I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.
Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.
The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.
I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.
Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit. Conscience.
Yet here’s a spot. That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant
being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good.
The bard’s noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can’t you?
Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother?
The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea.
Is she up the pole?
Better ask Seymour that.
Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.
He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely:
Redheaded women buck like goats.
Are you going in here, Malachi?
Yes. Make room in the bed.
The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone, smoking.
We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path
and smiling at wild Irish.
Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
There's a touch of the artist about old Bloom...