Ulysses
BLOOM: (Coldly) You have broken the spell. The last
straw. If there were only ethereal where would you all be,
postulants and novices? Shy but willing like an ass pissing.
THE YEWS: (Their silverfoil of leaves precipitating, their
skinny arms aging and swaying) Deciduously!
THE NYMPH: (Her features hardening, gropes in the
folds of her habit) Sacrilege! To attempt my virtue! (A large
moist stain appears on her robe) Sully my innocence! You
are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. (She
clutches again in her robe) Wait. Satan, you’ll sing no more
lovesongs. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. (She draws a pon-
iard and, clad in the sheathmail of an elected knight of nine,
strikes at his loins) Nekum!
BLOOM: (Starts up, seizes her hand) Hoy! Nebrakada!
Cat o’ nine lives! Fair play, madam. No pruningknife. The
fox and the grapes, is it? What do you lack with your barbed
wire? Crucifix not thick enough? (He clutches her veil) A
holy abbot you want or Brophy, the lame gardener, or the
spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or good mother Al-
phonsus, eh Reynard?
THE NYMPH: (With a cry flees from him unveiled, her
plaster cast cracking, a cloud of stench escaping from the
cracks) Poli ...!
BLOOM: (Calls after her) As if you didn’t get it on the
double yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all
over you. I tried it. Your strength our weakness. What’s our
studfee? What will you pay on the nail? You fee mendancers
on the Riviera, I read. (The fleeing nymph raises a keen) Eh?
I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. And