I am the boy
That can enjoy
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. ([U1.257])
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)
In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow." (U1.310)
Clongowes Wood S.J. is a boy's preparatory school in Co. Kildare. Both James Joyce and Stephen Dedalus attended it.
—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?
Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.
— Have you the key? a voice asked.
— Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!
He howled, without looking up from the fire:
— It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.
The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief." (U1.315)
- What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.
- We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the locker.
- O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk." (U1.337)
- That woman is coming up with the milk.
- The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.
He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying:
— In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
— I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you?
Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice." (U1.344)
— By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:
— So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the one pot." (U1.357)
- 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." (U1.363)
- Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?
- I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.
- Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?
- I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the Mabinogion." (U1.367)
The Dun Emer press-room, ca. 1903. Elizabeth Corbet Yeats is at the iron hand-press; Beatrice Cassidy, standing, is rolling out ink, and Esther Ryan is correcting proofs at the table. The rear wall of the press-room displays a mural in pastel by the poet and artist AE (George Russell).
Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.
- Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!" (U1.375)
- For old Mary Ann
She doesn't care a damn
But, hising up her petticoats..." (U1.380)
The doorway was darkened by an entering form.
— The milk, sir!
— Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.
An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.
— That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.
— To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!
Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.
— The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces." (U1.388)
— A quart, Stephen said." (U1.395)
Irish milksellers in a late 19c. SV.
She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times." (U1.397)