>—Mr Dedalus!
>Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
>—Just one moment.
>—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
>Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
>—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?
>He frowned sternly on the bright air.
>—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
>—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
>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.
>—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.
>On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
>She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend.
>Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord, and lost and found it, faltering.
>—Go on! Do! Sonnez!
>Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.
>—Sonnez!
>Smack. She set free sudden in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable a woman’s warmhosed thigh.
>—La Cloche! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No sawdust there.
>She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren’t men?), but, lightward gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan.
>—You’re the essence of vulgarity, she in gliding said.
>John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:
>—Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.
>—Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his commonwealth?
>Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man’s blood they creepycrawl after Blake’s buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
>Womb? Weary?
>He rests. He has travelled.
It still sends chills through my spine.
>>7888871
idgi
>The figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freelyfreckled shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous knees were covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain gorse (Ulex Europeus). The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their cavernous obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.
>Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly
the entire Nausicaa chapter makes me feel bitter pangs of tfw no gf
>Gerty's lips parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought back the sob that rose to her throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifully moulded it seemed one an artist might have dreamed of. She had loved him better than he knew. Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex he would never understand what he had meant to her and for an instant there was in the blue eyes a quick stinging of tears. Their eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave effort she sparkled back in sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for them to see.
>>7889462
Is this a parody or have you reversed the genders as bait?
>>7889331
Read the book, from cover to cover, and you will get it.
Hahahahahaahahaha. I might actually read Ulysses if that's a true part of the book. I was turned off to Joyce because I read a part of Finnegan's Wake and nope'd the fuck out.
>>7889523
>I was turned off to Joyce because I read a part of Finnegan's Wake and nope'd the fuck out.
i have no words for this
>>7889476
That's the passage as it's written
>>7889523
Are you only learning now that Joyce is comedic?
>Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah!
Give me the hardest paragraphs, /lit/
>>7890179
here ya go http://www.online-literature.com/james_joyce/ulysses/14/
>>7889691
That would explain why he didn't like Finnegans Wake
![IMG_20160405_165839[1].jpg](https://i.imgur.com/wENdagQ.jpg "IMG_20160405_165839[1].jpg")
>>7889462
>tfw I started that chapter today and know tf.
>Every word is so deep, Leopold
>and when Mr Bloom looked back upon his busy day, it had dawned on him that he was a modern day Ulysses. The end.
Is Bloom suppose to be a modern hero or a pathetic cuckold? At moments he seems like an Aristotelian man of virtue, like when he defends his Jewish heritage or hangs out with Stephen, other times it feels as if Joyce is mocking him, like with his sexual fantasies or anxiety over Blazes and Molly. Like in Ithaca:
>If he had smiled why would he have smiled?
To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.
Are we suppose to view Bloom's breaking illusion of uniqueness as insightful, an intellectual rationalization of his inability to confront Molly, or a profound comment on incomplete and generic human relations?
>>7891680
>Is Bloom suppose to be a modern hero or a pathetic cuckold?
Both. Joyce is juxtaposing the regular boring day of an "everyman" with an ancient heroic tale (the greatest story every told), which is not only inherently funny in itself but is making the very modernist point that beauty, sublimity, greatness, heroism, etc. can be found anywhere, especially if you're as good a writer as Joyce. Contrast this with pre-"God is dead" society where there was only a single source of beauty and greatness. As such these regular characters in this regular day are depicted in such extravagant (and often hilariously over the top) ways, hence all the literary pyrotechnics. Beckett said about it something like "the form is content and the content is the form". Edna O'Brien said it was about a day where "everything and nothing is happening".
