PB’S REALLY SHORT BLUFFER’S GUIDE TO ULYSSES
I know some people would like to read Ulysses but can't find the six months in their busy schedules they think they'll need, so here's the short version. It consists of the first and last lines from each chapter. It struck me how stunningly beautiful these sentences are, so even if you never do get to read Ulysses, you can get the gist of the damn thing right here. Let's go. (I also add my own summary of the action in brackets).
CHAPTER ONE
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
Usurper.
(Stephen and his mate have breakfast and decide to fuck off to town.)
CHAPTER TWO
You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?
On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.
(Stephen does a morning of teaching history and has to put up with his boss the headmaster boring him to death.)
CHAPTER THREE
Ineluctable modality of the visible : at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.
Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails braided up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.
(Stephen mooches to town and thinks his head off about all kinds of shit.)
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
Poor Dignam!
(Introducing the fairly dull Leopold Bloom and his MILF wife Molly. Has anyone noticed Molly is a total Milf before? This point appears to have escaped the professors.)
CHAPTER FIVE
By lorries along Sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill Lane, Leask's, the linseed crushers, the postal telegraph office.
He saw the trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed highly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh : and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.
(Bloom goes to a public bath and has a bit of a wank. No big deal.)
CHAPTER SIX
Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.
How grand we are this morning.
(They all go to a funeral and think morbid thoughts like you do.)
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the heart of the Hibernian metropolis.
Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty’s truth was known!
(Stephen & some really boring types go to a newspaper office and jaw jaw jaw for what seem like hours.)
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch.
Safe!
(Bloom goes for a pint and a pie in some pub and gets grossed out by the eating habits of his fellow human beings. Like you do.)
CHAPTER NINE
Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred :
Laud we the gods and let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils from our bless’d altars.
(Stephen spins some really migraine inducing theories about Shakespeare to some old fuckwits in the library. Read this and hang yourself. But we’re already half way done!)
CHAPTER TEN
The superior, the Very reverend John Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps.
On Northumberland and Landsdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849, and the salute of Almidano Artifoni’s sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door.
(Lots of people meander about Dublin. Some get the bus.)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons, steelyringing.
Done.
(Bloom visits yet another pub, bloody hell. He fancies the barmaids.)
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was just passing the time of day with old Troy of the D.M.P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye.
And they beheld Him, even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe’s in Little Green Street like a shot off a shovel.
(To coin a phrase, this chapter’s got more rabbit than Sainsburys. These Irish guys, man they can argue.)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace.
Cuckoo.
(Bloom wandering along the seafront and eyeing up this teenage girl, she must be no more than 15, and giving himself a crafty feel, like you do. Well, you might. I would never do that.)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Deshil Holles Eamus.
Just you try it on.
(Stephen and his drinking pals round the maternity hospital and guess what, more drinking and jawing. Fuck me.)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o’-the-wisps and danger signals.
A white lamkbin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.
(This is the Freud-on-Acid section – Bloom and some other random guys go to the red light area to continue their carousing. Not much in the way of lapdancing or actual sex, however, sorry to disappoint.)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion, which he very badly needed.
As they walked, they at times stopped and walked again, continuing their tete-a-tete (which of course he was utterly out of), about sirens, enemies of man’s reason, mingled with a number of other topics of the same category, usurpers, historical cases of the kind while the man in the sweeper car or you might as well call it in the sleeper car who in any case couldn’t possibly hear because they were too far simply sat in his seat near the end of Lower Gardiner Street and looked after their lowbacked car.
(They’re all quite drunk and rambling and shagged out, so this chapter is written in a DELIBERATELY BORING way – you can tell, can’t you – I mean, what author does that? I mean, fuck that.)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What parallel courses did Bloom and Stephen follow returning?
Where?
(Bloom is taking Stephen back to his house to crash because Stephen doesn’t want to go back to his own gaff because he’s hacked off with his mate. This chapter is written in question and answer fashion, and is supposed to reveal the secrets of the universe or I don’t know something along those lines. By now, who cares.)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yes because he never did a thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of eggs
yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
(I had to cheat here as the last NINETY PAGE chapter doesn’t have any punctuation in it – way to go, JJ. Anyways, this is pure milf-of consciousness as Molly Bloom of the ample proportions takes it away. If you can groove on it it’s not too bad, but 90 pages is pushing it.)
There you are. Now you can say “I haven’t read Ulysses but I have read the first and the last sentences of every chapter.” Watch how this impresses your friends! Or perhaps makes them think you’re slightly unhinged.