0 Ulysses
written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dy-
ing in Southwark.
BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don’t want
Richard, my name ...(Laughter)QUAKERLYSTER: (A tempo) But he that filches from
me my good name ...
STEPHEN: (Stringendo) He has hidden his own name, a
fair name, William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there,
as a painter of old Italy set his face in a dark corner of his
canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets where there is Will
in overplus. Like John o’Gaunt his name is dear to him, as
dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a
spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer
than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What’s
in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when
we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar,
a firedrake, rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heav-
ens alone, brighter than Venus in the night, and by night it
shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation
which is the signature of his initial among the stars. His
eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the
bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer fields at mid-
night returning from Shottery and from her arms.
Both satisfied. I too.
Don’t tell them he was nine years old when it was
quenched.