“Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.”—Ulysses I-3 476-481
“His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy’s letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That’s twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.”—Ulysses I-3 401-407
THERE WAS A LOT OF STUFF THAT HIT HOME FOR ME LIKE DOGS & DEAD BODIES & GREEN & WRITING & THE SEA & SOFTNESS & ALLITERATION & REPETITION, PUNS & PERIODS & BUSINESSMEN SUCK & PICKING YR NOSE & REAL TALK & STUFF
I WANT TO REREAD THE WHOLE THING HAVE TO PUSH FORWARD
“That’s folk, 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.”—Ulysses I-1 365-67
“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. / Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.”—
Ulysses I-1 107-111
AM I THE ONLY ONE THINKING ABOUT COCAINE? NO. NO I’M NOT.