The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 038
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, Frauenzim-
mer : 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 Mac Cabe, 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 ever-
lasting. 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 consub-
stantial? 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