Original subtitles

The common and much, where's his spirit in my dear, dear, man?

Nis tro'er to go, Nis tro'er to go.

Mrs. Joyce, did Mr. Joyce dislike his father?

No.

But Jim loved his father deeply.

But he had no illusions about him.

He let me know very early on what he thought of his entire family.

I have it here in his own words.

29th August, 1904, my dear Nora, I may have pained you tonight by what I said, but surely

it is well that you should know my mind on most things.

My mind rejects the whole present social order and Christianity, home, the recognized

virtues, classes of life and religious doctrines.

How could I like the idea of home?

My home was simply a middle class affair ruined by spend thrift habits, which I have inherited.

You know, I never spoke a truer or worked in all his life.

Our story really begins here in Galway on the west coast of Ireland.

And when I picture Nora now in my mind's eye, this is where I see her.

On a spring morning in 1904, when she left home forever, the daughter of a Galway baker,

she had little social standing and even less education.

Nora had been seen out walking the previous evening with a young man, a young, Protestant

man.

Throughout her life, she rarely gave interviews, yet a half century later in Zurich, she would

remember this incident that had so changed her destiny.

You see, my uncle Tommy was very strict.

And I had a young boyfriend.

And that was our hair plus phone.

My uncle Tommy phoned out about it though.

If that man got here at the grass, grow on, he took a stick to me that night.

He ran away the next day.

Did you?

Oh, be dead, I did.

I ran away to Dublin and I got a job.

I never wanted to set eyes on him again.

I guess you couldn't have imagined that within a few months you would meet a penniless young

poet, that he would become the most famous writer of this century.

Did I did not?

That you would become the most important woman in his life and that he'd put you in all

of his books?

What were you thinking of that day?

I have to tell you the truth.

I was wishing that my boots didn't leak.

Your name was Nora Barnacle then.

And that's where you met Mr. Joyce in Finn's hotel.

Not at all.

I met him walking along Nassau Street when Finn June day.

I tried to be know then that he was a poet with his yachting cap and his blue eyes.

I took him for a Swedish sailor and he hung nothing but satisfied him until I agreed

to make an appointment with him.

Well now that's at the Dublin gossip so I can tell you.

Has anyone seen the great writer lately?

I hear he's spending his time with a Barnacle boots.

June 16, 1904.

June 16, I can't remember.

It was nearly 50 years ago you know.

Your husband used it years later as a setting for his novel Ulysses and he chose it as a

tribute to meeting you.

Is that in fact?

But Sir Jim was always a tribute in a bardons to all sorts of things.

But you've no idea what it was like for me to be thrown into the life of that man.

June 18, 2013.

Could be true what you say.

But he told me years later that it was on that day when we first went walking out that

I made a man of him.

Man, I should have sold me a pie.

There he was.

Twenty-two years old with a great education.

But it was very restless and unhappy at home.

His family was never the same after his mother is dead and his father, Lord Restom, would

drink like air and dry so that the children were often hungry in that house I can tell

you.

You know, the father would often refuse them the money for the housekeeping and he'd stand

on the stairs and he'd shout, I'd break your bloody hearts.

I'll break years too much for stoy me, buggers.

My mother was slowly killed, I think, by my father's ill treatment.

By years of trouble and by my cynical frankness of conduct.

We were seventeen in family.

Six years ago I left the Catholic Church hating it most fervently.

By doing this I made myself a beggar, but I retained my pride.

Now I make open wall upon it by what I write and say and do.

Can you not see the simplicity which is at the back of all my disguises?

We all wear masks.

Our friend James the poet, chasing a chambermaid.

Our Jim.

A so-called friends were often cruel to him.

Vincent Cosgrave, who was always trying to get me to go out with him, pretended to be

a great friend to Jim.

But behind Jim's back Cosgrave told me that Jim would never stick with me.

Me workin as a maid in a hotel in a hollock.

Should I was the one who did the stickin Jim would always say.

Because my name was Bar, nickel.

But Jim could be funny too, you know, once he had me pestered for a keepsake.

So I gave him my plum.

My dear little goody proud shoes.

I forgot I can't meet you tomorrow, but well on Thursday at same hour.

I hope you put my letter to bed properly.

Your glove lay beside me all night.

Unbuttoned.

For otherwise, conducted itself very well.

Like Nora.

Please leave off that pressed plate as I do not like embracing a letter box.

The ear now, she's beginning to laugh.

My heart.

As you say.

It's quite so.

So you decided to elope with him and get married.

All hoped we did all the right.

But we didn't get married for 27 years.

Mr Joyce would never live in Ireland again.

But he was to spend his lifetime writing about his native city.

Its bars, its brothels, its beaches.

In fact, years later in his novel Ulysses he made Dublin and its people famous.

Don't talk to me about Ulysses.

It took Jim 10 years to write that book and everywhere it went it caused trouble.

That's the gods honest truth.

You know, it was banned in America because the authorities thought it would incite people

to commit a foreign occasion in the streets.

Could you credit that now?

Of course.

I've never been to America but must be a very queer place.

You were living in Paris, France when Ulysses was published.

That must have been a very exciting place to be in the 20s.

I suppose you meant a lot of important writers.

Sure everywhere you'd turn you'd be tripping over a writer or a painter.

Mr Picasso and Scott Fitzgerald.

Ernest Hemingway.

Andre Gied.

Marcel Proust.

Crazers.

Crazers.

God Proust, Crazerfus from Crazers.

How did it was it about two or three in the morning drinking and smoking and talking?

Talking and talking until you were bored stiff.

And everybody listening to see who will say something clever.

Do you know the one and only time that Jim and Mr Marcel Proust ever met they talked

about South American parrots.

Oh no, everyone was very disappointed I can tell you.

And that fell of Fitzgerald.

Scott Fitzgerald?

Sure he was as mad as a hare.

You know he held my husband in such high regard that he wanted to find some way to

show or so.

He offered to jump out of a window once for Jim.

The only one with her head on her shoulders was Sylvia Beach.

Of course she wasn't a writer at all.

She was in a medic.

And she had a little bookstore called Shakespeare and Company.

And she made up her mind.

She was going to publish Ulysses and nothing was going to stop her.

Well, she hunted high and low and she got turned down to all over England and America

and all over France by printers who didn't want to print up any dirty words.

She persevered though.

And finally she found in Dijon a printer who liked dirty words.

And a year later in 1922 she launched the book on Jim's 40th birthday.

And Jim was that nervous he kept his hat on the whole time.

And there's a chair.

Miss Turbless did not sit on the floor.

Oh, Mr Hemingway, Mr Hemingway, would you take those galoshes off the stove please?

I'd like to have a mail mail to dear.

Thank you.

Most work, Miss Eu.

I think we are about ready.

Me down, Miss Eu.

Friends, Mr Joyce.

This is a very special occasion for all of us.

Today we are going to give you two excerpts from the newly born Ulysses.

Now as many of you know, Ulysses began its life in print some four years ago when, thanks

to the efforts of Ezra Pound, the little review in New York started to run it as a serial.

Well all went well until the US Post Office began confiscate copies.

And when the Gertie MacDowell chapter appeared it was brought to the attention of the New

York Society for the Prevention of Vice.

So, well a court case ensued with the result that publication or sale of Ulysses was banned

in any form in the United States.

It was then that I approached Mr Joyce who had just moved here to Paris from Trest and

requested the honor of bringing out Ulysses in book form under the banner of Shakespeare

and Company.

Mr Joyce agreed.

Now to find a printer who would consent to handle such controversial material was the

first problem.

Well, thank heavens for Maurice Darontier, dear showman.

Then to find a typeless, who would agree to finish typing the manuscript.

The first young lady that I engaged was so shocked at its content that she fainted

away over her machine.

Yes, right here in this room.

The husband of yet another typist became so enraged that he attempted to throw the only

copy of the manuscript in the fire.

But on the brighter side I am pleased to be able to tell you all that we now have a subscription

list of over 2,000 potential customers for Ulysses from all over the world.

And I think I have found a way to get copies of the book past the customs and into the

United States.

Listen, a separate dust cover will be made for each copy going to America bearing the

inscription.

Merry tales for little folk.

Mr Hemmingway thought that one up.

Oh for God's sake, sir.

Yes, you did too, Ernest.

Don't be some modest.

Now to Ulysses itself.

Since we are to have two excerpts from it, I think it well to acquaint you with some of

its characters.

Ulysses is modeled on Homer's Great Saga and is written from 18 different points of

view and in as many styles.

The story takes place in the course of a June day in the city of Dublin in the year

1904.

It is the story of the happenings in the lives of three inhabitants of that city.

Mr Leopold Bloom is wife Molly Bloom and the young poet Stephen Deedellis.

Now Mr Bloom is every man everywhere, a very ordinary humble, bumbling Jewish advertising

canvasser, very, very ordinary, very downtrodden.

From the moment he gets up in the morning, Mr Bloom's day proceeds from one defeat to

another.

He is painfully resigned to the fact that his wife, the half Spanish, half Irish Molly,

cook holds him.

Yes, Alice, cook holds him.

Several times weekly with the swaggering concert entrepreneur, Mr Blazers Boylan.

It is evening, having attended the funeral of a friend, Mr Bloom finds himself on the

seashore where he encounters young Gertie McDowell.

So before we get to Molly Bloom, I want to introduce all of you to Gertie McDowell.

Gertie, who caused us so much trouble in the New York courts, Gertie, who, like one of

Homer's sirens, sits on the rocks and without so much as touching him or, indeed, even speaking

to him, seduces our Mr Bloom and herself into orgasm.

Why did an achievement I would have thought?

Well, it made the New York prosecutor mad as hell.

But what really put the topper in his rage is that Gertie McDowell is our Mr Joyce's

spoof on the prudery of Victorian young ladies who, according to the New York prosecutor,

don't have orgasms.

And certainly not on public beaches in full view of everyone.

Now, picture, if you will, our Mr Bloom.

Poldy, as his wife, Molly, calls him.

But who was Gertie?

Gertie McDowell, who was seated near her companions, lost in thought, was in very truth as very

a specimen of winceam Irish girlhood as one could wish to see.

And then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the peeling anthem of the organ.

It was the men's temperance retreat, conducted by the missioner the Reverend John Hughes,

S.J., Rosary, Sermon and benediction of the most blessed sacrament.

How sad to poor Gertie's ears, had her father only avoided the clutches of the demon drinking.

The twins were now playing again in the most approved brotherly fashion to let last Master

Jackie, who was really as bold as brass, deliberately kicked the ball as hard as ever

he could down towards the seaweedy rocks.

Poor Tommy was not slow to voice his dismay.

But luckily, the gentleman in black came gallantly to the rescue and intercepted the ball.

Our two champions claimed their plating with lusty cries.

And to avoid trouble, Sissy Caffrey called the gentleman to throw it to her.

The gentleman aimed the ball once or twice, then threw it up the strand towards Sissy

Caffrey.

But it rolled down the slope and stopped right under Gertie's skirt.

The twins clamored again for it and Sissy called her her to kick it away and let them

fight for her.

Gertie drew back her foot but she wished their stupid ball hadn't come rolling down to her

and she gave a kick but she missed and Edie and Sissy laughed.

If you fail, try again.

Edie Bortman said.

Gertie smiled a scent and bit her lip but she was determined to let them see.

So she just lifted her skirt a little.

But just enough.

And took good aim and gave the ball a jolly good kick and it went ever so far and the two twins after it.

Tommy, yes, you're back!

Down at Market looking very charming you are sure to meet those girls, dear girls, those

lovelry seaside girls, witzks they stare and promenade appear to give the boys a treat.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, oops, and lace.

They tip you quite a playful wig.

It always is the case, you seldom stop to think.

You fall in love of course up in the spot.

But not with one girl, always with a lot.

Those girls, those girls.

It was her he was looking at.

And there was meaning in his look.

His eyes burned into her as though they would weed her very soul.

Wonderful eyes, they were.

Superbly expressive.

But could you trust them?

People were so queer.

She could see it once by his dark eyes and his pale intellectual face.

And he was...

A foreigner.

The image of the photo she had of...

Martin Harvey.

The matinee idol.

Only for the moustache.

He was in deep mourning, she could see that.

If he had suffered more sinned against than sinning or even if he had been himself a sinner.

Like a man, she cared not.

Even if he was a Protestant or a Methodist, she could convert him easily.

If he truly loved her.

And then the choir began to sing Tantamogo.

And she just swung her foot in and out in time as the music rose and fell to the...

Tantamogo.

Sockamant.

Three and eleven she paid for those stockings in sparrows of Georgia Street on the Tuesday.

No, the Monday before Easter.

And that was what he was looking at.

She swung her buckle shoe faster as she caught the expression in his eyes.

He was eyeing her as a snake, eyes its prey.

Edie Bortman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gertie half smiling.

I can't even hear your thoughts.

Oh?

Oh.

I was only wondering...

Was it late?

Then Edie straightened up Baby Bortman to get ready to go.

And it was high time too because the Sandman was on his way for Master Bortman Jr.

How moving the scene there in the gathering twilight.

And just then and that flew forth from the Ivy De Belfry through the dusk,

hither, thither, with a tiny lost cry.

Canano Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament back into the tabernacle

and the choir sang, Laodate Domino Mamne's Gentes,

and Crosscat Edie asked, wasn't she coming, but Jackie Caffrey called out.

Look, Sissy!

And they all looked.

Was it sheet lightning?

But Tommy saw it too.

Over the trees beside the church, bloom and then green.

And purple!

It's fireworks!

Sissy Caffrey said,

Come on Gertie!

It's the bizarre fireworks!

But Gertie was adamant.

She had no intention of being up there beck and call,

and they all ran down the strand, helter,

skelther, Edie with a push car with a baby boardman in it,

and Sissy holding Tommy and Jackie by the hand so they wouldn't fall, running.

At last, they were left alone.

And she knew he could be trusted to the death.

A man of inflexible honor.

She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were,

and she caught her knee in her hand so as not to fall back.

And she seemed to hear the panting of his heart,

and Jackie Caffrey shouted to look there was another.

And she leaned back and they all soared and shouted to look.

Look!

And she leaned back ever so far to see the fireworks,

and she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up,

and in the tents, first they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher.

Almost off the site, and he had a full view high up above her knee.

And she wasn't ashamed, and he wasn't either, to look in that immodest way.

And then a rocket sprang and fell, shot, and then the Roman crew burst and it was like a sigh of...

And everyone cried.

The book had got a stream of praying gold.

Hair threads and they cried, and they were all...

...cream, dewy, stars, falling with gold.

Oh! Oh! So life.

Oh, so self.

Sweet!

Oh! So...

Then old melted away, dewily, in the gray air.

Over silent.

Should a girl tell?

No. A thousand times no.

That was their secret.

Only theirs.

Alone in the hiding twilight, and there was none to know or tell.

Save the little bat that flew so softly through the evening to and fro.

And little bats don't tell.

Tight boots?

No.

Oh.

She's lame.

Night comes to Mr. Bloom City, and although he still has some calls to make, one to a whorehouse,

his thoughts and his steps turn to home and molly.

The dawned comes up the old sweet storm.

She ran away to Paris with me, to live in sin.

Well, now that was the plan, but as it turned out, we ran away to Shriest and lived in poverty.

They'd started to quarrel, huh? Too good to last?

We were poor and we were lonely.

Jim had a job as an English teacher with the Berlitz language school,

and he didn't make very much money.

Everybody spoke either Italian or German or Serbo Croatian.

I found it very difficult to converse with people.

He was laughing me in the street in my one-out dress.

Túñatata!

See, I was pregnant at the time, and we didn't have the money for a second dress or a pair of shoes or anything.

I remember. I remember I used to cry a lot.

Oh, and Jim was right. Right, like there was no Tamara.

He had a half. A dozen stories written for a book.

He was going to call Dubliners, and the novel had all fourteen or fifteen chapters done.

That would have been his first novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Hi, which we could never make up as mine to call it.

He had my heart scalded with asking me which title it should have.

No doubt you gave him your opinion.

Do you know he did not?

I never read any of his books. I couldn't understand them.

Not everybody can, you know.

In those days, Jim was always trying to get me to read.

He was a great one for study in German and French, and I tell you in the devil knows what else.

He was to get left mad at me, even.

Had we sit down the floor, blowing soap bubbles.

Felt like a blow them as big as footballs.

You are to study French, he'd say.

For when the novel sells, and we all go to live in Paris.

It could be very childish sometimes, you know.

Simple minded, Jim.

A cheetah remla mra l'ho.

And a soul is raised.

And a vice, like an angel.

I always wanted him to go on with the singing and give up all that all the writing.

Always getting him into trouble and ruining his isolation.

Oh, sure, just true that I had no education and that Jim knew everything.

Well, most everything.

And you're not done at all about women, of course.

I got very sick.

One afternoon, in July, just as he was setting out to go to a bathing place.

Well, we both thought it was the heat or something I'd eaten.

If it hadn't been for the landlady, having the good sense to send for the midwife,

I'd know how George would have committed this world.

But come, hated.

And Jim was so proud to have a child.

Oh, he rushed immediately with a few pence we had and sent a telegram to his family in Dublin.

Son-born mother and little bastard doing well.

It was most likely Vincent Cosgrave, devil-taken, spread that rumor in Dublin.

But Jim would never have written anything so vulgar.

Never.

Besides, he didn't have the money for that many words.

Indeed.

I didn't have a penny piece between us.

Stanny.

Stanny called himself my brother's keeper.

He was always scold in us for the way we managed money.

Our fail to manage it.

It was true that Jim was always borrowing from him.

But Jim borrowed from everyone.

He was drinking a lot in those days.

And I'd never know what hour he'd come home.

So Stanny, when he came to live with us, used to go down in the evenings and eat dragon out of the workmen's cafe in the old city.

And eat scold.

Do you want to be going about with a cane and a little dog?

Faith, I used to get mad at him too.

I'll have your child back-tized in the morning.

I knew that'd get him.

I didn't get him.

No wonder Jim had a lot of leave and a soul at that time.

But he didn't.

Do you see, he was a kind man.

And he couldn't hurt a fly.

Wasn't it about that time, Mrs. Joyce, that you gave birth to a daughter?

Yes.

You cheer.

She was born on the 26th of July, 1907.

In the pop, our ward.

Jim had just suffered a terrible attack of blindness and he'd had leeches applied to his eyes to restore the sight.

He thought that name might be a good omen.

You see, Lucian means light.

No, but Lucian, Mrs. Joyce.

No.

No, we won't talk about Lucian.

Very well, Mrs. Joyce.

In 1909, your husband went back to Ireland for the first time, taking your young son with him.

He so wanted his father to see George.

And at that time, an Irish publisher was interested in bringing out Dubliners.

Besides, Jim had a scheme to make a fortune that man could sell sand in the desert.

He persuaded two Italian businessmen from Trieste to open Dublin's first cinema.

I bet you didn't know that now, did you?

Yes.

The ward was called.

Oh, it was very well received when it first opened.

But you only showed Italian pictures.

So I suppose Dublin quickly got tired of it.

At first, Trieste home brought about a crisis in his life.

I don't know what you mean, I'm sure.

I think you do, Mrs. Joyce.

And then he runs into his old drinking companion, Vincent Cosgrave.

Didn't Mr. Cosgrave have an interesting tale to tell?

Not the one about betrayal and infidelity.

Vincent Cosgrave hated and envied Jim.

He was an idler who was wasting his life and he'd never forgotten that I'd turned him down years before in favor of Jim.

I understand there was a letter.

It was a lie.

It was a lie.

You were living in Trieste, Mrs. Joyce.

Yes, yes.

Letter from Daddy won for Stanley too.

54, Fontenai Street Dublin, 8th of August 1909, Nora.

I am not going to Galway, nor is Georgia.

What?

Stanley is not going to Galway!

I'm going to throw up the business I came for.

I have been frank in what I have told you of myself.

You have not been so with me.

Let's see, child.

At the time when I used to meet you at the corner of Marion Square,

I'd walk over with you and feel your hand touch me in the dark and hear your voice.

At the time I used to meet you, every second night you kept an appointment with a friend of mine.

Outside the meal's here.

He put his arm around you and you lifted your face and kissed him.

And the next night you met me, I have heard this only an hour ago from his lips.

Is Georgia my son?

First night I slept with you in Zurich was October 11th and he was born July 27th.

That is nine months and 16 days.

In Dublin here, the room or here is circulated that I have taken the leavings of others.

Perhaps they laugh when they see me parading my son in the streets.

I lost his senses completely this time.

Can't he see that they're jealous of him?

Do we all to be destroyed by that city?

Stanny!

Stanny!

What did you do about Cosgrave?

Oh, days passed.

Misrable days.

I started to write to Jim a hundred times, but I couldn't.

I know now that Stanny wrote to a man, told him what a swine Cosgrave was.

And that it was not true.

But it seems that Jim's old friend, John Burden, in Dublin,

told me when in his confusion and trouble was also ready to defend me.

Though I scarce knew the man.

Today I signed a contract for publication of Dubliners.

Don't read over those horrible letters I wrote.

I was out of my mind with rage at the time.

Nor a darling. I apologize to you.

Humbly.

It has been a bitter experience, and our love will now be sweeter.

I thought it was a bitter experience.

But with weather.

And it's true what Jim said for our long-tied growth sweeter.

He sent me this copy of his poems, then chamber music.

All hand copied by himself on parchment with our initials intertwined on the cover.

There's an ocean, it's still.

The book of verses is for you.

It holds the desire of my youth.

And you, darling, were the fulfillment of that desire.

Tell Stanley to send me a whole lot of money and quickly, so that we may meet soon.

Do you remember the day I asked you indifferently,

where will I meet you this evening?

And you said without thinking, where will you meet me, is it?

It'll meet me in bed, I suppose.

I think perhaps he liked the idea of betrayal.

I mean, if you consider the letters he wrote you at that time.

Do you understand nothing?

My husband was a lonely man, all his life.

We wrote letters, certain kinds of letters to each other.

The beliefs are loneliness.

I think it's a good thing.

My dearest Nora, Dublin, is it a testable city?

And the people are most repulsive to me.

I can eat nothing, I am so agitated.

My brain is empty.

Nora, my true love.

You must really take me in hand.

Why have you allowed me to get into this state?

Will you dearest take me, as I am, with my sins and fallies and shelter me from misery?

If you do not, I feel my life will go to pieces.

Tonight, I have an idea.

It's a matter of unusual.

I feel, I would like to be flogged by you.

I would like to see your eyes blazing with anger.

I wonder if there's some madness in me?

Or is love madness?

One moment I see you like a virgin or Madonna.

The next moment I see you, a shameless, insolent, half naked, and obscene.

What do you think of me at all?

Are you disgusted with me?

I'm not a good one.

I'm not a good one.

I'm not a good one.

Are you disgusted with me?

Are you two like me?

One moment I is the stars, the next lower than the lowest riches.

I gave others my pride and joy.

To you I give my sin, my folly, my weakness, and sadness.

Terre...

Sorry, but the courage from your love for me before I became,

the coming mind of the bad ones on the old game.

This is Joyce. Why did your husband encourage his friend Roberto Pazzioso to try and seduce

you? I sure that was Jim's way. He had a little

notebook, duty at thousands of them. He used to carry around every word with them and

he'd write down in it bits and scraps of any old thing that someone would say that would

take his fancy. He was always at me to tell him my dreams. I don't know interest in Roberto.

And I just let him crack on when he'd come to visit in the afternoons. I knew Jim was

only gathered now that information for some old story or poem or play or something. He was a

right-gum.

L'Sole, se le vato, perlaine. That's what Roberto said to me. The sun shines for you.

Well, do you know, somebody told me years later that Jim put that in a book. Which one was it now at her heart?

Ulysses.

Oh, why? Tis Molly Bloom says that the sun shines for you. Well, now Jim got that directly from me.

I know what you're thinking. So you needn't even ask. All the interviewers want to know if I was the model for Molly Bloom.

Well, I wasn't. I was not. She was much fatter.

Let's go back to Mr. Bloom, whose relationship with his wife has been less than adequate for the past 11 years.

Ever since the death and infancy of their only son, Rudy?

Trains somewhere. Whistling. The strengths those engines have in them. Like big giants.

And the war for rolling out on the monosides. Like the end of L'Sole sweet song.

When he returns home late that night, he recounts to Molly the events of his day.

With modification, he does not tell her of meeting the young cripple, Gertie MacDowell, at the beach.

Nor of his adventures in the whorehouse.

Of course, she does not tell him that she has spent the afternoon with her lover, L'A's is boiling.

Who will console Mr. Bloom? Ahhh.

In a last ditch effort to retrieve the day and reinstate his manhood, Mr. Bloom attempts to make love to his wife.

Upside down.

And then to her astonishment tells her he would like his breakfast and bed the following morning with a couple of eggs.

Fortunately, sleep claims him.

And Molly is left alone with her thoughts. A great river of thoughts. A whole new style of writing.

All the things he told father he was going to do. And me.

But I saw the room. Telling me all the lovely places we could go for the honeymoon.

Then, by moonlight, with the gondolas. And the lake of Komo, he had a picture cut out of some paper of.

And mandolins and lanterns.

Oh, how nice I said.

Whatever I liked, it was going to do immediately. If not sooner.

Will you be my man?

Will you carry my cat?

He ought to get a leather medal with a puffy ring for all the plans he invents.

Then leave an Oscar all day.

I don't know what it is to be a woman and a mother. How good they.

What, how good they.

What, how good they.

I would all of them be if they hadn't all the mother to look after them. What I never had.

I better not make an all night sitting on this affair.

They ought to make chambers a natural size so a woman could sit on it properly.

That dry old stick. Dr. Collins. For women's diseases.

Ask me what I did had an offensive order and could you pass it easily. Pass or what?

I thought he was talking about the rock of Gibraltar.

Wait. Wait, there's George's church block. Wait.

The recorder's the hour. Wait.

Two o'clock.

Well, that's a nice hour of the night for him to be coming home out to anybody.

He came somewhere. I'm sure by his appetite. Yes.

Because he never did a thing like that before. He's asked to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs.

Yes. Because he couldn't possibly do without it that long. So he must do it somewhere.

Anyhow, love it's not. Or he'd be off his feed thinking over.

So either it was one of those night women. If it was down there he was really.

On the hotel store he made up. Pack of lies.

Then the usual kissing my bottle was to hide her. Not that I care too strong so he does it with.

Do I like to find out?

Let's see if he has that French letter still in his pocketbook.

I suppose he thinks I don't know. Just seatful men.

All their twenty pockets aren't enough for their lies.

He ought to give it up now at this age of his life. Simply a ruination for any woman.

No satisfaction in pretending to like it till he comes.

I'll never finish it off myself anyhow.

And it makes your lips pale.

I will. With all the talk of the world about what people make it's only the first time.

After that it's just the ordinary duel and think no more about it.

Why can't you kiss a man without gone and marry him first?

He's sometimes loved to.

Wildly.

When you feel that way. So nice all over you can't help yourself.

Which is a man or other would take me sometime and kiss me in his arms when he's there.

There's nothing like a kiss.

Oh and hot down to your soul.

I almost paralyzed as you.

Then I hate that confession.

When I used to go to Father Carrick and he touched me further in what arm if he did.

Where my child.

And I sit on the canal bank like a food.

Unless I paid some nice young boy to do it.

Since I can't do it myself.

A young boy would like me.

I'd confuse him a little.

Alone with him if we were.

I'd let him see my garters.

The new ones.

And make them turn red looking at them.

So juicy.

I know what boys feel.

With a dull on their cheek.

Doing that freaking.

Drawing out the thing by the hour.

Question and answer.

Would you do this, that or the other.

With the call man.

Yes, with the bishop yes I would.

Oh even if it's the truth they don't believe him.

Oh well.

For the four years more I have a life of 35.

What am I to?

I'll be 33 in September.

Hello?

Hi.

Like some of them booxies he brings me.

The works of Master Franz Swa.

Somebody who was supposed to be a priest.

Ruby and fair tyrants.

I remember when I came up to page 50 the part where she hangs more out of a hook.

With a cord.

Flagellate.

There's nothing for a woman in that.

All invention.

That's the kind of feeling he they're always dreaming about.

With a not wrong mother.

Taught in their empty heads.

I have to get slow poise in half.

I suppose I'm nothing anymore.

And I wouldn't let him lick me.

Well it does it all wrong.

Thinking only of his own pleasure.

His tongue is too flat.

I don't know what.

He'll make him do it again if he doesn't mind himself.

And then lock him down to sleep in the cold cellar with the blood beetles.

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus.

The thing is come on man.

Yes.

I wouldn't let that flick you.

Of course all the poking and plowing and rooting the boil and had up in me.

Now what am I to do?

Thursday, Friday, Saturday.

Pulling my pester to soul out of the body.

Unless he likes it.

Some men do.

God knows there's always something wrong with us.

Five days every three or four weeks.

Usual monthly auction.

But the cat itself is better off than us.

Have we too much blood up in us or water?

Isn't it simply sickening?

Any of you didn't make me pregnant as big as he is.

I don't want to ruin the clean linen.

Doubt!

They always want to see a stain.

They always want to see a stain on the bed to know your origin for them.

Oh that's troubling them.

There's such food too.

It would be a widow.

A divorced forty times over.

A dog of reading could do or black produce.

No that's too purpley.

Dreams, he let me out of this.

This is sweet of sin.

If I invented that business for way for water,

I would turn clothes on, cooping children.

It's down to bed too.

The children are the chickens.

This is what heals.

We all are the owners of the park.

I think he made them a bit firmer.

Sucking them like that so long he made me thirsty.

Titty, see calls them.

That's a lash.

I think he made them a bit firmer.

Sucking them like that so long he made me thirsty.

Titty, see calls them.

That's a lash.

That's a lash.

This, this one anyhow.

Stiff the nipple gets for the least thing.

I get them to keep that up.

I'll take those eggs, beating up with the marshmallow.

Fettin' them out for him.

I'll draw those veins and things.

Curious the way it's made.

To the same.

In case of twins.

They're supposed to represent beauty placed up there.

Like those statues in the museum.

One of them pretended to hide us with our hand.

Aren't they so beautiful?

Of course compared with what a man looks like.

With his two bags full.

And his other thing hanging down out of him.

Or sticking up at you like a hat rack.

No wonder they hide us with a cabbage leaf.

A woman is beauty of course that's a message.

When he said I could pose for a picture naked to some rich fella.

Would I be like that part of the nymph?

With my hair down.

Yes.

Only she's younger.

Little like that dirty bitch in that Spanish photo he has.

The nymphs.

You say go about like that.

I asked him.

I think disgusting Cameron and Highlander behind the meat market.

Or that other rich with the red head behind the tree.

Where the statue of the fish used to be.

When I was passing.

Pretend and he was pissing.

Standing out for me to see it.

Like some kind of a thick crow bar.

He must have eaten oysters.

They're always trying to show it here.

Every time nearly I passed outside the men's greenhouse near the station.

Just to try.

Some fell or other trying to catch my eye.

As if it was one of the seven wonders of the world.

And the stink of those rotten places.

And I'd come home with Poldy after that party.

I went into one of them.

I was so biting cold I couldn't keep.

Where was that?

Ninety-three.

The canal was frozen.

I was in mourning.

As it was a few months after.

It's eleven years ago now.

He'd be eleven.

What was the good of going into mourning for what was neither one thing nor the other?

Of course he insisted more.

He'd go into mourning for the cattle.

This one not too much.

There's the mark of his teeth still.

Where he tried to bite the nipple.

I had to scream out.

Aren't they fearful trying to hurt you?

I had a great breast of milk with Millie.

And of for two.

What was the reason of that?

He said I could have got a pound a week as a wet nurse.

All swelled out.

Hurt me they used to, weaning her.

I had to get him to suck them.

They were so hard.

He said it was sweeter and thicker than cows.

Then he wanted to milk me into the tea.

Well, he's beyond everything.

I declared somebody ought to put him in the budget.

If only I could remember the one half of the things and write a book out of her.

The works of master holding.

So much smoother the skin.

Much.

An hour he was at the mine sure by the clock.

Like some kind of a big infant I had at me.

They want everything in their mouth.

All the pleasure those men get out of a woman.

I can feel his mouth.

I gave my eyes that look.

With my hair a bit loose from the tongue blown on.

My tongue between my lips up to him.

A savage boof.

A savage boof.

Thursday.

Friday once I read to Sunday three, oh lord I can't wait till Monday.

I wish he was here.

Or somebody to let myself go with.

I want to come again like that.

I feel a fire inside me.

I made me spend the second time.

Ticking me behind with his finger I was coming for about five minutes with my legs around him.

Although I wanted to show it all sorts of things.

Fucking shit.

Oh full deep down, Tarrant.

I'm a sea.

A sea crimson sometimes.

Like fire.

And the glorious sunsets.

And the fig trees in the Alameda gardens, yes.

And all the queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses.

And the rose gardens.

And the jessum.

And geraniums and cactuses.

And you brought her as a girl.

Where I was a flower of the mountain.

And when I put the rose in my hair, like the Andalusian girls used, or shall I wear a red?

No, he kissed me.

Under the Moorish wall.

And I thought well, as well he was another.

And then I asked him, was my eyes to ask again.

And he asked me, would I?

Yes, to say yes, my mountain flower.

And first I put my arms around and this.

And drew them down to me, and I said I could feel my breasts.

All the perfect of me.

As heart was gone like mad.

Yes, I said.

Yes, I would.

Yes.

Tim Finnegan lived in Wachen Street.

And gentlemen, Irish mighty yard.

He had a brogue both rich and sweet.

And the rise in the world he carried a hard.

Whack-faldedadans to your partners.

Wipe the floor your trotter shake.

Isn't it the truth I told you?

Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake.

You ought to do more singing.

You know when Jim wrote his last book and called it Finnegan's Wake,

it wasn't fun we had at all.

Nearly drove us all mad.

Have you read any of it, Mrs Joyce?

Finnegan's wake, due to have not.

Have you?

Sure you'd need to be a walk on dictionary to understand it.

But once the vlogs devolved, they'll wick and eat lethally.

She side-slipped up the deck with the devil's glenvois,

Sally her nurse was so into sleep in a sluice.

And Fife, Fife, Fife fell over a stilway before she found her stride and lay

and wiggled in all the stagnant, cluck-cools of rainy, under a fallow coo.

The only one apart from Jim himself who could understand it at all

was Harriet Shaw Weaver.

She read the first few chapters and she decided straight off the Jim was a genius.

Your husband seemed to have invented a whole new language.

She kept the wolf away from our door over the years with her most generous gifts of money or solvents of pounds she must have given him.

Do you see? She believed in Jim.

Oh, and he could be a suspicious fella, money-liked.

But he trusted Miss Weaver completely.

She came to visit me last Christmas morning.

I was very bad with the arthritis.

She sat right here in front of the fire and we talked about Finnegan's wake.

Is Zindit the truth? I told you. Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake. A bravo.

Finnegan's wake. Such an extraordinary book.

All the time he was writing it, he kept sending me endless notes of explanation,

none of which proved the slightest help.

I see in us how it took him 16 years to write it. You must have been up to your knees in paper.

I suppose I was. But what a daring experiment with language.

Anna Livia Plurabel.

Anna Livia. Now that was his name for the river Liffy.

Oh, I think that's my favorite chapter.

The gossiping Dublin washer woman telling the story of that wonderful river, Anna Livia.

She was always going on about the Liffy.

It is on the banks of the Liffy we did our courting, you know.

Well, perhaps that's what inspired Mr Joyce to present the river in that way.

First as a young shy girl, then as a woman, adorning herself for her lovers.

And finally, old and tired.

Like us. Yet full of life flowing into Dublin Bay.

You know, Jim loved to read that chapter out loud. I could never understand the word, but it doesn't matter, it's a.

It is not the sense but the sound which is important. The sound of the river.

And of the river.

I can't tell this.

I can't tell this. I can't tell this.

She was just a young, thin, pale, soft, sure slim slip of a thing then.

Sondling by silver moon lake. And he was a heavy, twerching, lurching, loyabroad of a colock man.

Making his hay for his son to shine on.

You know the dinkle dale of local law?

Well, there once dwelt a local hella mite.

Michael A. Clow was his riverland name.

With many a soy or a spruce tizz, laugh a bibs.

And one vennersterg in Juneau to loy.

Oh, so sweet and so cool and so limber she looked.

Nance the nixie.

Not no, let's go.

In the silence at the psychomorphs, a listening,

he plunged both of his newly anointed hands.

The cord of his cuscheless, in her sing a marley,

suffering through the mens of hair,

packed in them, and soothing, hauling, mingling it.

That was deep dark and ample.

Like this red bar got sundown.

She could not help on herself.

So that hot on him, he had to forget the monk in the man.

He was so robbing her rock and smoothing her down.

He faced his lippies in smiling mood.

Kiss, kiss, after kiss, of cusche,

on an an anapolks of the flackled farlert.

Oh, wasn't he the bold priest?

And wasn't she the naughty livery?

No, click name as no her nave.

Two lads in sculpted breeches went through her before that barefoot burn and wollomy wade.

Look, Nacuilius, no blessed fix before she had a hint of her hair at her fanny dog.

Our enthusiasm to tempt her to canoe,

not to mention a bun to port her house, barge.

And aired that again.

She was licked by a hound while pulling her pig.

You're in simple on the sport of the hill in old Capeur.

Well, my ransom now and I'll thank you.

This is a penny, or this is a surplus.

And where's the starch?

You made the tea up a lot.

It's your safety pin.

You're a child of mammon.

Insilence lidded.

Now, who's been tearing the leg of porter hours?

Oh, which leg is that?

The one with the bell, son of a.

Where did I stop?

So, she said to herself, she'd frame a plan to fake a shine.

Oh, don't miss just make her the lycabitch of an even herd.

Lend us your blessed ashes here till I scrolled the cannons underpants.

Oh, no, oh, no!

And poo-li-poo-li.

First, she let her hair fathom.

And down it's lost to our feet.

It's teviks winding coils.

To finish it, our bracelets and our ranklets and our armlets,

and a chesty amule for necklace of clicking cobbles and casserving pebbles

and rumble down rubble, richmond and rare of Irish lien or rhiner stones.

And shell marble bangles!

That done!

A dog got smushed to our air, the eye.

A new schkalutech of each povlogas.

And the lily posquipped to our lepoleans.

And the picket, the paint box for our parmets.

Then, as soon as the lump his back was turned with her mealy bag,

slung over her shoulder and Olivia,

oi-star face, four of her basin came.

Everybody for saw her, said the dose, Liffy Delia, looked a bit queer.

Ah, you've all the swirples, you're side of the curtain.

She was a queer-o-sco-shiny hoe.

And Olivia, trinket-hose.

I'm sure he was the queer-o-l-bums too.

Dear, doggy-dumpling, fuster-father of fingals and dothar gills,

or gamirund gaffar were all their dags-thors.

The same, and you, Anna was, Olivia's, Julia Bell's to be.

Ha!

The finikin' in the week.

Now, that was the important book.

Jim always said so, right up to the last.

We'll keep the professors puzzling for a thousand years, each day.

And everybody else too, with them jaw-breakers of words.

I always thought it was a very comical way of making money.

And we'll all be dead if I had a shill in today,

for everyone would say to me,

well, I haven't read the books exactly themselves, Mrs. Joyce,

but I've read all about them.

You should write me a millionaire, who...

Oh, and the books made a great deal of money in those years.

What happened to it?

I suppose we must have spent it.

God, he was desperate, extravagant.

And then, there were all the medical bills, of course.

Eleven major high operations in the last eight years of his life.

It would break your heart to see him trying to write and correct the proofs of Finikin's wake.

The man was next to blind.

I had to go everywhere with them.

It was like a nursemaid.

You also acted as a nursemaid for your daughter, Lucia.

You didn't need a nursemaid.

She was a young woman of 24 by then.

Mrs. Joyce, your daughter has a serious mental illness.

No, don't say that now, please. That's not true.

Then why, Mrs. Joyce, has she been hospitalized for the past eleven years?

No, you don't understand.

Now, she's very unmanageable.

She was always nervous, highly strong.

All those years of moving about Europe, like gypsies, different countries, different schools, different languages.

Our father spoiled her, and she worshipped him.

But she was often violent with you.

Well, only when she was terribly upset. She was young, and she was very gifted.

And she was in love.

Was Alex Parnasovski?

No. She fell in love with a young writer who spent a good deal of time in our house.

His name was Samuel Beckett.

Not just true, she was engaged upon a Parnasovski for a while, but she was very gifted.

That was an arranged match, if you like.

When she was diagnosed and certified, your husband still refused to have her committed.

He tried to treat her himself.

He tried everything. We took her to doctors all over Europe, to clinics and specialists, even to the famous Dr. Jung.

For eight years, we tried to save injections and cures and holidays, rest homes and presents.

There was not anyone to do for her.

And half the time, a sight was so bad he couldn't even see her face.

And even with Jim, sometimes she taught them.

Sometimes she was wild, like an animal, snarling and screaming and spitting.

Other times she would just stand still like a statue of flowers, stare in the window at the evening, stare.

Everybody, Dr. Sprints, even George, wanted him to have her committed, but he would not.

He would not have fallen back to me on some aside and be forgotten about because it terrified him.

I suppose you'll want to know all about our famous friends.

All the interviewers want to know that.

And what I thought of them all, that sure, when you've been married to the greatest writer in the world, you don't pay too much attention to the little fellas.

I don't see too many of them anymore.

When Jim and I left France in 1914 and moved here to Zurich, he was a very sick man.

He had an ulcer that nobody knew of.

He died a short time after.

And the war changed a lot of things, you know.

Many of the people that we knew went to America and the Nazis got a lot of the ones who stayed.

Alex Parnisowski, Lautrier's young fiancé, he was picked up in one of the first Paris raids.

He died in a concentration camp.

There are still a few good friends though.

The columns, Paragon Mollie, they've been very kind to me.

They send me a little money from time to time.

I was just right into them when you came in.

If you'd like to wait in the other room, you can speak to my son, George,

or when he gets back, he's just gone for a walk by the cemetery.

Jim's buried here, you know, right next to the zoo.

He was always so fond of the lions.

I like to think of them lying there.

Listen to them roar.

Good-bye, Mrs. Joyce.

Thank you.

Good-bye, Mrs. Joyce.

Thank you.

Good-bye, Lautrier.

I'm afraid I should.

Soon or later have to sell my manuscript of J.M.R. Music.

I'm in Dublin in 1909 and dedicated to me.

It is written on parchment and bound in green-colored leather

with the Joyce crest on one side of the cover and our initials on the other side.

If you know anybody who you think would be interested in buying such a work,

would you kindly let me know?

With warmest thanks to you and Molly.

And with kind regards.

Noda.

Barnacle.

Joyce.

Within a month of writing this letter,

Noda Barnacle, Joyce, died of euremic poisoning,

brought on by the treatment of her arthritis by cortisone on April 10, 1951.

In the funeral speech at her grave site, the officiating Swiss priest described her as

a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner,

and she was a great sinner.

In the funeral speech at her grave,

she was a great sinner.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.

I'm going to go to the bathroom.