Page 190 (9.501-538) "He lifts hands... gratified desire."

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He lifts hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells aquiring.



— Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion, Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.

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He smiled on all sides equally.



Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:



— Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.



A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.



— To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge.



Mr Best turned to him:



— Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at the D.B.C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.



— I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?



— The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.



— The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.



— For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.



Or Hughie Wills. Mr William Himself. W.H.: who am I?



— I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues the colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.



His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Tame essence of Wilde.



You're darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.



How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.



For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.



Wit. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks in. Lineaments of gratified desire.

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