbled
verses<span>the sound of the students messing up their recitations</span></a> and floated out into
the <a href=''#''>studious silence<span>Stephen remembers his recent studies in Paris; he was called
home from these by the nearing death of his mother</span></a> of the library of Saint Genevieve
where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese
conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with
faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of
brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. <a href=''#''>Thought is the thought of
thought<span>playing on two phrases from Aristotle: ''thought of thought'' and ''form of forms''
(Blamires 11); ''In <em>Metaphysics</em>, Aristotle argues that the prime mover is thought thinking
on itself'' (Gifford & Seidman 32)</span></a>. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that
is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, <a href=''#''>candescent<span>glowing
(incandescent)</span></a>: form of forms. </p> <p> Talbot repeated: </p> <p> <br> <em>—Through
the dear might of Him that walked the waves,<br> Through the dear might...</em> <br> </p> <p>
—<a href=''#''>Turn over<span>Stephen knows the boy is sneaking glances at the text he was
supposed to have memorized, and allows him to turn the page when he needs to; the boy pretends to
not know what Stephen is talking about</span></a>, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything. </p>
<p> —What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
</p> <p> His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having just remembered. Of
him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts <a href=''#''>his shadow<span>the
shadow of Jesus, who is ''him who walked the waves'' (walked on water)</span></a> lies and on the
scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the
tribute. <a href=''#''>To Caesar what is Caesar's<span>"Render unto Caesar the things which are
Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's" (Matthew 22:21), Jesus's recommended method for
dealing with secular and divine authorities</span></a>, to God what is God's. A long look from dark
eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church's looms. Ay. </p> <p> <br> <a
href=''#''><em>Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.<br> My father gave me seeds to sow</em><span>part of
a riddle much like our modern ''What's white and black and read all over?''; it continues, '''The
seed was black and the ground was white / Riddle me that and I'll give you a pipe''', the answer
being ''writing a letter'' (Gifford & Seidman 32-33)</span></a>. <br> </p> <p> Talbot slid his
closed book into his satchel. </p> <p> —Have I heard all? Stephen asked. </p> <p><div
class="historical"> —Yes, sir. <a href=''#''>Hockey<span> field hockey -- not the ice
type</span></a> at ten, sir. </div> </p> <p> —Half day, sir. Thursday. </p> <p> —Who can
answer a riddle? Stephen asked. </p> <p> They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages
rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily: </p> <p>
—A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir. </p> <p> —O, ask me, sir. </p> <p>
—A hard one, sir. </p> <p> —This is the riddle, Stephen said: </p> <p> <br> <a
href=''#''><em>The cock crew,<br> The sky was blue:<br> The bells in heaven<br> Were striking
eleven.<br> 'Tis time for this poor soul<br> To go to heaven</em><span>Stephen's riddle pokes fun at
his students: ''it is unanswerable unless the answer is already known'' (Gifford & Seidman
33)</span></a>.</em> <br> </p> <p> What is that? </p> <p> —What, sir? </p> <p>
—Again, sir. We didn't hear. </p> <p> Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After
a silence Cochrane said: </p> <p> —What is it, sir? We give it up. </p> <p> Stephen, his
throat itching, answered: </p> <p> —<a href=''#''>The fox burying his grandmother under a
hollybush<span>Stephen's riddle pokes fun at his students: ''it is unanswerable unless the answer is
already known'' (Gifford & Seidman 33). Note the fox imagery references Stephen, who is cunning like
a fox and has also recently buried his mother (not quite grandmother, as in the riddle).</span></a>.
</p> <p> He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. </p>
<p> A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called: </p> <p> —Hockey! </p> <p>
They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the
lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. </p> <p> Sargent who
alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck
gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his
cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.
</p> <p> He held out his copybook. The word <em>Sums</em> was written on the headline. Beneath were
sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his
name and seal.
</p> <p> —Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.
</p> <p> Stephen touched the edges of the book. <a href=''#''>Futility<span>Stephen recognizes the
futility of the weak student's attempt to learn.</span></a>. </p> <p> —Do you understand how
to do them now? he asked. </p> <p> —Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said
I was to copy them off the board, sir. </p> <p> —Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked. </p>
<p>
—No, sir. </p> <p> Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's
bed. <a href=''#''>Yet someone had loved him<span>Stephen muses on the wonder of the love of mothers
for their children, even children as weak and ill-favored as Sargent, as ''the only true thing in
life''; he obviously has an uneasiness over his relationship to his deceased mother, whose last wish
he slighted in order to feel free.</span></a>, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her
the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved
his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His
mother's prostrate body the fiery<div class="historical"> <a href=''#''>Columbanus<span>Saint
Columbanus, like Pyrrhus, was another fighter who failed to save a country; he left Ireland for
Europe to advocate for the Irish Church (Blamires 11)</span></a> in holy zeal bestrode. She was no
more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She
had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to
heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless
bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and
scraped.</div> </p> <p> Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. <a href=''#''>He proves
by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather<span>echo of Mulligan's early
explanation of Stephen's Hamlet paradox</span></a>. Sargent peered askance through his slanted
glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the
field. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> Across the page the symbols moved in grave <a
href=''#''>morrice<span>like ''morris'', a medieval, slow country dance remotely like American
square dancing. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Morris_dancers_Thames_at_Richmond.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/morris.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Morris_dancers_Thames_at_Richmond.jpg"></center></span></a>,
in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. <a href=''#''>Give
hands<span>directions for the dancing of a morris</span></a>, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of
fancy <a href=''#''>of the Moors<span>Algebra is of Arabic (i.e. Moorish) invention</span></a>. Gone
too from the world, <a href=''#''>Averroes and Moses Maimonides<span>great Muslim
thinkers. Images from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Maimonides-2.jpg AND
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AverroesColor.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/averroes.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Maimonides-2.jpg AND
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:AverroesColor.jpg"></center></span></a>, dark men in <a
href=''#''>mien<span>appearance</span></a> and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the
obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not
comprehend.</div> </p> <p> —Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself? </p>
<p> —Yes, sir. </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of
help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull
skin. <em><a href=''#''>Amor matris:</em> subjective and objective genitive<span>''amor matris'' is
Latin for ''a mother's love''; subjective and objective genitive are the declensions of the Latin
nouns (declensions are to nouns sort of what conjugations are to verbs; the declension of a noun
indicates how it is being used in a sentence)</span></a>. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she
had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.</div> </p> <p> Like him was I, these
sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand
there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the
dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.
</p> <p> The sum was done. </p> <p> —It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up. </p> <p>
—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
</p> <p> He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his
bench. </p> <p> —You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he
followed towards the door the boy's graceless form. </p> <p> —Yes, sir. </p> <p> In the
corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield. </p> <p> —Sargent! </p> <p>
—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> He stood in the
porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.
They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with <a
href=''#''>gaitered<span>wearing gaiters, an accessory that protected the ankles, and sometimes the
shins, from mud. Images from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:HalfChaps2.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/gaiters.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:HalfChaps2.jpg"></center> </span></a> feet. When he had
reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white
moustache.</div> </p> <p> —What is it now? he cried continually without listening. </p> <p>
—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said. </p> <p> —Will you wait
in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here. </p> <p> And as he stepped
fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: </p>
<p> —What is the matter? What is it now? </p> <p> Their sharp voices cried about him on all
sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed
head. </p> <p><div class="historical"> Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab
abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the
beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of <a href=''#''>Stuart coins<span>Stuart refers to the
family that ruled England during the 1600s. Despite the Stuart's Catholicism and Irish ancestry, the
family brought grief to Ireland by the backlash against their Catholicism following their rule. The
treasure of their wealth is ''base'', as it has been taken from the Irish people.</span></a>, base
treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve
apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.</div> </p> <p> A hasty step over
the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.
</p> <p> —First, our little financial settlement, he said. </p> <p> He brought out of his coat
a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined
halves, and laid them carefully on the table.
</p> <p> —Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away. </p> <p><div class="vocab">
And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the
cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an <a
href=''#''>emir's<span>a noble in a Middle Eastern country</span></a> turban, and this, the scallop
of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.</div> </p> <p> A sovereign
fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —Three,
Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See.
This is for <a href=''#''>sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here
crowns<span>units of British money. Images from http://buffalobullion.net/images/Edward%20VII.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/sovereign.jpg"
alt="http://buffalobullion.net/images/Edward%20VII.jpg"></center></span></a>. See.</div> </p> <p> He
shot from it two crowns and two shillings. </p> <p>
—Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right. </p> <p> —Thank you, sir,
Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his
trousers. </p> <p> —No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it. </p> <p> Stephen's
hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my
pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. </p> <p> —Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said.
You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very
handy. </p> <p> Answer something. </p>
<p> —Mine would be often empty, Stephen said. </p> <p> The same room and hour, the same
wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. <a href=''#''>Three nooses<span>again, Stephen is conscious
of being a servant; the three nooses are the three times he has accepted money for his work as a
teacher</span></a> round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant if I will. </p> <p>
—Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't know yet what money is.
Money is power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what
does Shakespeare say? <em>Put but money in thy purse.</em> </p> <p><div class="default"> —<a
href=''#''>Iago<span>Mr. Deasy's line ironically comes from the villain of <em>Othello</em> . This
makes him not a mentor, like his Odysseyan counterpart Nestor, but another usurper; like Mulligan
and Cranly, his words tempt Stephen to abandon his personal integrity. Images from http://www.atech.org/faculty/burke/pictures/branaghiago2.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/nestor/iago.jpg"
alt="http://www.atech.org/faculty/burke/pictures/branaghiago2.jpg"></center></span></a>, Stephen
murmured. </div></p> <p> He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare. </p>
<p> —He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too.
Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever
hear from an Englishman's mouth? </p> <p> <a href=''#''>The seas' ruler<span>an epithet used earlier
on Haines, referring to the British imperialist control of the seas</span></a>. His seacold eyes
looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. </p> <p>
—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. </p> <p> —Ba! Mr Deasy cried.
That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. </p>
<p> —I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. <em>I paid my way.</em>
</p>
<p> <a href=''#''>Good man, good man<span>Stephen ironically mentally congratulates Deasy's choice
of maxims</span></a>. </p> <p> <em>—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my
life.</em> Can you feel that? <em>I owe nothing.</em> Can you? </p> <p> <a href=''#''>Mulligan, nine
pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred
Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds,
half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board<span>Stephen mentally lists
all his debts (it is interesting that he lists himself as indebted to Mulligan, although Stephen has
paid the rent for their tower and given Mulligan drinking money)</span></a>. <a href=''#''>The
lump<span>the cash Stephen has on hand</span></a> I have is useless. </p> <p> —For the moment,
no, Stephen answered. </p>
<p> Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox. </p> <p> —I knew you
couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also
be just. </p> <p> —I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy. </p>
<p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the
mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in <a href=''#''>tartan<span>plaid (Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Three_tartans.jpg)<br><center><img
src="images/nestor/tartans.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Three_tartans.jpg"></center></span></a> <a
href=''#''>filibegs<span>kilt (Dictionary.com). Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TeDeumIllust.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/albert.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TeDeumIllust.jpg"></center> </span></a>: <a href=''#''>Albert
Edward, prince of Wales.<span>King Edward VII's official title while his mother, the long-lived
Queen Victoria, held the throne. Image from http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Edward%20only%20Tartan.JPG<br><center><img src="images/nestor/tartan.JPG"
alt="http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Edward%20only%20Tartan.JPG"></center> </span></a></div>
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —You think me an old fogey and an old <a
href=''#''>tory<span>a conservative</span></a>, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations
since <a href=''#''>O'Connell's<span>Daniel O'Connell, an Irish political leader from roughly a
century before the time of the story; he was a champion of Irish Catholics and worked for them to be
admitted to the British Parliament</span></a> time. I remember the famine in '46. Do you know that
the <a href=''#''>orange lodges<span>''Orange'' Irish were Protestants; the term comes from William
of Orange (William III, of the house of Orange), a champion of Protestantism over
Catholicism</span></a> agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before
the prelates of your communion denounced him as a <a href=''#''>demagogue<span>a leader,
specifically one who gains control of an audience by playing on emotions
(Dictionary.com)</span></a>? You <a href=''#''>fenians<span>members of organizations focusing on
freeing Ireland from British rule</span></a> forget some things.</div> </div></p>
<p><div class="vocab"><div class="historical"> Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of
Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of <a href=''#''>papishes<span>Catholics (from
papacy, in reference to their allegiance to the Pope); an image of the Catholic-Protestant
violence</span></a>. Hoarse, masked and armed, <a href=''#''>the planters' covenant<span>many of the
pro-British protestants were well-off planters, so this probably refers to some anti-Catholic
resolution</span></a>. <a href=''#''>The black north<span>the north of Ireland was notorious for its
religious and native Irish vs. British violence (thus, ''black'')</span></a> and true blue bible. <a
href=''#''>Croppies<span>a derogatory name for Irish rebels against British rule, in reference to
their cropped (short) hair<br>(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Croppy)</span></a> lie down.</div></div>
</p> <p> Stephen sketched a brief gesture. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —I have rebel blood in
me too, Mr Deasy said. On the <a href=''#''>spindle side<span>maternally</span></a>. But I am
descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons.</div>
</p> <p> —Alas, Stephen said. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —<a href=''#''><em>Per vias
rectas</em><span>Latin for ''by the righteous paths''</span></a>, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his
motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do
so.</div> </p> <p> <br>
<em>Lal the ral the ra<br> The rocky road to Dublin.</em> <br> </p> <p> A gruff squire on
horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!...
Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy. </p> <p>
—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your
literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy
the end. </p> <p> He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off
some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter. </p> <p> —Sit down. Excuse me,
he said over his shoulder, <a href=''#''><em>the dictates of common sense.</em><span>Deasy
reads portions of the letter he is typing aloud, which is full of trite but high-sounding
phrases</span></a> Just a moment.
</p> <p> He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began
to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to
erase an error. </p> <p> <div class="default">Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the <a
href=''#''>princely presence<span>refers to the portrait of Albert Edward, not Mr.
Deasy. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TeDeumIllust.jpg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/albert.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:TeDeumIllust.jpg"></center></span></a>. Framed around the
walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings'
Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, <em>prix de Paris</em>,
1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and
shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. </div></p> <p> —Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys.
But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question... </p> <p> <a href=''#''>Where Cranly led
me<span>the race courses</span></a> to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed
brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush.
Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we
hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's
dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange. </p> <p> Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield
and a whirring whistle.
</p> <p> Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life.
You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked
rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a
shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. </p> <p> —Now then, Mr Deasy said,
rising. </p> <p> He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up. </p> <p><div
class="vocab"> —I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the <a
href=''#''>foot and mouth disease<span>a plague affecting cattle and other animals</span></a>. Just
look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.</div> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> May I
trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of <em>laissez faire</em> which so often in our
history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the
Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the
channel. The <a href=''#''>pluterperfect<span>Deasy combines two terms related to past tenses,
''pluperfect'' and ''preterperfect''</span></a> imperturbability of the department of agriculture.
Pardoned a classical allusion. <a href=''#''>Cassandra<span>A princess of Troy before its downfall.
Apollo loved her and made her a seer; when his love was not returned, he cursed her so that her
predictions would be accurate but always unheeded (for example, her prediction of Troy's
sacking). Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cassandra1.jpeg<br><center><img src="images/nestor/cassandra.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cassandra1.jpeg"></center></span></a>. By a woman who was no
better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.</div> </p> <p> —I don't mince words,
do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> Foot and mouth disease. Known
as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. <a
href=''#''>Rinderpest<span>another type of cattle plague</span></a>. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg,
lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates
of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns.
Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.</div> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —I want
that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an <a
href=''#''>embargo<span>a ban on shipping or commerce</span></a> on Irish cattle. And it can be
cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in
Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with
the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by... intrigues
by... backstairs influence by...</div> </p> <p> He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly
before his voice spoke. </p> <p> —Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. <a href=''#''>England is
in the hands of the jews<span>Note how Deasy considers Ireland just a part of England.</span></a>.
In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay.
Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As
sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England
is dying. </p>
<p> He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced
about and back again. </p> <p> —Dying, he said again, if not dead by now. </p> <p> <br> <a
href=''#''><em>The harlot's cry from street to street<br> Shall weave old England's
windingsheet</em><span>from William Blake's ''Auguries of Innocence''</span></a>.</em> <br> </p> <p>
His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. </p> <p>
—<a href=''#''>A merchant<span>Stephen gently suggests that the hatred of unscrupulous
merchants should be directed against the merchants themselves, not against a race</span></a>,
Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not? </p>
<p> —<a href=''#''>They sinned against the light<span>some Christians continued to blame
modern Jews for the execution of Jesus</span></a>, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the
darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day. </p> <p> On the
steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble
of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit
silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the
words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their
zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the
roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the
dishonours of their flesh. </p> <p> —<a href=''#''>Who has not?<span>i.e. Who has not sinned
in some way?</span></a> Stephen said. </p> <p> —What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked. </p> <p> He
came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old
wisdom? He waits to hear from me. </p> <p> —History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I
am trying to awake.
</p> <p> From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that
nightmare gave you a back kick? </p> <p> —The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy
said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God. </p> <p> Stephen
jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: </p> <p> —That is God. </p> <p> Hooray! Ay!
Whrrwhee! </p> <p>
—What? Mr Deasy asked. </p> <p> —A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his
shoulders. </p> <p> Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between
his fingers. Looking up again he set them free. </p> <p> —I am happier than you are, he said.
We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was
no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on
Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her
leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but
not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the
end. </p> <p> <br> <em>For Ulster will fight<br> And Ulster will be right.</em> <br> </p> <p>
Stephen raised the sheets in his hand. </p> <p> —Well, sir, he began... </p> <p> —I
foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to
be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong. </p> <p> —A learner rather, Stephen said. </p> <p>
And here what will you learn more? </p> <p> Mr Deasy shook his head. </p>
<p> —Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher. </p> <p>
Stephen rustled the sheets again. </p> <p> —As regards these, he began. </p> <p> —Yes,
Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once. </p> <p> <a
href=''#''><em>Telegraph. Irish Homestead</em><span>two Dublin papers with which Stephen has
connections</span></a>.</em> </p>
<p> —I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly. </p>
<p> —That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a
meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter
before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they? </p> <p>
<em>—The Evening Telegraph...</em> </p> <p> —That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no
time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin. </p> <p> —Good morning, sir,
Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you. </p> <p>
—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with
you, old as I am. </p> <p> —Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
</p> <p><div class="vocab"> He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,
hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions <a
href=''#''>couchant<span>heraldic term for lying down. Image from http://chestofbooks.com/food/household/Woman-Encyclopaedia-4/images/The-lion-couchant-or-lying-
down-figures-frequently-upon-co.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/nestor/couchant.jpg"
alt="http://chestofbooks.com/food/household/Woman-Encyclopaedia-4/images/The-lion-couchant-or-lying-
down-figures-frequently-upon-co.jpg"></center></span></a> on the pillars as he passed out through
the gate: toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name:
the bullockbefriending bard.</div> </p> <p> —Mr Dedalus! </p> <p> Running after me. No more
letters, I hope. </p> <p> —Just one moment. </p>
<p> —Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate. </p> <p> Mr Deasy halted, breathing
hard and swallowing his breath. </p> <p> —I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say,
has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And
do you know why? </p> <p> He frowned sternly on the bright air. </p> <p> —Why, sir? Stephen
asked, beginning to smile. </p> <p> —Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
</p> <p> A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of
phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. </p> <p>
—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet
over the gravel of the path. That's why. </p> <p> On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of
leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins. </p>
</div>
<!--#include virtual="includes/footer.shtml" -->
</div>
</body> </html>