He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of the taming of the shrew.

—­You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen.  You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle.  Do you believe your own theory?

—­No, Stephen said promptly.

—­Are you going to write it?  Mr Best asked.  You ought to make it a dialogue, don’t you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.

John Eclecticon doubly smiled.

—­Well, in that case, he said, I don’t see why you should expect payment for it since you don’t believe it yourself.  Dowden believes there is some mystery in hamlet but will say no more.  Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument.  He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays.  It will come as a surprise to his grace.  But he believes his theory.

I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief.  That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve?  Who helps to believe?  EGOMEN.  Who to unbelieve?  Other chap.

—­You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver.  Then I don’t know about the next number.  Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.

Fraidrine.  Two pieces of silver he lent me.  Tide you over.  Economics.

—­For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing:  and then gravely said, honeying malice: 

—­I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa Contra gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.

He broke away.

—­Come, Kinch.  Come, wandering Aengus of the birds.

Come, Kinch.  You have eaten all we left.  Ay.  I will serve you your orts and offals.

Stephen rose.

Life is many days.  This will end.

—­We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said.  Notre Ami Moore says
Malachi Mulligan must be there.

Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.

—­Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland.  I’ll be there.  Come, Kinch, the bards must drink.  Can you walk straight?

Laughing, he ...

Swill till eleven.  Irish nights entertainment.

Lubber ...

Stephen followed a lubber ...

One day in the national library we had a discussion.  Shakes.  After. 
His lub back:  I followed.  I gall his kibe.

Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thought.