Vulgar words in Ulysses (Page 1)
This book at a glance
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-You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said.
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You look damn well when you're dressed.
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-O, damn you and your Paris fads!
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Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf: -For old Mary Ann She doesn't care a damn.
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Damn all else they are good for.
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He put it back in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.
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Damn your lithia water.
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Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it.
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He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock.
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He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully.
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Hurry up, damn it.
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Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world.
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Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street.
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Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags.
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Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.
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Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
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Where the bugger is it?
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Damn bad ad.
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He cried above the clatter of the wheels: -I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son.
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Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else.
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Find damn all of himself that morning.
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It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else.
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Whores in Turkish graveyards.
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No such ass.
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Country bumpkin's queries.
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Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.
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Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly: -Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?
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Shite and onions!
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Put us all into it, damn its soul.
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-Will you tell him he can kiss my arse?
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-He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder.
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Not such damn fools.
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Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.
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But they're as close as damn it.
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Space: what you damn well have to see.
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Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives.
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No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his manservant or his maidservant or his jackass.
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Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?
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Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then gravely said, honeying malice: -I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.
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He read, marcato: -Characters: TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole) CRAB (a bushranger) MEDICAL DICK ) and ) (two birds with one stone) MEDICAL DAVY ) MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier) FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE (the coalquay whore).
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Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.
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-I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails, he said.
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He's as like it as damn it.
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Damn like him.
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Damn dangerous thing.
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Damn good gin that was.
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-There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.
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because they have damn bad cakes.
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You're blinder nor I am, you bitch's bastard!
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God's curse on bitch's bastard.
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Rhapsodies about damn all.
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With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard.
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O, the whore of the lane!
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A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom.
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-The poor bugger's tool that's being hanged, says Alf.
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Time they were stopping up in the City Arms pisser Burke told me there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bézique to come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a walk.
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Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking them off chewing the fat.
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Antitreating is about the size of it.
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Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.
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Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used to be in rivers of tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out with her eight inches of fat all over her.
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Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis street where no-one would know him in the private office when I was there with Pisser releasing his boots out of the pop.
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The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores' gets!
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Tonguetied sons of bastards' ghosts.
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All wind and piss like a tanyard cat.
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A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him.
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They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland.
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-And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that's dead?
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So I just went round the back of the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was letting off my (Throwaway twenty to) letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in Slattery's off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube she's better or she's (ow!)
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Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses.
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Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for Christ' sake and don't be making a public exhibition of yourself.
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And all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and Martin telling the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf and Joe at him to whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and the loafers calling for a speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car and hold his bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing If the man in the moon was a jew, jew, jew and a slut shouts out of her: -Eh, mister!
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And she saw a long Roman candle going up over the trees, up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all breathless with excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more to look up after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb from being bent so far back that he had a full view high up above her knee where no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and she wasn't ashamed and he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn't resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on looking, looking.
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Why that highclass whore in Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose.
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And she was wondrous stricken of heart for that evil hap and for his burial did him on a fair corselet of lamb's wool, the flower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly and lie akeled (for it was then about the midst of the winter) and now Sir Leopold that had of his body no manchild for an heir looked upon him his friend's son and was shut up in sorrow for his forepassed happiness and as sad as he was that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for all accounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in no less measure for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and murdered his goods with whores.
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Yes, Pious had told him of that land and Chaste had pointed him to the way but the reason was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasing exterior whose name, she said, is Bird-in-the-Hand and she beguiled him wrongways from the true path by her flatteries that she said to him as, Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence.
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This was it what all that company that sat there at commons in Manse of Mothers the most lusted after and if they met with this whore Bird-in-the-Hand (which was within all foul plagues, monsters and a wicked devil) they would strain the last but they would make at her and know her.
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In short, he and the bull of Ireland were soon as fast friends as an arse and a shirt.
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For answer Mr Mulligan, in a gale of laughter at his smalls, smote himself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaiming with an admirable droll mimic of Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature of her sex though 'tis pity she's a trollop): There's a belly that never bore a bastard.
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Nay, had the hussy's scouringbrush not been her tutelary angel, it had gone with her as hard as with Hagar, the Egyptian!
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All poppycock, you'll scuse me saying.
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Seedy cuss in the Richmond?
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In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child.
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(Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart.
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THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse.
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LYNCH: Damn your yellow stick.
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The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot.
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Better for your mother take the strap to you at the bedpost, hussy like you.
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In an archway a standing woman, bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily.
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Cheap whores, singly, coupled, shawled, dishevelled, call from lanes, doors, corners.)
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THE WHORES: Are you going far, queer fellow?
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(He gazes ahead, reading on the wall a scrawled chalk legend Wet Dream and a phallic design.)
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Freeman's Urinal and Weekly Arsewipe here.
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BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum) That bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may... BEAUFOY: (His lip upcurled, smiles superciliously on the court) You funny ass, you!
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A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY: Moses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped his arse in the Daily News.
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