Ulysses

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.

Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me.

Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.

And no more turn aside and brood.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

God made food, the devil the cooks.