or Richard, don't you know, for my sake. _(Laughter)_

BUCKMULLIGAN: (_Piano, diminuendo_)

_Then outspoke medical Dick
To his comrade medical Davy..._

STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago,
Richard Crookback, Edmund in _King Lear_, two bear the wicked uncles'
names. Nay, that last play was written or being written while his
brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.

BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name
...

_(Laughter)_

QUAKERLYSTER: (_A tempo_) But he that filches from me my good name...

STEPHEN: _(Stringendo)_ He has hidden his own name, a fair name,
William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old
Italy set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in
the sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John o'Gaunt his name
is dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend
sable a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer
than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name?
That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that
we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake, rose at his birth.
It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the
night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent
constellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars. His
eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the bear, as
he walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from
Shottery and from her arms.

Both satisfied. I too.

Don't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched.

And from her arms.

Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?

Read the skies. _Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos._ Where's your
configuration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D: _sua donna.
Gia: di lui. gelindo risolve di non amare_ S. D.

--What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a
celestial phenomenon?

--A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.

What more's to speak?

Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.

_Stephanos,_ my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my
feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.

--You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is
strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Me, Magee an