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<div id="left"> <p> <span class="partial"> Click to limit the notes to specific areas: </span> </p>
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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>
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<div id="booktext"> <div class="booklinks">
<p><div class="default"> <a href="#">S<span><em>Ulysses</em> is divided into three sections, and the
first letter of each appears in large type. The first three episodes (focusing on Stephen Dedalus)
begin with S, the section encompassing the bulk of the novel (focusing on Leopold Bloom) begins with
M, and the last section (three episodes which follow Stephen and Leopold and then relate a monologue
by Molly Bloom) begins with P. "SMP" supposedly refers to the first initials of the three main
characters: Stephen Dedalus, Molly Bloom, and Poldy (Molly's pet name for Leopold). Image from http://spencer.lib.ku.edu/exhibits/bannedbooks/JoyceUlysses2.jpg.
Bloom.<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/S.jpg"
alt="http://spencer.lib.ku.edu/exhibits/bannedbooks/JoyceUlysses2.jpg"></center></span></a></div>
tately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and
a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild
morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: </p> <p><div class="vocab"> <a
href="#">—<em>Introibo ad altare Dei</em>.<span>A line spoken by a priest during a Latin
Catholic mass, meaning "I will go to the altar of God". With his morning shave, Mulligan begins a
mockery of the mass that is sustained for much of the episode, complete with blessings and the
shaving bowl as holy incense. This mockery is a subtle taunt to Stephen, who was extremely devout as
a boy; although he realized in adolescence that he could not be both a true artist and serve another
(see Joyce's <em>Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</em> for the story of Stephen's childhood),
Stephen still has more respect for the religion and customs of the "native" Irish (i.e. unAnglicized
and uneducated -- both Mulligan and Stephen are actually native to Ireland) than the opportunistic
Mulligan, who is happy to use his medical training and urban upbringing to ingratiate himself with
Englishmen such as their boarder Haines. Image from http://www.christusrex.org/www2/cantgreg/partituras/co_introibo.gif.<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/introibo.jpg"
alt="http://www.christusrex.org/www2/cantgreg/partituras/co_introibo.gif"></center>
</span></a></div> </p> <p>
Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: </p> <p><div class="vocab">
—Come up, <a href="#">Kinch!<span>Mulligan's nickname for Stephen, which he defines as a
"knife-blade" (the OED defines a kinch as a type of knot and I've never been able to find the word
defined as a knife, but for the purposes of the novel it makes the most sense to go with Mulligan's
definition). This nickname, which alludes to the sharpness of Stephen's intellect, is used somewhat
patronizingly -- Mulligan recognizes that Stephen has greater intellectual powers than him and is
passive-aggressively jealous, but is also aware that Stephen does not use his mind to as great a
social advantage as Mulligan does. Image from http://www.aceros-de-hispania.com/image/fallkniven-knife/idun-fallkniven-knife.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/knife.jpg"
alt="http://www.aceros-de-hispania.com/image/fallkniven-knife/idun-fallkniven-knife.jpg"></center></
span></a> Come up, you fearful <a href="#">jesuit!<span>a Catholic order that organized many schools
in Ireland. The Jesuits were characterized as skilled equivocators, using craftiness to answer
unanswerable religious questions and also protecting the order during the time it was suppressed by
the Pope. Stephen has been taught by Jesuits; Mulligan fears his subtle intellect, which often
allows him to provide answers through roundabout logic (see his discussion of Hamlet, mentioned
later in this episode and explored more fully in the episode Scylla and Charybdis). Image from http://www.rowanpix.com/reenactments/images/a-Jesuit.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/jesuit.jpg"
alt="http://www.rowanpix.com/reenactments/images/a-Jesuit.jpg"></center></span></a></div> </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round <a href="#">gunrest.<span>the
tower retains fortifications from when it was used for military defense. Image from http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.tomlovell.com/2c03.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.
tomlovell.com/l2000-r2.html&usg=__EBftcL-65x_scvKBlXbmvRw6QVk=&h=376&w=596&sz=36&hl=en&start=42&sig2
=aBiyWoVSrHCfaGSpVA2yug&um=1&tbnid=V8jyu_yLMAVo_M:&tbnh=85&tbnw=135&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtower%
2Bgunrest%26ndsp%3D18%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official
%26sa%3DN%26start%3D36%26um%3D1&ei=1NnWSdDkK4PCMrijwe0O<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/gunrest.jpg"
alt="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.tomlovell.com/2c03.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.
tomlovell.com/l2000-r2.html&usg=__EBftcL-65x_scvKBlXbmvRw6QVk=&h=376&w=596&sz=36&hl=en&start=42&sig2
=aBiyWoVSrHCfaGSpVA2yug&um=1&tbnid=V8jyu_yLMAVo_M:&tbnh=85&tbnw=135&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtower%
2Bgunrest%26ndsp%3D18%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official
%26sa%3DN%26start%3D36%26um%3D1&ei=1NnWSdDkK4PCMrijwe0O"></center></span></a> He faced about and
blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching
sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made <a href="#">rapid crosses<span>Mulligan
continues to mock the Mass by making the sign of the cross</span></a> in the air, gurgling in his
throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of
the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length,
and at the light <a href="#">untonsured<span>Tonsuring was the practice of shaving off the crown of
a priest or monk's hair to show their disdain for caring about their physical appearance. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tonsure_fx_tr.png
<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/tonsure.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tonsure_fx_tr.png"></center></span></a> hair, <a
href="#">grained and hued like pale oak<span>these woody references "hint at the treachery of the
Trojan horse" (Blamires 3). Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Troj_Horse.JPG<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/trojanhorse.JPG"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Troj_Horse.JPG"></center></span></a>.</div> </p> <p> Buck
Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly. </p> <p> —Back
to barracks! he said sternly. </p> <p> <a href="#">He added in a preacher's tone:<span>Mulligan
continues to mock the mass.</span></a> </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> —For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine <a
href="#">Christine<span>a jokingly female version of Christ</span></a>: body and soul and blood and
ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those <a
href="#">white corpuscles<span>Mulligan's shaving lather serves as the "white corpuscles" of holy
blood, while the whistles imitate the bells of a Mass (Blamires 3)</span></a>. Silence, all.</div>
</p> <p><div class="vocab"> He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused
awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. <a
href="#">Chrysostomos<span>probably a reference to Saint John Chrysostom, nicknamed "the
golden-mouthed" for his speaking ability; Stephen links Mulligan's glibness to his gold-capped
teeth. Image from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/cf/Johnchrysostom.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/chrysostomos.jpg"
alt="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/cf/Johnchrysostom.jpg"></center></span></a>.
Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.</div> </p> <p> —Thanks, old chap, he
cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you? </p> <p><div class="vocab"> He
skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds
of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a <a href="#">prelate<span>a
person of high rank and influence within the church, such as a bishop. Image from http://imagecache.allposters.com/images/pic/MEPOD/10009722~Gil-Alvarez-Carillo-De-Albornoz-
Known-as-Egidio-Spanish-Soldier-and-Prelate-Posters.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/prelate.jpg"
alt="http://imagecache.allposters.com/images/pic/MEPOD/10009722~Gil-Alvarez-Carillo-De-Albornoz-
Known-as-Egidio-Spanish-Soldier-and-Prelate-Posters.jpg"></center></span></a>, patron of arts in the
middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.</div> </p> <p><div class="vocab">
—The mockery of it! he said gaily. <a href="#">Your absurd name, an ancient
Greek!<span>Dedalus is an unusual name for an Irishman, coming from the mythical Greek Daedalus, the
great inventor who created the labyrinth for King Minos and escaped from Crete using wings he made
from birds' feathers (his son, Icarus, was given a similar set of wings for escaping, but flew so
near the sun that the wings disintegrated and he drowned). The reference to this Greek pair is
interesting, as Daedalus is often used to exemplify the rational, unemotive, scientific mind, while
Icarus represents the unrestrained artist; Stephen bears far more resemblance to the
latter. Image from http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Icarus%20Dedalus.JPG<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/dedalus.JPG"
alt="http://www.joyceimages.com/media/ji/Icarus%20Dedalus.JPG"></center></span></a></div> </p> <p>
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen
Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching
him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks
and neck.
</p> <p> Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —My name is absurd
too: Malachi Mulligan, two <a href="#">dactyls<span>words consisting of one long (or accented)
syllable followed by two short (or unaccented) syllables</span></a>. But it has a <a
href="#">Hellenic<span>pertaining to the ancient Greeks, around the time when their culture and
learning most flourished</span></a> ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We
must go to</div>Athens. Will you come if I can get the <a href="#">aunt<span>Mulligan's aunt, like
Mulligan, is an Anglicized Irishwoman; she looks askance at the unkempt Stephen and his family,
which with its poverty and many children exemplifies how the English perceived Irish
backwardness</span></a> to fork out twenty quid? </p> <p> He laid the brush aside and, laughing with
delight, cried: </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —Will he come? The <a
href="#">jejune<span>youthful, lacking knowledge or experience</span></a> jesuit!</div> </p> <p>
Ceasing, he began to shave with care. </p> <p>
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. </p> <p> —Yes, my love? </p> <p> <div
class="vocab"><div class="puzzles"><div class="bio"> —How long is <a
href="#">Haines<span>Haines is an Englishman from Oxford who is boarding in the tower with Stephen
and Mulligan, apparently with the goal of researching Irish folk tradition. The previous evening he
had a nightmare involving shooting a black panther; the dream disturbed Stephen, who feared Haines
would try to shoot his gun while half-awake. This story parallels a story from Joyce's own life (see
Ellmann's biography of Joyce for details).</span></a> going to stay in this tower?</div></div></div>
</p> <p> Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. </p> <p><div class="vocab">
—God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous <a href="#">Saxon<span>Englishman
(England was populated by Saxons before the William of Normandy introduced the French)</span></a>.
He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion.
Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you
out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.</div> </p> <p> He shaved warily over
his chin. </p>
<p><div class="puzzles"> —He was raving all night about a <a href="#">black
panther<span>Haines' dream foreshadows the arrival of main character Leopold Bloom in the story;
Bloom, a Jewish Dubliner, social misfit, and outcast from his own home, is often described as a sort
of "dark horse". Image from http://www.poster.net/anonymous/anonymous-black-panther-5000217.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/panther.jpg"
alt="http://www.poster.net/anonymous/anonymous-black-panther-5000217.jpg"></center></span></a>,
Stephen said. Where is his guncase?</div> </p> <p> —A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you
in a funk? </p> <p> —I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark
with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. <div
class="vocab"><a href="#">You saved men from drowning<span>Mulligan's rescue of a drowning man will
be discussed later in the novel; for all that Stephen feels morally superior to the British-toadying
Mulligan, he recognizes he would not have been brave enough to save the man's life.</span></a>. I'm
not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.</div> </p> <p> Buck Mulligan frowned at the
lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets
hastily. </p> <p> —Scutter! he cried thickly. </p> <p> He came over to the gunrest and,
thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:
</p> <p> —Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. </p> <p> Stephen suffered him to
pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the
razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: </p> <p> —The bard's noserag!
A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you? </p> <p> He
mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what
<a href="#">Algy<span>Algernon Charles Swinburne, a controversial Victorian poet. Image from http://www.victorianweb.org/painting/scott/paintings/4.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/swinburne.jpg"
alt="http://www.victorianweb.org/painting/scott/paintings/4.jpg"></center></span></a> calls
it:</div> <a href="#">a great sweet mother<span>From a Swinburne poem: "I will go back to the great
sweet mother, / Mother and lover of men, the sea"</span></a>? The snotgreen sea. The
scrotumtightening sea. <a href="#"><em>Epi oinopa ponton</em><span>Greek for "the wine-dark sea", as
Homer terms it in the Odyssey; afterwards paralleled by Mulligan with "the snot-green
sea"</span></a>. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. <a
href="#"><em>Thalatta! Thalatta</em>!<span>Greek for "the sea"</span></a> She is our great sweet
mother. Come and look.</div>
</p> <p> Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water
and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. </p> <p> —Our mighty mother! Buck
Mulligan said. </p> <p> He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.
</p> <p> —The aunt thinks <a href="#">you killed your mother<span>Stephen, who recently
abandoned his previously devout Catholicism, refused to kneel down and pray with his dying mother
May (a young Joyce had done the same). He is berated both by Mulligan and his conscience, visited by
dreams and visions of a reproachful ghost</span></a>, he said. That's why she won't let me have
anything to do with you. </p> <p> —Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. </p> <p> <div
class="vocab"> —You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you,
Buck Mulligan said. I'm <a href="#">hyperborean<span>living in or from the far north; from a
mythical race that lived beyond the north wind</span></a> as much as you. But to think of your
mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is
something sinister in you...</div> </p> <p> He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther
cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —But a lovely <a
href="#">mummer<span>a low actor, such as might perform at a parade or carnival. Image from http://www.blogs.targetx.com/wildriverreview/penworldvoices/Mummer1.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/mummer.jpg"
alt="http://www.blogs.targetx.com/wildriverreview/penworldvoices/Mummer1.jpg"></center></span></a>!
he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all!</div> </p> <p> He shaved evenly and
with care, in silence, seriously. </p> <p> Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned
his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that
was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream <a href="#">she had come to
him<span>Stephen's recently deceased mother appears to Stephen in his dreams</span></a> after her
death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood,
her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the
threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the <a
href="#">wellfed<span>Mulligan has given Stephen some of his old clothing and shoes.</span></a>
voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white
china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her
rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
</p>
<p> —Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags.
How are the secondhand breeks? </p> <p> —They fit well enough, Stephen answered. </p> <p> Buck
Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. </p> <p> —The mockery of it, he said
contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair
with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well
when you're dressed. </p> <p><div class="historical"> —Thanks, Stephen said. <a href="#">I
can't wear them if they are grey.<span>Despite his refusal to pray with his dying mother, Stephen is
observing the social custom of displaying one's mourning by wearing only black
clothing</span></a></div> </p> <p> —He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the
mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers.
</p> <p> He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. </p>
<p> Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its <a href="#">smokeblue mobile
eyes<span>note this change from "grey searching eyes"; Mulligan is mercurial, willing to change any
part of himself to make the most gain</span></a>. </p> <p><div class="vocab"><div class="vocab">
—That fellow I was with in the <a href="#">Ship<span>a tavern</span></a> last night, said Buck
Mulligan, <div class="historical">says you have <a href="#">g.p.i.<span>hort for "general paralysis
of the insane," the old term for schizophrenia; Stephen's descent from prize-winning, hyper-devout
student to unwashed artist who refused to pray for his dying mother suggests a mental instability to
people who observe him</span></a> He's up in <a href="#">Dottyville<span>nickname for an insane
asylum</span></a> with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane!</div></div> </p> <p> He
swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the
sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized
all his strong wellknit trunk. </p> <p> —Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! </p>
<p>
Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on
end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me
too. </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —I pinched it out of the <a
href="#">skivvy's<span>servant. Image from http://www.victorianweb.org/gender/wojtczak/pics/maid51.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/skivvy.jpg"
alt="http://www.victorianweb.org/gender/wojtczak/pics/maid51.jpg"></center></span></a> room, Buck
Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead
him not into temptation. And her name is <a href="#">Ursula<span>Ursula is also the name of a saint,
renowned for her chastity; Mulligan implies that she is chaste because she is so
plain-looking. Image from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Hans_Memling_074.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/ursula.jpg"
alt="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Hans_Memling_074.jpg"></center></span></a>.<
/div></div> </p> <p> Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes. </p>
<p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —The rage of <a href="#">Caliban<span>The wild
native creature, a tragic fool-villain, from Shakespeare's <em>The Tempest</em>. In the prologue to
<em>The Picture of Dorian Gray</em>, Oscar Wilde wrote, "The nineteenth-century dislike of realism
is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism
is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass." Mulligan uses the quotation to mock
Stephen's obvious discomfort with difference between the image of himself that the mirror presents
and his own idea of himself. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Oscar_Wilde_portrait.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/wilde.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Oscar_Wilde_portrait.jpg"></center></span></a> at not seeing
his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!</div></div> </p> <p> Drawing
back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: </p> <p> <div class="default"><a href="#">—It
is a symbol of Irish art<span>Stephen sees Irish art is an attempt to mirror the real, marred by the
Irish artist's toadying to the British ideal of art. Image from http://www.reconnections.net/mirror_cracked.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/cracked.jpg"
alt="http://www.reconnections.net/mirror_cracked.jpg"></center></span></a></div>. The cracked
looking-glass of a servant. </p>
<p> Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his
razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them. </p> <p> —It's not fair to
tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.
</p> <p> Parried again. <a href="#">He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of
his<span>Stephen, the unhygienic, is superstitiously fearful of modern medicine (he is also afraid
of thunder--ironic, given his apostasy-- and dogs). Mulligan fears Stephen's superior wit, and thus
keeps his jealousy and dislike hidden.</span></a>. The cold steelpen. </p> <p><div
class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the <a
href="#">oxy<span>from Oxford College</span></a> chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's
stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his <a
href="#">tin<span>fortune</span></a> by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God,
Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. <a
href="#">Hellenise<span>make into something appreciative of and producing arts and culture similar
to that of Golden Age Greece</span></a> it.</div></div> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> <a
href="#">Cranly's<span>Cranly, like Mulligan, was once (in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man)
one of Stephen's best friends, but since fell out of favor after Stephen questions his integrity (a
pattern with Stephen; like Mulligan, Cranly had counseled Stephen to complete an Easter ritual to
please his mother even though Stephen is no longer sure he is a believer).</span></a> arm. His
arm.</div> </p> <p> —And to think of your having to beg from these swine. <a href="#">I'm the
only one that knows what you are<span>Mulligan, for all his willingness to do anything for gain, is
one of the few people who recognize that Stephen is intelligent and not insane or useless. However,
Stephen cannot reconcile himself with Mulligan's willingness to serve up Ireland to make a dollar,
and Mulligan knows Stephen sees this side of him and is angered.</span></a>. Why don't you trust me
more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring
down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave <a href="#">Clive
Kempthorpe<span>Stephen imagines a schoolboy being humiliated by his fellow classmates, a story he
has probably heard from Mulligan before.</span></a>.
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive
Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall
expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping
the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of <a
href="#">Magdalen<span>Magdalen College, part of the University of Oxford</span></a> with the
tailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you
play the giddy ox with me!</div></div> </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> Shouts
from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with <a
href="#">Matthew Arnold's<span>A popular Victorian poet; the gardener, though masked with the face
of culture, is deaf to the violence going on among the nearby students. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Matthew_Arnold_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_16745.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/matthewarnold.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Matthew_Arnold_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_16745.jpg"></center>
</span></a> face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of
grasshalms.</div></div> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> <a href="#">To ourselves... new paganism...
omphalos<span>Stephen moves from thoughts of Matthew Arnold's writings to the idea of of the
omphalos, or navel (Martello Tower is referred to as the omphalos). Disturbed by the image of
violence, Stephen is moved to forgive Haines. </span></a>.</div> </p> <p> —Let him stay,
Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night. </p> <p> —Then what is it? Buck
Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now?
</p> <p>
They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a
sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly. </p> <p> —Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
</p> <p> —Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything. </p> <p> He
looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed
hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes. </p> <p> Stephen, depressed by his own
voice, said: </p> <p> —Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's
death? </p>
<p> Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: </p> <p> —What? Where? I can't remember anything.
I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God? </p> <p> —You
were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and
some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room. </p> <p> —Yes?
Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget. </p> <p> —You said, Stephen answered, <em>O,
it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.</em> </p>
<p> A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek. </p> <p>
—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that? </p> <p> He shook his constraint from him
nervously. </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —And what is death, he asked,
your mother's or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the
<a href="#">Mater and Richmond<span>hospitals</span></a> and cut up into tripes in the dissecting
room. It's a beastly thing</div></div>and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel
down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed
jesuit strain in you, <a href="#">only it's injected the wrong way<span>Stephen retains the Jesuit
love of logic and reason without the accompanying religion or affection</span></a>. To me it's all a
mockery and beastly. <a href="#">Her cerebral lobes are not functioning<span>Mulligan imagines an
old woman gradually losing her mental abilities, trying to show Stephen that one should humor the
dying.</span></a>. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour
her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me<div
class="vocab"><div class="historical">because I don't whinge like some <a href="#">hired mute<span>a
person hired to appear as a mourner at a funeral</span></a> from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I
did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.</div></div> </p> <p> He had spoken
himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart,
said very coldly: </p> <p> —I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.
</p> <p> —Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked. </p> <p> —Of the offence to me, Stephen
answered. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. </p> <p> —O, an impossible person!
he exclaimed. </p> <p> He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing
over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his
eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. </p> <p>
A voice within the tower called loudly: </p> <p> —Are you up there, Mulligan? </p> <p>
—I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered. </p> <p> He turned towards Stephen and said: </p> <p><div
class="vocab"> —Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck <a
href="#">Loyola<span>founder of the Catholic Jesuit order; here, a symbol of rigid
belief. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ignatius_Loyola.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/loyola.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ignatius_Loyola.jpg"></center></span></a>, Kinch, and come on
down. The <a href="#">Sassenach<span>Scottish vernacular for an Englishman</span></a> wants his
morning rashers.</div> </p> <p> His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase,
level with the roof: </p>
<p> —Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. </p>
<p> His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: </p> <p>
<div class="historical"> <a href="#"><em>And no more turn aside and brood<br> Upon love's bitter
mystery<br> For Fergus rules the brazen cars.</em><span>A Yeats song called "Who Goes With Fergus?"
(Blamires 5). Mulligan is ironically singing the song Stephen mother asked him to sing for her on
her deathbed.</span></a> <br></div> </p> <p> Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning
peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water
whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. <a href="#">The twining
stresses, two by two<span>The lines of the song are built of pairs of unstressed-stressed
syllables.</span></a>. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite
wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> A cloud began to cover the sun
slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. <a
href="#">Fergus'<span>the Yeats song Mulligan was singing, called "Who Goes With Fergus?" (Blamires
5)</span></a> song: I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was
open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in
her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery.</div> </p>
<p> <a href="#">Where now?<span>Stephen, who no longer is certain of an afterlife, wonders what has
become of his dead mother.</span></a> </p> <p> <a href="#">Her secrets<span>Stephen moves from
images of the trifles May left behind (e.g. dancecards hinting at a life before she was a mother) to
imagined memories from May's childhood.</span></a>: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered
with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her
house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and
laughed with others when he sang: </p> <p> <br> <em>I am the boy<br> That can enjoy<br>
Invisibility.</em> <br> </p> <p> Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. </p> <p> <em>And no
more turn aside and brood.</em>
</p> <p> Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her
glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled
with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails
reddened by the <a href="#">blood of squashed lice<span>Stephen transitions from imagining May's
pleasant childhood memories to the hardships she faced as a mother of many children living in
poverty (Stephen's father, while charismatic and popular, is a drinker and not a consistent
breadwinner)</span></a> from the children's shirts. </p> <p> In a dream, silently, she had come to
him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her
breath, bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes. </p> <p><div
class="vocab"> Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The
ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling
in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. <a
href="#"><em>Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus
excipiat.</em><span>Part of the Catholic liturgy for the dying, spoken at May's deathbed</span></a>
</div></p> <p> Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! </p> <p> <a href="#">No, mother!<span>Stephen revolts
against the image of his reproachful mother, whose guilt threatens Stephen's sense of independence
from the stultifying confines of religion and Irish tradition.</span></a> Let me be and let me live.
</p> <p> —Kinch ahoy! </p> <p> Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came
nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard warm
running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words. </p> <p> —Dedalus, come down, like
a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It's all right.
</p> <p> —I'm coming, Stephen said, turning. </p> <p> —Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck
Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes. </p> <p>
His head disappeared and reappeared. </p> <p> —I told him <a href="#">your symbol of Irish
art<span>Mulligan has offered up the "cracked looking glass of a servant" image Stephen created
earlier to Haines in hope of cadging a few coins for a drink; he is willing to sell off Stephen's
art (and by extension, all Ireland) to the English for gain, if Stephen won't do it himself, but
feigns shock when Stephen later facetiously asks Haines if he can make any money off his wit
</span></a>. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean. </p> <p> <a
href="#">—I get paid<span>Stephen has regular work teaching at a boy's school, as will be seen
in Episode 2 (Nestor); Mulligan, a medical student, seems to get his money from his aunt</span></a>
this morning, Stephen said. </p> <p> —The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid?
Lend us one. </p> <p> —If you want it, Stephen said. </p> <p> —Four shining sovereigns,
Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four
omnipotent sovereigns. </p>
<p> He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney
accent: </p> <p> <br> <em>O, won't we have a merry time,<br> Drinking whisky, beer and wine!<br> On
coronation,<br> Coronation day!<br> O, won't we have a merry time<br> On coronation day!</em> <br>
</p> <p> Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the
parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship? </p> <p><div
class="historical"><div class="vocab"> He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its
coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the
boat of incense then at <a href="#">Clongowes<span>A Jesuit boarding school attended by a young
Stephen; the scene of Stephen's most devout Catholicism.</span></a>. I am another now and yet the
same. A</div></div>servant too. <a href="#">A server of a servant<span>By serving Mulligan in
bringing his shaving bowl, since Mulligan is himself a servant to society's demands.</span></a>.
</p> <p><div class="vocab"> In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form
moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft
daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high <a href="#">barbicans<span>castle
towers. Image from http://img.tfd.com/wn/F1/62079-barbican.gif<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/barbican.gif"
alt="http://img.tfd.com/wn/F1/62079-barbican.gif"></center></span></a>: and at the meeting of their
rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.</div> </p>
<p> —We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you? </p> <p> 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. </p> <p> —Have you the <a
href="#">key<span>The tower has only one key, which Stephen has kept so far (with his regular
teaching job, he has been the one to pay the rent). He senses now the Mulligan will ask for the key,
effectively usurping his home.</span></a>? a voice asked. </p> <p> —Dedalus has it, Buck
Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked! </p> <p> He howled, without looking up from the fire: </p>
<p> —Kinch!
</p> <p> —It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward. </p> <p> 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. </p> <p> —I'm
melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! 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. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk. </p> <p> Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of
honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet. </p> <p> <a
href="#">—What sort of a kip is this?<span>Mulligan is peeved that the milkwoman has not
appeared at the appointed time.</span></a> he said. I told her to come after eight. </p> <p>
—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the locker. </p> <p>
—O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk. </p> <p> Haines
came in from the doorway and said quietly: </p> <p> —That woman is coming up with the milk.
</p> <p> —The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit
down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.
</p> <p> He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying: </p>
<p><div class="vocab"> <a href="#">—<em>In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus
Sancti.</em><span>Latin Catholic blessing usually spoken while making the sign of the cross: "In the
name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."</span></a> </div></p> <p> Haines sat down to pour
out the tea. </p> <p> —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do
make strong tea, don't you? </p> <p> Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an
old woman's wheedling voice: </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —When I makes
tea I makes tea, as old <a href="#">mother Grogan<span>A humorous Irish folkloric figure, possibly
created by Mulligan, but presented to Haines half-mockingly as valid cultural material for his book.
Mulligan couches vulgar anecdotes as Irish folklore, subtly mocking Ireland's ability to produce any
nobel or heroic mythology</span></a> said. And when I makes water I makes water.</div></div> </p>
<p>
—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: </p>
<p> —<em>So I do, Mrs Cahill,</em> says she. <em>Begob, ma'am,</em> says Mrs Cahill, <em>God
send you don't make them in the one pot.</em> </p> <p> He lunged towards his messmates in turn a
thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.
</p> <p> <a href="#">—That's folk<span>Haines is apparently in Ireland to collect folk tales
or culture for a book.</span></a>, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. 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. </p> <p> He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting
his brows: </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and
water pot spoken of in the <a href="#">Mabinogion<span>The Mabinogion is a collection of old Welsh
story; the Upanishads are Hindu writings</span></a> or is it in the <a href="#">Upanishads<span>The
Mabinogion is a collection of old Welsh story; the Upanishads are Hindu writings</span></a>?</div>
</p> <p> —I doubt it, said Stephen gravely. </p> <p> —Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in
the same tone. Your reasons, pray? </p> <p>
—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan
was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. </p>
<p> —Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes
pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming! </p> <p> Then, suddenly overclouding all his
features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf: </p> <p>
<br> <em>—For old Mary Ann<br> She doesn't care a damn.<br> But, hising up her
petticoats...</em> <br> </p> <p>
He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. </p> <p> The doorway was darkened by an
entering form. </p> <p> —The milk, sir! </p> <p> —Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch,
get the jug. </p> <p> An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. </p> <p> —That's
a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God. </p>
<p> —To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure! </p> <p> Stephen reached back
and took the milkjug from the locker. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —The islanders, Mulligan
said to Haines casually, speak frequently of <a href="#">the collector of prepuces.<span>Mulligan
continues to speak in an elevated anthropological style, mocking the milkwoman's simplicity and
religion. Collector of prepuces: A reference to the Old Testament God's law that Jewish men be
circumcised.</span></a> </div></p> <p> —How much, sir? asked the old woman. </p> <p> —A
quart, Stephen said. </p> <p><div class="historical"> <a href="#">He watched her pour<span>Stephen
sees the uncivilized milkwoman as personifying the Irish spirit, her very oldness and lack of
breeding suggesting she is a "messenger" or otherwise supernatural</span></a> 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. <a href="#">Silk of the kine and poor old woman<span>epithets for
Ireland</span></a>, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, <a href="#">lowly form of an
immortal<span>Stephen further fleshes out the idea of Ireland as a poor old woman by imagining her
as a Goddess in disguise (just as Ireland's culture and beauty is disguised). One of Ireland's
mythic figures is Kathleen Ni Houlihan, sometimes referred to as the Poor Old Woman (as in the
Yeats/Gregory play of that name), who calls for the young men of the country to fight for Ireland's
freedom (Thornton 20).</span></a> serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common
cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. <a href="#">To serve or to upbraid<span>Seeing the
milkwoman as a mythic Kathleen-Ni-Houlihan figure protecting Ireland, Stephen wonders whether she is
there to help him in his fight against British tyranny, or to chasten him for failing Ireland.
Though initially soothed by the the site of a "real" (i.e. not Anglicized) Irish milkwoman, he
quickly sees in her the faults he sees in all the modern Irish: ignorance of national history (she
doesn't speak or even recognize Gaelic) and quickness to be impressed with foreign learning and
cultivation (e.g. Mulligan's status as a medical student).</span></a>, whether he could not tell:
but scorned to beg her favour. </div> </p> <p> —It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said,
pouring milk into their cups. </p> <p> —Taste it, sir, she said. </p> <p> He drank at her
bidding. </p> <p> —If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we
wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap
food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. </p> <p> —Are you a
medical student, sir? the old woman asked. </p> <p>
—I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered. </p> <p> —Look at that now, she said. </p> <p><div
class="historical"> Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that
speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: <a href="#">me she slights<span>Like
Stephen's picture of most Irish, the milkwoman is impressed with Anglicized learning but wouldn't be
impressed with the works of an Irish artist (such as Stephen hopes to be), even though artistic
abilities are closer to Ireland's cultural bequest than scientific ones</span></a>. To the voice
that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's
flesh made not in God's likeness, the serpent's prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be
silent with wondering unsteady eyes.</div> </p> <p><div class="historical"> <a href="#">—Do
you understand what he says?<span>Haines, the English boarder, is trying out his Gaelic on the
milkwoman, who not only does not speak irish but cannot even guess that is what he is
speaking</span></a> Stephen asked her. </div></p> <p> —Is it French you are talking, sir? the
old woman said to Haines. </p> <p> Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. </p>
<p> —Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you? </p> <p> —I thought it was
Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir? </p> <p> —I am an Englishman,
Haines answered. </p> <p> —He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak
Irish in Ireland. </p> <p> —Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't
speak the language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows. </p> <p> —Grand
is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would
you like a cup, ma'am?
</p> <p> —No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her
forearm and about to go. </p> <p> Haines said to her: </p> <p> —Have you your bill? We had
better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we? </p> <p> Stephen filled again the three cups. </p> <p>
—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a
shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a
shilling. That's a shilling and one and two is two and two, sir. </p> <p>
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. </p> <p> —Pay up and look
pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling. </p> <p> Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea
colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his
fingers and cried: </p> <p> —A miracle! </p> <p> He passed it along the table towards the old
woman, saying: </p> <p> —Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give. </p>
<p> Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand. </p> <p> —We'll owe twopence, he said. </p> <p>
—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir. </p> <p> She
curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: </p> <p> <br> <em>—Heart of
my heart, were it more,<br> More would be laid at your feet.</em> <br> </p>
<p> He turned to Stephen and said: </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —Seriously, Dedalus. I'm <a
href="#">stony<span>Mulligan is "as dry as stone" and needs a drink</span></a>. 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.</div> </p> <p> —That reminds me, Haines said, rising,
that I have to visit your national library today. </p> <p> —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan
said. </p> <p> He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: </p> <p> —Is this the day for your
monthly wash, Kinch?
</p> <p> Then he said to Haines: </p> <p> —The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a
month. </p> <p> —All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle
over a slice of the loaf. </p> <p> Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about
the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: </p> <p> —I intend to make a collection of your
sayings if you will let me. </p> <p> <div class="vocab"> Speaking to me. They wash and tub and
scrub. <a href="#">Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot.<span>"Agenbite of inwit" is
Middle English, translating to "prick of remorse". Stephen is referring sarcastically to those who
bathe more often than he does -- perhaps they are trying to whiten their unclean consciences? "Yet
here's a spot" refers to Shakespeare's Macbeth, in which the crazed Lady Macbeth (pictured) comes to
believe that she cannot wash the blood of her murders off her hands. Image from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Ellen_Terry_at_Lady_Macbeth.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/macbeth.jpg"
alt="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/95/Ellen_Terry_at_Lady_Macbeth.jpg"></center></
span></a> </div></p> <p> —That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the
symbol of Irish art is deuced good. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and
said with warmth of tone: </p> <p> —Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. </p> <p>
—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that
poor old creature came in. </p> <p> <a href="#">—Would I make any money by it?<span>Stephen,
who is poor but feels that his art is above being traded for money from the English, voices what
Mulligan is probably thinking (Mulligan sees his abilities -- and by extension, the abilities of the
Irish -- as fungible goods to be traded for benefits form the English)</span></a> Stephen asked.
</p>
<p> Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the hammock, said: </p>
<p> —I don't know, I'm sure. </p> <p> He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent
across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: </p> <p> —You put your hoof in it now. What did
you say that for? </p> <p> —Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From
the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think. </p> <p> —I blow him out about you, Buck
Mulligan said, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.
</p> <p> —I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan sighed
tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm. </p> <p> —From me, Kinch, he said. </p> <p> In
a suddenly changed tone he added: </p> <p> —To tell you the God's truth I think you're right.
Damn all else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all. Let us get
out of the kip. </p> <p>
He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly: </p> <p>
—Mulligan is stripped of his garments. </p> <p> He emptied his pockets on to the table. </p>
<p> —There's your snotrag, he said. </p> <p> 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. God, we'll simply have to dress the
character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well
then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —And there's your <a href="#">Latin
quarter hat<span>Stephen wears an unfashionable hat, possibly obtained while studying in the student
area of Paris. Image from http://www.revue-analyses.org/docannexe/image/764/img-3.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/hat.jpg"
alt="http://www.revue-analyses.org/docannexe/image/764/img-3.jpg"></center></span></a>, he said.
</div></div></p>
<p> Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the doorway: </p> <p> —Are
you coming, you fellows? </p> <p> —I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door.
Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and
gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: </p> <p> <a href="#">—And going forth he met
Butterly.<span>Mulligan plays with sound, mimicking the description of Peter after he betrays Jesus
three times ("And going forth, he wept bitterly".) Notice how this sets up Mulligan to betray
Stephen.</span></a> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> Stephen, taking his <a href="#">ashplant<span>a
walking-stick. Image from http://www.huxley-sticks.co.uk/USERIMAGES/AshMarket(1).jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/ashplant.jpg"
alt="http://www.huxley-sticks.co.uk/USERIMAGES/AshMarket(1).jpg"></center></span></a> from its
leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and
locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket. </div></p> <p> At the foot of the ladder Buck
Mulligan asked:
</p> <p> —Did you bring the key? </p> <p> —I have it, Stephen said, preceding them. </p>
<p> He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots
of ferns or grasses. </p> <p> —Down, sir! How dare you, sir! </p> <p> Haines asked: </p> <p>
—Do you pay rent for this tower? </p> <p> —Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said. </p> <p><div
class="historical"> <a href="#">—To the secretary of state for war<span>The Martello tower
shared by Stephen, Mulligan, and Haines was originally a defensive structure -- thus the strange
landlord.</span></a>, Stephen added over his shoulder. </div></p> <p> They halted while Haines
surveyed the tower and said at last: </p> <p> —Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say.
Martello you call it? </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> <a href="#">—Billy
Pitt<span>Many towers like Stephen's were built around the coasts of Great britain during the
Napoleonic wars.</span></a> had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on the sea. But
ours is the <em>omphalos</em>. </div></div> </p> <p> —What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines
asked Stephen. </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —No, no, Buck Mulligan
shouted in pain. I'm not equal to <a href="#">Thomas Aquinas<span>Doctor of the Catholic Church and
subtle logician. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:St-thomas-aquinas.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/aquinas.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:St-thomas-aquinas.jpg"></center></span></a> and the fiftyfive
reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first.</div> </div></p>
<p> He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat: </p>
<p> —You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you? </p> <p> —It has waited
so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. </p> <p>
—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox? </p> <p> —Pooh! Buck
Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It's quite simple. He proves by algebra
that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own
father. </p> <p> —What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself? </p> <p> Buck
Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's
ear: </p> <p><div class="vocab"> <a href="#">—O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of
a father!<span>Mulligan sarcastically makes a muddle of Stephen's Hamlet theory, making Haines
confused as to whether Hamlet or Stephen is referred to as the ghost of his own father. Mulligan
laughs, picturing the differences between Stephen's charismatic father and Stephen; Japhet, one of
Noah's sons, reinforces the father-son relationship motif.</span></a></div> </p> <p> —We're
always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell. </p>
<p> Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands. </p> <p> —The sacred pint alone
can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —I mean to say, Haines
explained to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of <a
href="#">Elsinore<span>The name of the Danish castle where Hamlet is set</span></a>. <em>That
beetles o'er his base into the sea,</em> isn't it?</idv> </p> <p> Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for
an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image
in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. </p> <p> —It's a wonderful tale, Haines
said, bringing them to halt again.
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened,
paler, firm and prudent. <a href="#">The seas' ruler<span>Haines is English, and at that time Great
Britain's impressive fleet had virtual sovereignty of the seas</span></a>, he gazed southward over
the bay, empty save for the smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail
tacking by the <a href="#">Muglins<span>dangerous rocks in the waters</span></a>. </div></div></p>
<p> —I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused. <a href="#">The
Father and the Son<span>An interpretation of Hamlet in which Hamlet and the murdered king correspond
to Jesus and the Father image of God; both Hamlet and God's Father/Son relationship are paralleled
in this book</span></a> idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the Father. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan
at once put on a <a href="#">blithe broadly smiling<span>Mulligan hints at his bad side by mocking a
serious theme of the book (the father/Son relationship will be paralleled in
Bloom/Stephen)</span></a> face. He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from
which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a doll's head
to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish
voice: </p> <p> <br> <em>—I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.</em><br> <a
href="#"><em>My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.</em><span>Jesus's mother Mary; the dove form of
the Holy Spirit</span></a><br> <em>With </em><a href="#"><em>Joseph the joiner</em><span>Mary's
husband Joseph, a carpenter</span></a><em> I cannot agree.<br> So here's to disciples and
Calvary.</em> <br> </p> <p> He held up a forefinger of warning.
</p> <p> <br><div class="default"> <em>—If anyone thinks that I amn't divine<br> He'll get no
</em><a href="#"><em>free drinks</em><span>the miracle at Cana, when Jesus turned water into wine
for wedding guests. Image from http://www.atheavensgate.com/The%20Miracles%20of%20Christ/02-The%20First%20Miracle%20in%20Cana.
jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/cana.jpg"
alt="http://www.atheavensgate.com/The%20Miracles%20of%20Christ/02-The%20First%20Miracle%20in%20Cana.
jpg"></center></span></a><em> when I'm making the wine<br> But have to drink water and wish it were
plain<br> That I make when the wine becomes water again</em>.</div> <br> </p> <p> He tugged swiftly
at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands
at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted: </p> <p> <br><div
class="vocab"> <em>—Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said<br> And tell Tom, Dick and
Harry I rose from the dead.<br> What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly<br> And </em><a
href="#"><em>Olivet's</em><span>The Mount of Olives, at the foot of which is the Garden of
Gethsemane, where Jesus spent the night of his betrayal</span></a><em> breezy... Goodbye, now,
goodbye!</em></div> <br> </p> <p><div class="vocab"> He capered before them down towards the
fortyfoot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, <a href="#">Mercury's<span>The
description of Mulligan's hat as Mercury's points both to the fleetness of his capering, but also to
his willingness to behave mercurially (i.e. changefully) in order to remain in control of
situations. Image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mercurybyhendrickgoltzius.jpeg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/mercury.jpg"
alt="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mercurybyhendrickgoltzius.jpeg"></center></span></a> hat
quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.</div> </p>
<p> Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said: </p> <p> —We
oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a believer myself, that is to say.
Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the
Joiner? </p> <p> —The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered. </p> <p> —O, Haines
said, you have heard it before? </p> <p> —Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
</p> <p> —You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense
of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.
</p> <p> —There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said. </p> <p> Haines
stopped to take out <a href="#">a smooth silver case<span>a little metaphor: Haines, the Englishman,
offers Stephen an image of Ireland (the emerald) as a decoration in England's pocket</span></a> in
which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it. </p> <p> —Thank
you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette. </p> <p> Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He
put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open
too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his
hands. </p> <p> —Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe or you
don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't stand for
that, I suppose? </p> <p>
<a href="#">—You behold in me<span>Stephen's displeasure may be caused both by memory of his
refusal to pray with his dying mother, and by the failure of his free-willed self to be as
successful as those who serve other masters</span></a>, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a
horrible example of free thought. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> He walked on, waiting to be spoken to,
trailing his ashplant by his side. Its <a href="#">ferrule<span>a protective cap around the end of
Stephen's walking stick</span></a> followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My <a
href="#">familiar<span>a witch's animal companion</span></a>, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen!
A wavering line along the path.</div><a href="#">They will walk on it tonight<span>Haines and
Mulligan on their way home</span></a>, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine. I
paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the <a href ="#">key<span>The tower has only one
key, which Stephen has kept so far (with his regular teaching job, he has been the one to pay the
rent). He senses now the Mulligan will ask for the key, effectively usurping his home. </span></a>
too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes. </p> <p> —After all, Haines began... </p>
<p> Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind. </p> <p>
—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to
me. </p> <p><div class="historical"> —I am a servant of <a href="#">two masters<span>the
English master is England's pernicious influence on Ireland ("The imperial British state"); the
Italian master is the Catholic Church and Pope, jealous of modern independent thought, demanding
"kneel down before me"</span></a>, Stephen said, an English and an Italian. </div></p>
<p> —Italian? Haines said. </p> <p> A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me. </p>
<p> —And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs. </p> <p> —Italian?
Haines said again. What do you mean? </p> <p> —The imperial British state, Stephen answered,
his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church. </p> <p> Haines detached from
his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.
</p> <p><div class="historical"> —I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman
must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather <a
href="#">unfairly<span>Haines believes that English have historically treated the Irish wrongly, but
is blind to the current effect Britain has on Ireland</span></a>. It seems history is to blame.
</div></p> <p><div class="vocab"> <a href="#">The proud potent titles<span>Stephen begins musing on
growth and power of the Catholic church. The heretics named all challenged "the status of the Son
and his relationship to the Father" (Blamires 8), underlining the motif of father-son relationships
that parallels the Odyssean father-son relationship between Stephen and Bloom later in the
book.</span></a> clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: <a href="#"><em>et
unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam:</em><span>"The one, holy, universal and apostolic
Church"</span></a> the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a
chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended,
singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant
disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the
brood of mockers of whom <a href="#">Mulligan was one<span>Photius, in addition to being a heretic,
usurped the Patriarchate of Constantinople (like Mulligan, as we shall see, an usurper; Blamires
8).</span></a>, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the Son with the
Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's <a href="#">terrene<span>earthly</span></a> body, and the
subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan
had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. <a href="#">The void
awaits<span>Hell awaits all who try to bend religion's truth with strange logic.</span></a> surely
all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of
the church, <a href="#">Michael's<span>an archangel often depicted as militant. Image from http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/images/michael_by_raphael.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/michael.jpg"
alt="http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/images/michael_by_raphael.jpg"></center></span></a> host, who
defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.</div> </p> <p> <div
class="vocab"><a href="#">Hear, hear!<span>coming out of his revery, Stephen imagines fake applause
(Stephen, as a would-be poet, is ever aware that despite the intelligence that lets him have such
interior monologues, he has produced no great work to share with others)</span></a> Prolonged
applause. <a href="#"><em>Zut! Nom de Dieu!</em><span>mild oaths ("Well, shoot! Name of God!") of
amazement</span></a></div> </p> <p> —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I
feel as one. I don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That's our
national problem, I'm afraid, just now.
</p> <p> <a href="#">Two men<span>Two men are watching the water, looking for the body of a man who
drowned about nine days ago.</span></a> stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman,
boatman. </p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —She's making for <a
href="#">Bullock harbour<span>a harbor southeast of Dublin</span></a>. </div></div></p> <p> The
boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain. </p> <p><div class="vocab">
—There's five <a href="#">fathoms<span>unit of nautical measurement</span></a> out there, he
said. <a href="#">It'll be swept up<span>a drowned man's body</span></a> that way when the tide
comes in about one. It's nine days today. </div></p> <p> The man that was drowned. A sail veering
about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,
saltwhite. Here I am. </p> <p>
They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves,
his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved
slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water. </p> <p> —Is the brother with
you, Malachi? </p> <p><div class="historical"> —Down in <a href="#">Westmeath<span>an area in
the middle of Ireland</span></a>. With the <a href="#">Bannons<span>A family surname</span></a>.
</div></p> <p> —Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a <a href="#">sweet young
thing<span>Bannon's female find happens to be the young Milly Bloom, daughter of not-yet-introduced
protagonist Leopold Bloom, who is working as a photographer's assistant (and who, like her mother,
might be having affairs at a young age)</span></a> down there. Photo girl he calls her. </p> <p>
—Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure. </p> <p> Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly
man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water
glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and
spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth. </p>
<p> Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed
himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone. </p> <p> <a
href="#">—Seymour's<span>a friend of Mulligan's, mentioned earlier when Mulligan offered to
rag Haines for bothering Stephen</span></a> back in town, the young man said, grasping again his
spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army. </p> <p> —Ah, go to God! Buck
Mulligan said. </p> <p> —Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?
</p> <p> —Yes. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —Spooning with him last night on the pier.
The father is <a href="#">rotto<span>rich</span></a> with money. </div> </p> <p><div class="vocab">
<a href="#">—Is she up the pole<span>pregnant</span></a>?</div> </p> <p> —Better ask
Seymour that. </p> <p> —Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said. </p> <p> He nodded to
himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely: </p> <p> —Redheaded women
buck like goats. </p> <p>
He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt. </p> <p><div
class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the <a
href="#"><em>Uebermensch.</em><span>Nietzsche's (pictured) "Superman" or ideal for all
humanity. Image from http://www.informationarchitects.jp/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/Nietzsche_1882.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/uber.jpg"
alt="http://www.informationarchitects.jp/wp-content/uploads/2006/11/Nietzsche_1882.jpg"></center></
span></a> Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen. </div></div></p> <p> He struggled out of his shirt
and flung it behind him to where his clothes lay. </p> <p> —Are you going in here, Malachi?
</p> <p> —Yes. Make room in the bed. </p>
<p> The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in
two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking. </p> <p> —Are you not coming in?
Buck Mulligan asked. </p> <p> —Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. </p> <p> Stephen
turned away. </p> <p> —I'm going, Mulligan, he said. </p> <p> —Give us that <a
href="#">key<span>Mulligan succeeds in getting the key from Stephen, effectively shutting him out of
his home.</span></a>, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.
</p> <p> Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. </p> <p>
—And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there. </p> <p> Stephen threw two pennies on the
soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:
</p> <p><div class="historical"><div class="vocab"> —He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to
the Lord. Thus spake <a href="#">Zarathustra<span>an ancient religious poet (pictured); <em>Thus
Spake Zarathustra</em> is the name of a late-19th-century book by Nietzsche. Image from http://www.wadias.in/site/arzan/blog/zarathustra.jpg<br><center><img
src="images/telemachus/zarathustra.jpg" alt="http://www.wadias.in/site/arzan/blog/zarathustra.jpg">
http://msnbcmedia3.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photo_StoryLevel/080623/080623-science-odysseus-hmed-
2p.hmedium.jpg"></center></span></a>. </div></div></p> <p> His plump body plunged. </p> <p>
—We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at <a
href="#">wild Irish<span>Stephen imagines that Haines condescends to him because he is an Irishman
-- more of a curious freak than a genius. The text, though, shows nothing of Haines to suggest he is
not sincere in his offer of friendship.</span></a>. </p> <p> <a href="#">Horn of a bull, hoof of a
horse, smile of a Saxon<span>Stephen makes his own version of saying for what things a person should
never trust.</span></a>. </p> <p><div class="vocab"> —The <a href="#">Ship<span>a
tavern</span></a>, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve. </div></p> <p> —Good, Stephen said. </p>
<p> He walked along the upwardcurving path. </p> <p> <br><div class="vocab"> <a href="#"><em>Liliata
rutilantium.<br> Turma circumdet.<br> Iubilantium te virginum.</em><span>Part of the Catholic
liturgy for the dying, spoken at May's deathbed </span></a></div> <br> </p>
<p><div class="bio"> The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. <a href="#">I
will not sleep here tonight<span>Stephen has about had it with Mulligan, and does not feel he could
return to the tower to sleep (there is also the problem of no longer having the key); "home", now
referring to the place his immediate family lives, is also not an option -- the family has broken up
after May's death, and there is possibly some anger there over Stephen's refual to pray for
her.</span></a>. Home also I cannot go.</div> </p> <p> <a href="#">A voice<span>Mulligan's
("sweettoned": Mulligan is able to be "golden-mouthed" or honey-tongued when he wishes)</span></a>,
sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called
again. A sleek brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round. </p> <p> <div class="vocab"><a
href="#">Usurper<span>Mulligan, who Stephen senses will betray his friendship soon as he has done
subtly for a long time (by trying to get Stephen to sell out as he himself has done). Ulysses
parallels the problem of Penelope's suitors in the Odyssey with a series of similarly
morally-suspect usurpers: The British (usurping Ireland's culture), various men who have dubious
relationships with Leopold Bloom's wife Molly (notably, and Hugh Boylan) and Mulligan (who subtly
tries to break Stephen's determination to be a free-willed artist, and also ultimately usurps his
home). See Ellmann's biography of Joyce for parallels to Joyce's exit from the Martello
tower. Image from http://msnbcmedia3.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photo_StoryLevel/080623/080623-science-odysseus-
hmed-2p.hmedium.jpg<br><center><img src="images/telemachus/suitors.jpg"
alt="http://msnbcmedia3.msn.com/j/msnbc/Components/Photo_StoryLevel/080623/080623-science-odysseus-
hmed-2p.hmedium.jpg"></center></span></a>.</div> </p>
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