"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 Magdalen 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!." (U1.167)"
"Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.
To ourselves .... new paganism .... omphalos.
- Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night.
- Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now?" (U1.172)
"They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale." (U1.181)
"Stephen freed his arm quietly.
- Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
- Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.
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.
Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:
- Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?
Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:
- What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?
—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.
- Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget." (U1.182)
"- You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.
A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek.
- Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?
He shook his constraint from him nervously.
-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 Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a beastly thing 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." (U1.198)

'Beastly dead' may be an inversion of the common Irish expression 'beo beithioch', Irish for 'beastly alive.' [suggested by Michael Reidy, a visitor to the site]
"Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way." (U1.208)
"To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. 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 because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother." (U1.210)
"Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.
His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof:
- Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding.
His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead:
- And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery
For Fergus rules the brazen cars." (U1.231)
"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. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' 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." (U1.242)
"Where now?
Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer." (U1.254)
"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:
I am the boy
That can enjoy
Invisibility.
Phantasmal mirth, folded away: musk perfumed.
And no more turn aside and brood.
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." (U1.256)
"Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.
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." (U1.268)
"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. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat." (U1.273)
"So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant." (U1.310)

Clongowes Wood S.J. is a boy's preparatory school in Co. Kildare. Both James Joyce and Stephen Dedalus attended it. Here we see the main castle-like building, with the Boy's Chapel (built in 1906).
"Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbicans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning." (U1.315)
"- 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." (U1.333)
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