尤利西斯（Ulysses）第三章

INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT IF NO MORE, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever A lex eterna stays about him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long on the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred heresiarch. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Airs romped around him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.

I mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must.

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to Aunt Sara's or not? My consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us Stephen, how is uncle Si? O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ.

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

-- It's Stephen, sir.

-- Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

-- We thought you were someone else.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.

-- Morrow, nephew.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

-- Yes, sir?

-- Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

-- Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love.

-- No, uncle Richie...

-- Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky!

-- Uncle Richie, really...

-- Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

-- He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

-- He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our Chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air here; the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

All'erta!

He drones bars of Ferrando's aria de sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell. Lantern jaws. Abbas father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, bald poll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdringl Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: naked women! What about that, eh?

What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand year, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once...

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them, walking warily. A porter-bottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

-- Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

-- C'est le pigeon, Joseph.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.

-- C'est tordant, vows savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.

-- Il croit?

-- Mon père, oui.

Schluss. He laps.

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other devil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris, boul' Mich', I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c'est moi. You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes. Look clock. Must get. Fermé. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a shake. O, that's all only all right.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge, a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

-- Mother dying come home father.

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.

Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt
And I'll tell you the reason why.
She always kept things decent in
The Hannigan famileye.
His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.
Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hands. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan breton. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setier! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. Il est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez? Ah oui! She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte! Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Félix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne à tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said. Tous les messieurs. Not this Monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here.

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you, I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dingy printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcastman, madame, in rue G?t-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing. The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand.

O, O the boys of
Kilkenny...
Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.
He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back.

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbicans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé, Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And there, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloods odz an Iridzman.

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries. They have tucked it safe among the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?

Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter sun. Danevikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.

The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of... We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. Natürlich, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sands quickly, shell cocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I... With him together down... I could not save her. Waters: bitter death: lost.

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags, and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. The carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffing rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody. Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

-- Tatters! Out of that, you mongrel.

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spouse-breach, vulturing the dead.

After he woke me up last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians. His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face her hair trailed. Behind her lord his helpmate, bing awast, to Romeville. When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogue's rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell. A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells.

White thy fambles, red thy gan
And thy quarrons dainty is.
Couch a hogshead with me then.
In the darkmans clip and kiss.
Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.
Passing now.

A side-eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit I am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss. No. Must be two of em. Glue 'em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her womb. Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's letter. Here. Thanking you for 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.

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jess of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park, with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. Alo! Bonjour, welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

And no more turn aside and brood.

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs nebeneinander: He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied! Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary: and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered: vainly then released, forth flowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing landward, a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

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.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. No. My cockle hat and staff and his my sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. Già. For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Già. My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder? Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will.

Behind. Perhaps there is someone.

He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

可视事物无可避免的形式[1]：至少是对可视事物，通过我的眼睛认知。我在这里辨认的是各种事物的标记[2]，鱼的受精卵和海藻，越来越涌近的潮水，那只铁锈色的长统靴。鼻涕绿，蓝银，铁锈：带色的记号[3]。透明的限度。然而他补充说，在形体中。那么，他察觉事物的形体早于察觉其带色了。怎样察觉的?用他的头脑撞过，准是的。悠着点儿。他歇了顶，又是一位百万富翁。有学识者的导师[4]。其中透明的限度。为什么说其中?透明，不透明。倘若你能把五指伸过去，那就是户，伸不过去就是门。闭上你的眼睛去看吧。

斯蒂芬闭上两眼，倾听着自己的靴子踩在海藻和贝壳上的声音。你好歹从中穿行着。是啊，每一次都跨一大步。在极短暂的时间内，穿过极小的一段空间。五，六：持续地[5]。正是这样。这就是可听事物无可避免的形态。睁开你的眼睛。别，唉!倘苦我从濒临大海那峻峭的悬崖之颠[6]栽下去，就会无可避免地在空间并列着[7]往下栽!我在黑暗中呆得蛮惬意。那把梣木刀佩在腰间。用它点着地走：他们就是这么做的。我的两只脚穿着他的靴子，并列着[8]与他的小腿相接。听上去蛮实，一定是巨匠[9]造物主[10]那把木槌的响声。莫非我正沿着沙丘[11]走向永恒不成?喀嚓吱吱，吱吱，吱吱。大海的野生货币。迪希先生全都认得。

来不来沙丘，

母马玛达琳[12]?

瞧，旋律开始了。我听见啦。节奏完全按四音步句的抑扬格在行进。不。在飞奔。母马达琳。

现在睁开眼睛吧。我睁。等一会儿。打那以后，一切都消失了吗?倘若我睁开眼睛，我就将永远呆在漆黑一团的不透明体中了。够啦[13]!看得见的话，我倒是要瞧瞧。

瞧吧，没有你，也照样一直存在着，以迨永远，及世之世[14]。

她们从莱希的阳台上沿着台阶小心翼翼地走下来了——婆娘们[15]。八字脚陷进沉积的泥沙，软塌塌地走下倾斜的海滨。像找，像阿尔杰一样，来到我们伟大的母亲跟前。头一个沉甸甸地甩着她那只产婆用的手提包，另一个的大笨雨伞戳进了沙滩。她们是从自由区[16]来的，出来散散心。布赖德街那位受到深切哀悼的已故帕特里克·麦凯布的遗孀，弗萝伦丝·麦凯布太太。是她的一位同行，替呱呱啼哭着的我接的生。从虚无中创造出来的。她那只手提包里装着什么?一个拖着脐带的早产死婴，悄悄她用红糊糊的泥绒裹起。所有脐带都是祖祖辈辈相连接的，芸芸众生拧成一股肉缆，所以那些秘教僧侣们都是。你们想变得像神明那样吗?那就仔细看自己的肚脐[17]吧。喂，喂。我是金赤。请接伊甸城。阿列夫，阿尔法[18]，零，零，一。

始祖亚当的配偶兼伴侣，赫娃[19]，赤身露体的夏娃。她没有肚脐。仔细瞧瞧。鼓得很大、一颗痣也没有的肚皮，恰似紧绷着小牛皮面的圆楯。不像，是一堆白色的小麦[20]，光辉灿烂而不朽，从亘古到永远[21]。罪孽的子宫。

我也是在罪恶的黑暗中孕育出的，是被造的，不是受生的[22]。是那两个人干的，男的有着我的嗓门和我的眼睛，那女幽灵的呼吸带有湿灰的气息。他们紧紧地搂抱，又分开，按照撮合者的意愿行事。盘古首初，天主就有着要我存在的意愿，而今不会让我消失，永远也不会。永远的法则[23]与天主共存。那么，这就是圣父与圣子同体的那个神圣的实体吗?试图一显身手[24]的那位可怜的阿里马老兄，而今安在?他反对“共在变体赞美攻击犹太论”[25]，毕生为之战斗。注定要倒楣的异端邪说祖师。在一座希腊厕所里，他咽了最后一口气，安乐死[26]。戴着镶有珠子的主教冠，手执牧杖[27]，纹丝不动地跨在他的宝座上;他成了鳏夫，主教的职位也守了寡[28]。主教饰带[29]硬挺挺地翘起来，臀部净是凝成的块块儿。

微风围着他嫡戏，砭人肌肤的凛例的风[30]，波浪涌上来了。有如白鬃的海马，磨着牙齿，被明亮的风套上笼头，马南南[31]的骏马们。

我可别忘了他那封写给报社的信。然后呢?十二点半钟去。船记”。至于那笔款呢，省着点儿花，乖乖地像个小傻瓜那样。对，非这么着不可。

他的脚步放慢了。到了。我去不去萨拉舅妈那儿呢?我那同体的父亲的声音。最近你见那位艺术家哥哥斯蒂芬一眼了吗?没见到?他该不是到斯特拉斯堡高台街找他舅妈萨利[32]去了吧?难道他不能飞得更高一点儿吗，呢?还有，还有，还有，斯蒂芬，告诉我们西[33]姑父好吗?啊呀，哭泣的天主，我都跟些什么人结上了亲家呀。男娃子们在干草棚里。酗酒的小成本会计师和他那吹短号的兄弟。可敬的平底船船夫[34]!还有那个斗鸡眼沃尔特，竟然对自己的父亲以“先生”相称。先生。是的，先生。不，先生。耶酥哭了[35]：这也难怪，基督啊。

我拉了拉他们那座关上百叶窗的茅屋上气不接下气的门铃，等着。他们以为讨债的来了，就从安全的地方[36]朝外窥伺。

“是斯蒂芬，先生。”

“让他进来。让斯蒂芬进来。”

门栓拉开了，沃尔特把我让进去。

“我们还只当是旁人呢。”

一张大床，里奇舅舅倚着枕头，裹在毛毯里，隔着小山般的膝盖，将壮实的手臂伸过来。胸脯干干净净。他洗过上半身。

“外甥，早晨好[37]。”

他把膝板放到一旁。他正在板上起草着拿给助理法官戈夫和助理法官沙普兰·坦迪看的讼费清单，填写着许可证、调查书以及携带物证出庭的通知书。在他那歇了顶的头上端，悬挂着用黑樫木化石做的镜框。王水德的《安魂曲》[38]。他吹着那令人困惑的口哨，单调而低沉，把沃尔特唤了回来。

“什么事，先生?”

“告诉母亲，给里奇和斯蒂芬端麦牙酒来。她在哪儿?”

“给克莉西洗澡呢，先生。”

跟爸爸一道睡的小伴儿，宝贝疙瘩。

“不要，里奇舅舅……”

“就叫我里奇吧。该死的锂盐矿泉水。叫人虚弱。喔[威]士忌!”

“里奇舅舅，真地……”

“坐下吧，不然的话，我就凭着魔鬼的名义把你揍趴下。”

沃尔特斜睨着眼找椅子，但是没找到。

“他没地方坐，先生。”

“他没地方放屁股吗，你这傻瓜。把咱们的奇彭代尔[39]式椅子端过来。想吃点儿什么吗?在这里，你用不着摆臭架子。来点儿厚厚的油煎鲱鱼火腿片怎样?真的吗?那就更好啦。我们家除了背痛丸，啥都没有。”

当心哪!

他用低沉单调的声音哼了几小节费朗多的“出场歌”[40]。斯蒂芬，这是整出歌剧中最雄伟的一曲。你听。

他又吹起那和谐的口哨来了，音调缓和而优雅，中气很足，还抡起双拳，把裹在毛毯中的膝盖当大鼓来敲打。

这风更柔和一些。

没落之家[41]，我的，他的，大家的。你曾告诉克朗戈伍斯那些少爷，你有个舅舅是法官，还有个舅舅是将军。斯蒂芬，别再来这一套啦。美并不在那里。也不在马什图书馆[42]那空气污浊的小单间里。你在那儿读过约阿基姆院长[43]那褪了色的预言书。是为谁写的?为大教堂院内那长了一百个头的乌合之众。一个憎恶同类者[44]离开他们，遁入疯狂的森林，鬃毛在月下起着泡沫，眼珠子像是星宿。长着马一般鼻孔的胡乙姆[45]。一张张椭圆形马脸的坦普尔、勃克·穆利根、狐狸坎贝尔、长下巴颏儿[46]。隐修院院长神父，暴跳如雷的副主教[47]，是什么惹得他们在头脑里燃起怒火?呸!下来吧，秃子，不然就剥掉你的头皮[48]。他那有受神惩之虞的头上，围着一圈儿花环般的灰发，我看见他往下爬，爬到祭台脚下(下来吧[49]!)，手执圣体发光[50]，眼睛像是蛇怪[51]。下来吧，秃瓢儿!这些削了发、除了圣油、被阉割、靠上好的麦子[52]吃胖了的、靠神糊口的神父们，笨重地挪动着那穿白麻布长袍的魁梧身躯，从鼻息里喷出拉丁文。在祭台四角协助的唱诗班用威胁般的回声来响应。

同一瞬间，拐角处一个神父也许正举扬着圣体。叮玲玲[53]!相隔两条街，另一位把它放回圣体柜，上了锁。叮玲玲!圣母小教堂里，又一个神父正在独吞所有的圣体。玎玲玲!跪下，起立，向前，退后。卓绝的博士丹·奥卡姆[54]曾想到过这一点。英国一个下雾的早晨，基督人格问题这一小精灵搔挠着他的头脑。他撂下圣体，跪下来。在他听见自己摇的第二遍铃声与十字形耳堂里的头一遍铃声(他在举扬圣体)而站起来时，又听见(而今我在举扬圣体了)这两个铃的响声(他跪下了)重叠成双元音。

表弟斯蒂芬，你永远也当不成圣人。这是圣者的岛屿[55]。你从前虔诚得很，对吗?你向圣母玛利亚祷告，祈求她不要叫你的鼻子变红。你曾在蛇根木林荫路[56]上向魔鬼祈求，让前面那个矮胖寡妇走边水洼子时把下摆撩得更高一些。啊，可不是嘛[57]!为了那些用别针别在婆娘腰身上的染了色的节片，出卖你的灵魂吧。务必这么做。再告诉我一些，再说说!当你坐在驰往霍斯[58]的电车的顶层座位上时，曾独自对着雨水喊叫道：一丝不挂的女人!一丝不挂的女人!那是怎么回事，呃?

那又怎么啦?难道女人不就是为了这个而被创造的吗?

每天晚上从七本书里各读上两页，呃?我那时还年轻。你对着镜子朝自己鞠躬，脸上神采奕奕，一本正经地走上前去，好像要接受喝彩似的。十足的大傻瓜，万岁!万岁!谁都不曾看见，什么人也别告诉。你打算以字母为标题写一批书来着。你读过他的F吗?哦，读过，可是我更喜欢Q。对，不过W可精彩啦。啊，对，W。还记得你在椭圆形绿页上所写的深奥的显形录[59]吗?深刻而又深刻。倘若你死了，抄本将被送到世界上所有的大图书馆去，包括亚历山大在内。几千年后，亿万年后，仍将会有人捧读，就橡皮克·德拉·米兰多拉[60]似的。对，很像条鲸[61]。当一个人读到早已作古者那些奇妙的篇章时，就会感到自己与之融为一体了，那个人曾经……

粗沙子已经从他脚下消失了。他的靴子重新踩在咯吱一声就裂开来的湿桅杆上，还踩着了竹蛏，发出轧轹声的卵石，被浪潮冲撞着的无数石子[62]，以及被船蛆蛀得满是窟窿的木料，溃败了的无敌舰队[63]。一滩滩肮里肮脏的泥沙等着吸吮他那踏过来的靴底，污水的腐臭气味一股股地冒上来。[一簇海藻在死人的骨灰堆底下闷燃着海火[64]。]他小心翼翼地绕道而行。一只竖立着的黑啤酒瓶半埋在瓷实得恰似揉就的生面团的沙子里。奇渴岛上的岗哨。岸上是破碎的箍圈；陆地上，狡猾的黑网布起一片迷阵;再过去就是几扇用粉笔胡乱涂写过的后门，海岸高处，有人拉起一道衣绳，上面晾着两件活像是钉在十字架上的衬衫。林森德[65]那些晒得黧黑的舵手和水手长的棚屋。人的甲壳。

他停下脚步。我已经走边了通往萨拉姑妈家的路口。我不去那儿吗?好像不去。四下里不见人影儿。他拐向东北，从硬一些的沙地穿过，朝鸽房[66]走去。

“谁使你落到这步田地的呢?”

“是由于鸽子，约瑟。”[67]

回家度假的帕特里克在麦克马洪酒吧跟我一道暖热牛奶。巴黎的“野鹅”[68]凯文·伊根[69]的儿子。我的老子是鸟儿[70]。他用粉红色的娇嫩舌头舔着甜甜的热奶[71]，胖胖的兔子脸。舔吧，兔子[72]。他巴望中头彩[73]。关于女子的本性，他说是读了米什莱[74]的作品。然而他非要把利奥·塔克西尔先生的《耶酥传》[75]寄给我不可。借给他的一个朋友了。

“你要知道，真逗。我呢，是个社会主义者。我不相信天主的存在。可不要告诉我父亲。”

“他信吗?”

“父亲吗，他信[76]。”

够啦[77]。他在舔哪。

我那顶拉丁区的帽子。天哪，咱们就得打扮得像个人物。我需要一副深褐色的手套。你曾经是个学生，对吧?究竟念的是什么系来着?皮西恩。P·C·N·[78]，你知道：物理、化学和生物[79]。哎。跟那些打抱嗝的出租马车车夫们挤挤碰碰在一块儿吃那廉价的炖牛肺[80]，埃及肉锅[81]。用最自然的腔调说：当我住在巴黎圣米歇尔大街[82]时，我经常。对，身上经常揣着剪过的票。倘若你在什么地方被当作凶杀嫌疑犯给抓起来，好用来证明自己不在犯罪现场。司法神圣。一九0四年二月十七日晚上，有两个证人目击到被告。是旁人干的，另一个我。帽子，领带，大衣，鼻子。我就是他[83]。你好像自得其乐哩。

昂首阔步。你试图学谁的模样走路哪?忘掉吧，穷光蛋。揣着母亲那八先令的汇款单，邮局的司阍朝你咣当一声摔上了门。饿得牙痛起来。还差两分钟哪[84]。瞧瞧钟呀。非取不可。关门啦[85]。雇佣的走狗!用散弹枪砰砰地给他几梭子，把他打个血肉横飞，人肉碎片溅脏了墙壁统统是黄铜钮扣。满墙碎片哔哔剥剥又嵌回原处。没受伤吗?喏，那很好。握握手。明白我的意思吧，明白了吗?哦，那很好。握一握。哦，一切都很好。

你曾有过做出惊人之举的打算，对吗?继烈性子的高隆班[86]之后，去欧洲传教。菲亚克[87]和斯科特斯[88]坐在天堂那针毡般的三脚凳[89]上，酒从能装一品脱的大缸子里洒了出来，朗朗发出夹着拉下文的笑声。妙啊!妙啊!你假装把英语讲得很蹩脚，沿着纽黑文[90]那泥泞的码头，抱着自己的旅行箱走去，省得花三便士雇脚夫。怎么[91]?你带回了丰富的战利品;《芭蕾短裙》[92]，五期破破烂烂的《白长裤与红短裤》[93]，一封蓝色的法国电报，足以炫耀一番的珍品：

母病危速回父

姑妈认为你母亲死在你手里，所以她不让……[94]

为穆利根的姑妈，干杯!

容我说说缘由。

多亏了她，汉尼根家，

样样循规蹈矩。[95]

他忽然用脚得意地打起拍子，跨过沙垄，沿着那卵石垒成的南边的防波堤走去。他洋洋自得地凝视着那猛犸象的头盖骨般的垒起来的石头。金光洒在海洋上，沙子上，卵石上。太阳就在那儿，细溜儿的树木，柠檬色的房舍。

巴黎刚刚苏醒过来了，赤裸裸的阳光投射到她那柠檬色的街道上。燕麦粉面包那湿润的芯，蛙青色的苦艾酒，她那清晨的馨香向空气献着殷勤。漂亮男人[96]从他妻子之姘夫的老婆那张床上爬了起来，包着头巾的主妇手持一碟醋酸，忙来忙去。罗德的店铺里，伊凡妮和玛德琳用金牙嚼着油酥饼[97]，嘴边被布列塔尼蛋糕[98]的浓汁[99]沾黄了，脂粉一塌糊涂，正在重新打扮。一张张巴黎男人的脸走了过去，感到十分便意的讨她们欢心者，鬈发的征服者[100]。

晌午打盹儿。凯文·伊根用被油墨弄得污迹斑斑的手指卷着黑色火药烟丝，呷着他那绿妖精，帕特里斯喝的则是白色的[101]。在我们周围，老饕们把五香豆一叉子一叉子地送下食道。来一小杯咖啡[102]!咖啡的蒸气从打磨得锃亮的大壶里喷出来。他一招呼，她就来侍候我。他是爱尔兰的。荷兰的?不是奶酪。两个爱尔兰人，我们，爱尔兰，你明白了吗?啊，对啦[103]!她还以为你要叫一客荷兰[104]奶酪呢。就是你那饭后的[105]。你晓得这个词儿吗?饭后的。以前在巴塞罗那，我认识一个古怪的家伙，他常把这叫作饭后的。好的，干怀[106]!一张张嵌着石板面的桌子周围，酒气和咽喉的呼噜声混在一起。他的呼吸弥漫在我们那沾着辣酱油的盘子上空。绿妖精的尖牙从他的嘴唇里龇出来。谈到爱尔兰，达尔卡相斯一家[107]，谈到希望、阴谋和现在的阿瑟·格里菲思[108][以及A·E·[109]，派曼德尔，人类的好牧人[110])。要把我也套进去，充当他的轭友，大谈什么我们的罪孽啦，我们的共同事业啦。你不愧为你父亲的儿子。一听声音我就知道。他身上穿的是件印有血红色大花的粗斜纹布衬衫，每当他吐露秘密时，西班牙式的流苏就颤悠。德鲁蒙[111]先生，著名的新闻记者德鲁蒙，你知道他怎么称呼维多利亚女王吗?满嘴黄板牙的丑婆子。长着黄牙齿[112]的母夜叉[113]。莫德·冈内[114]，漂亮的女人;《祖国》[115]，米利沃伊[116]先生;费利克斯·福尔[117]，你知道他是怎么死的吗?一帮好色之徒。在乌普萨拉[118]的澡堂。一个未婚女子[119]，打杂女侍[120]替赤条条的男人按摩。她说，对所有的先生我都这么做[121]。我说，这位先生[122]免了吧。这是再淫荡不过的习俗。洗澡是最不能让人看到的。连我弟兄，甚至亲弟兄，都不能让他看到。太猥亵了。绿眼睛[123]，我看见了你。尖牙[124]，我感觉到了。一帮好色之徒。

蓝色的引线在两手之间炽热地燃着，火苗透亮透亮的。卷得松松的烟丝点燃了：火焰和呛人的烟把我们这个角落照亮了。晓党[125]式的帽子底下，露出脸上那粗犷的颧骨。核心领导[126]是怎么逃之夭夭的呢?有个可靠的说法。化装成年轻的新娘，你呀，纱啊，桔花啊，驱车沿着通向乌拉海德[127]的路疾驰而去。确实是这样的。败退了的首领[128]们啦，被出卖者啦，不顾一切的逃遁啦。伪装，急不暇择，逃走了，不在这里啦。

遭到冷落的情人，不满你说，当年我曾是个魁梧结实的年轻小伙子哩，等哪一天我把相片拿给你看。确实是这样。他作为一个情人，由于热恋她，就跟族长的后继者[129]理查德·伯克上校一道溜着克拉肯韦尔[130]的大墙下走。正蜷缩在那里的当儿，只见复仇的火焰把那墙壁炸得飞到雾中。玻璃碎成碴儿，砖石建筑坍塌下来。他隐遁在灯红酒绿的巴黎。巴黎的伊根，除了我，谁也不来找他。他每天的栖身之所是，肮脏的活字箱，经常光顾的三家酒馆，还有睡上一会儿觉的蒙特马特的窝，那是在金酒街[131]上，用脸上巴着苍蝇屎的死者肖像装饰起来。没有爱情，没有国土，没有老婆。她呢，被驱逐出境的男人不在身边，却也过得十分舒适自在。圣心忆街[132]上的房东太太养着一只金丝雀，还有两个男房客，桃色腮帮子，条纹裙子，欢蹦乱跳得像个年轻姑娘。尽管被赶了出来，他并不绝望。告诉帕特[133]你看见了我，好吗?我曾经想给可怜的帕特找工作来着。我的儿子[134]，让他当法国兵。我教会了他唱《基尔肯尼的小伙子，个个是健壮的荡子》。会唱这首古老的民谣吗?我教过帕特里斯。古老的基尔肯尼，圣卡尼克教堂，那是诺尔河衅的强弓[135]的城堡。这么唱。噢，噢。纳珀·坦迪[136]握住了我的手。

噢，噢，基尔肯尼的

小伙子……

一只瘦削、赢弱的手，放在我的手上。他们忘掉了凯文·伊根，他却不曾忘记他们。想起了你。噢，锡安[137]。

他走近海滨，靴子踩在湿沙子上吱吱作响。新鲜空气拨弄着粗犷神经的弦来迎迓他。野性的风所撒下的光明的种子。喏，我该不是正走向基什[138]的灯台船吧?他摹地站住了，两只脚徐徐陷进松软的泥沙。折回去吧。

他过往回走，边打量着南岸，双脚又缓缓地踩进新坑里。塔里的那间冰冷、拱顶的屋子在等待着他。从堞口射进来的两束阳光不断地移动着，缓慢得就像我那不断地往下陷的双脚，沿着日晷般的石板地爬向黄昏。夜幕降临了，蓝色的薄暮，湛蓝的夜晚，他们在黑暗的穹隆下等待着，杯盘狼藉的餐桌周围，是他们那推到后面的椅子和我那只方尖碑形手提箱。谁去拾掇?钥匙在他手里。今天入夜后，我不在那儿睡。沉默之塔的一扇紧闭的大门，把他们那盲目的肉体埋葬在里面。黑豹老爷和他的猎犬[139]。呼唤嘛，没有回应。他从沙坑里拨出脚，沿着卵石垒成的防波堤[140]踱回去。全拿去，你们统统留下好了。我的灵魂和我一道走，形态的形态。这样，在月光厮守着的夜晚，我身穿沫浴着银光的黑貂服，沿着巉岩上的小径走去，并倾听艾尔西诺那诱人的潮水声[141]。

涨上来的潮水尾随着我。我从这里可以看见它流过去了。那么，顺着普尔贝各路折回到那边的岸滩去吧。他踏过蓑衣草与鳝鱼般黏滑的海藻，坐在凳子形的岩石上，并将自己那梣木手杖搭在岩隙里。

一具胀得鼓鼓的狗尸耷拉着四肢趴在狸藻上。前面是船舷的上椽，船身已埋在沙里。路易·维伊奥称戈蒂埃的散文为埋在沙子里的公共马车[142]。这沉重的沙子乃是潮与风在此积累而成的一种语言。那是已故建筑师垒起的石壁，成了鼬鼠的隐身处。在那儿埋金子吧。不妨试试看。你不是有一些吗。沙子和石头。被岁月坠得沉甸甸的。巨人劳特[143]爵士的玩具。小心不要挨个耳刮子。俺是血腥的棒巨人，把那些血腥的棒巨石统维推滚过来，铺成俺的踏脚石。吭，吭。俺闻见了爱尔兰人的血腥味。

一个小点点，一只活生生的狗映入眼帘，越变越大，从沙滩那头跑过来了。唉呀!难道它要朝我袭击吗?尊重它的自由。你不会成为旁人的主人或奴隶。我有这根手杖。坐着别动。从遥远的彼方，两个人影正背着冒白沫的潮水走向岸滩。两个女土著[144]。她们把它妥藏在宽叶香蒲从中了。玩捉迷藏。我看了你们啦。不，是狗。它正朝着她们跑回去。是谁呀?

一艘艘湖上人的大帆船曾驶到这岸边，来寻觅掠夺品[145]。它们那血红的喙形船首，低低地停泊在融化了的锡镴般的碎浪里。玛拉基系着金脖套的年月里[146]。丹麦海盗胸前总闪烁着战斧形的金丝项圈。炎热的晌午，一群表皮光滑的鲸困在浅滩上喷水，满地翻滚。于是，穿着紧身皮坎肩的矮个子们，我的同族就成群结队地从饥饿的牢笼般的城里冲出来。他们手执剥皮用的小刀，奔跑、攀登、劈砍那满是肥厚的绿色脂肪的鲸肉。饥荒、瘟疫和大屠杀。他们的血液流淌在我的血管里，他们的情欲在我身上骚动。在冰封的利菲河上，我在他们当中活动[147]。我，一个习性无常的人，被松脂噼啪作响的火把映照着。我跟谁都不曾搭话，也没有人跟我攀谈。狗吠着向他奔来，停住，又跑了回去。我的仇人的狗。我脸色苍白，只是站在那儿，一声不响，随它吠去。你的作为何等可畏[148]。身穿淡黄色心的命运之奴仆[149]，看到我的恐惧，泛出微笑。你渴望的就是他们那狗吠般的喝彩吗?篡位者们，随他们怎么去生活吧。布鲁斯的弟弟[150];绢骑士托马斯·菲茨杰拉德[151];约克家的伪继承人珀金·沃贝克[152]，穿着白玫瑰纹象牙色绸马裤，昙花一现;还有兰伯特·西姆内尔[153]加了冕的厨房下手，他的扈从是一群女仆和随军酒食小贩。统统都是国王的子嗣。自古至今，此地是僭君的乐园。他[154]搭救了快要溺死的人们，你呢，听到一条野狗叫唤也瑟瑟发抖。然而曾嘲笑来自圣迈克尔大教堂的圭多的那些朝臣们，是在自己的老家里。……的老家[155]。我们完全不希罕你们那中世纪装模作样的考证癖。他干过的，你干得了吗?假定附近就有只船。当然[156]，那儿还会为你摆个救生圈。你干不干?九天前有个男子在少女岩的海面上淹死了。他们正等着尸体浮上来。说实话吧，我想干。我想试一试。我不擅长凫水。水冰凉而柔和。当我在克朗戈伍斯把脸孔进一脸盆水星的时候，就什么都看不见了。谁在我背后哪?快点上来，快点上来!你没看见潮水从四面八方迅疾地往上涨吗?刹那间就把浅滩变成一片汪洋，颜色像椰子壳。只要我的脚能着地，我就想救他一命，但也要保住我自己的命。一个即将淹死的人。他的眼睛从死亡的恐怖中向我惊呼。我……跟他一道沉下去……我没能救她[157]。水，痛苦的死亡;消逝了。

一个女人和一个男人。我瞧见她的裙子了。准是用饰针别着的。

他们的狗在被潮水漫得越来越窄的沙洲上到处游荡，小跑着，一路嗅着。它在寻觅着前世所失去的什么东西。它猛地像跳跃着的野兔一般蹿过去，耳朵向后掀着，追逐那低低掠过的海鸥的影子。男人尖细的口哨声传到它那柔软的耳朵里。它转身往回蹦，凑近了些，一闪一闪地迈着小腿，小跑着挨过来。一片黄褐色旷野上的一只公鹿，没有长角，优雅，脚步轻盈地蹿来蹿去。它在花边般的水滨停下来，前肢僵直，耳朵朝着大海竖起。它翘起鼻尖儿，朝着那宛如一群群海象般的浪涛声吠叫。波浪翻滚着冲着它的脚涌来，绽出许许多多浪峰，每逢第九个，浪头就碎裂开来，四下里迸溅着。从远处，从更远的地方，后浪推着前浪。

拾海扇壳的。他们涉了一会儿水，弯腰把他们的口袋浸在水里，又提起来，蹚着水上了岸。狗边吠着边向他们奔去，用后肢站着，伸出前爪挠他们。又趴下来，再用后肢站直，像熊似的默默地跟他们撒欢。当他们走向干燥些的沙洲时，尽管没去理睬那狗，它还是一直缠着他们，两颚之间气喘吁吁地址着狼一般的红舌头。它那斑驳的身躯在他们前头款款而行，随后又像头小牛犊那样一溜烟儿跑开了。那具尸骸挡住了它的去路。它停下步子，嗅了一阵，然后轻轻地绕着走了一圈;是弟兄哩，把鼻子挨近一些，又兜了一圈，以狗特有的敏捷嗅遍了死狗那污泥狼藉的毛皮。狗脑壳。狗的嗅觉，它那俯阚着地面的眼睛，向一个巨大目标移动。唉，可怜的狗儿!可怜的狗儿的尸体就横在这里。

“下三烂!放开它，你这杂种!”

这么一嚷，狗就怯懦地回到主人跟前，它被没穿靴子的脚猛踢了一下，虽没伤着，却倦缩着逃到沙滩另一头。它又绕道踅回来。这狗并不朝我望，径自沿着防波堤的边沿跳跳蹦蹦，磨磨蹭蹭，一路嗅嗅岩石，时而抬起一条后腿，朝那块岩石撒上一泡尿。它又往前小跑，再一次抬起后腿，朝一块未嗅过的岩石迅疾地滋上几滴尿。真是卑贱者的单纯娱乐。接着，它又用后爪扒散了沙子，然后用前爪刨坑，泥沙四溅。它在那儿埋过什么哪，它的奶奶。它把鼻尖扎进沙子里，刨啊，溅啊，并停下来望天空倾听着，随即又拼命地用爪子刨起沙子。不一会儿它停住了，一头豹，一头黑豹，野杂种，在劫掠死尸。

昨天夜里他把我吵醒后，做的还是同一个梦吗？等一等。门厅是敞着的。娼妓街[158]。回忆一下。哈伦·拉希德[159]。大致想起来了。那个人替我引路，对我说话。我并不曾害怕。他把手里的甜瓜递到我面前。漾出微笑：淡黄色果肉的香气。他说，这是规矩。进来吧，来呀。铺着红地毯哩。随你挑。

红脸膛的埃及人[160]扛着口袋，踉踉跄跄踱着。男的挽起裤腿，一双发青的脚噼喳叭喳踩在冰冷黏糊糊的沙滩上，他那胡子拉碴的脖颈上是灰暗的砖色围巾。她迈着女性的步子跟在后边，恶棍和共闯江湖的姘头。她把捞到的东西搭在背上。她那赤脚上巴着一层松散的沙粒和贝壳碎片。脸被风刮皴了，披散着头发。跟随老公当配偶，朝着罗马维尔[161]走。当夜幕遮住她肉体的缺陷时，她就披着褐色肩巾，走边被狗屎弄脏了的拱道，一路吆唤着。替她拉皮条的正在黑坑的奥劳夫林小酒店里款待着两个都柏林近卫军士兵。吻她并讲江湖话，把她搂抱在怀里。哦，我多情的俏妞儿!她那件酸臭破烂的衣衫下面，是魔女般的白皙肌肤。那天晚上，在凡巴利小巷里，有一股由制革厂吹来的气味。

双手白净红嘴唇，

你的身子真娇嫩。

跟我一道睡个觉，

黑夜拥抱并亲吻。[162]

啤酒桶肚皮的阿奎那管这叫作阴沉的乐趣[163]。箭猪修士[164]。失足前的亚当曾跨在上面，却没有动情。随他说去吧：你的身子真娇嫩。这话丝毫也不比他的逊色。僧侣话，诵《玫瑰经》的念珠在他们的腰带上嘁嘁喳喳；江湖话，硬梆梆的金币在他们的兜里当榔当啷。

此刻正走过去。

他们朝我这顶哈姆莱特帽斜瞟了一眼。倘若我坐在这儿，突然间脱得赤条条的呢?我并没有。跨过世界上所有的沙地，太阳那把火焰剑尾随于后，向西边，向黄昏的土地移动[165]。她吃力地跋涉，schlepps、trains、drags、trascines[166]重荷。潮汐被月亮拖曳着，跟

在她后面向西退去。在她身体内部淌着藏有千万座岛屿的潮汐。这血液不是我的，葡萄紫的大海[167]，莆萄紫的暗色的海。瞧瞧月亮的侍女。在睡梦中，月潮向她报时，嘱她该起床了。新娘的床，分娩的床，点燃着避邪烛的死亡之床。凡有血气者，均来归顺[168]。他来了，苍白的吸血鬼。他的眼睛穿过暴风雨，他那蝙蝠般的帆，血染了海水，跟她嘴对嘴地亲吻[169]。

喏，把它记下来，好吗?我的记事簿[170]。跟她嘴对嘴地亲吻。不。必须是两人的嘴。把双方的牢牢粘在一起。跟她嘴对嘴地亲吻。

他那翕动的嘴唇吮吻着没有血肉的空气嘴唇：嘴对着她的子宫口。子宫，孕育群生的坟墓[171]。他那突出来的嘴唇吐出气来，却默默无语。哦嗬嗬，瀑布般的行星群的怒吼。作球状，喷着火焰，边吼边移向远方远方远方远方远方。纸。是纸币