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[ 3 ] Ineluctable modality of the visible : at least that if no more , thought through my eyes . Signatures of all things I am here to read , seaspawn and seawrack , the nearing tide , that rusty boot . Snotgreen , bluesilver , rust : coloured signs . Limits of the diaphane . But he adds : in bodies . Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured . How ? By knocking his sconce against them , sure . Go easy . Bald he was and a millionaire , maestro di color che sanno . Limit of the diaphane in . Why in ? Diaphane , adiaphane . If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate , if not a door . Shut your eyes and see . Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells . You are walking through it howsomever . I am , a stride at a time . A very short space of time through very short times of space . Five , six : the nacheinander . Exactly : and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible . Open your eyes . No . Jesus ! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o’er his base , fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably ! I am getting on nicely in the dark . My ash sword hangs at my side . Tap with it : they do . My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs , nebeneinander . Sounds solid : made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos . Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand ? Crush , crack , crick , crick . Wild sea money . Dominie Deasy kens them a ’ . Won’t you come to Sandymount , Madeline the mare ? Rhythm begins , you see . I hear . A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching . No , agallop : deline the mare . Open your eyes now . I will . One moment . Has all vanished since ? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane . Basta ! I will see if I can see . See now . There all the time without you : and ever shall be , world without end . They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently , Frauenzimmer : and down the shelving shore flabbily , their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand . Like me , like Algy , coming down to our mighty mother . Number one swung lourdily her midwife’s bag , the other’s gamp poked in the beach . From the liberties , out for the day . Mrs Florence MacCabe , relict of the late Patk MacCabe , deeply lamented , of Bride Street . One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life . Creation from nothing . What has she in the bag ? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord , hushed in ruddy wool . The cords of all link back , strandentwining cable of all flesh . That is why mystic monks . Will you be as gods ? Gaze in your omphalos . Hello . Kinch here . Put me on to Edenville . Aleph , alpha : nought , nought , one . Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon : Heva , naked Eve . She had no navel . Gaze . Belly without blemish , bulging big , a buckler of taut vellum , no , whiteheaped corn , orient and immortal , standing from everlasting to everlasting . Womb of sin .
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