Prologue 

Stage Directions

Lights low. A bare stage. A single lamppost or chair. The faint sound of seagulls and water lapping. A man steps forward — JAMES JOYCE (or an actor as Joyce). He wears round glasses, bowler hat, cane. He faces the audience directly, breaking the fourth wall.

JOYCE (Prologue)
Dublin.
The sixteenth of June, nineteen hundred and four.
A Thursday. Ordinary as bread. Ordinary as soap.

Three figures step into the day.
A young man with his head full of ghosts.
A husband with his heart full of loss.
A wife with her bed full of memory.

A city steps with them—streets, pubs, kitchens, schools—
and every common word becomes an epic.
Odysseus wandered ten years to reach home.
My Dubliners wander one day.

So— (he tips his hat) —welcome to it.
A day in Dublin.
A life in miniature.
A book made flesh.

(He steps back; the faint light of dawn rises behind him. The sound of hoofbeats, street cries, sea.)

BLACKOUT → Act I, Scene 1: The Tower.

Act I, Scene 1 — The Tower (Telemachus)

The stage is dominated by a Martello tower interior: stone walls curved inward, a narrow slit of a window letting in the glimmer of dawn. Beyond, projected on the back wall, the restless sea — waves rolling, gulls wheeling. A basin of water and shaving gear are set on a rough wooden table.

We hear the echo of gulls’ cries and the low rush of the tide.

Suddenly — a booming voice, mocking yet grand.

BUCK MULLIGAN (striding in, dressing gown flapping, razor held aloft like a priest’s chalice):
Introibo ad altare Dei!

(He laughs, the sea echoing him. He leans over the stairwell, calling down to Stephen.)

Up, Kinch, up! The stately plump Buck commands!

STEPHEN DEDALUS (entering slowly, black-clad, pale, haunted):
Your mock mass, Mulligan. Will you never weary of it?

MULLIGAN:
Never weary of myself. Why should I? (He grins, scraping his razor against the strop.) You’re pale as a ghost. Mourning again, Kinch? Ah, the man who won’t kneel at his mother’s deathbed, and now he walks as if with stones in his boots.

STEPHEN (quiet, sharp):
She asked me to pray. I could not.

MULLIGAN (laughs, careless):
Pride, pride. You philosophers would rather choke than bless yourselves. (He mimics a priest, hand raised, mock-solemn.) In the name of the Father, and the Son—

STEPHEN (cutting him off, bitter):
You have no respect.

MULLIGAN:
Respect? For death, or for the church? Pah. (He splashes water onto his face, wiping with a flourish.) Better respect the sea — she’ll outlast us all.

(From the stairwell below, the English voice of HAINES drifts up.)

HAINES (offstage):
Is it breakfast yet, Mulligan?

MULLIGAN (calling down):
Patience, Englishman! The ritual must be finished.

(To Stephen, lowering his voice.)
Our guest, Kinch. Oxford bred, full of Irish dreams. He carries a revolver for fear of us. Imagine it!

STEPHEN (dryly):
He fears the natives. And still he comes to study us, like butterflies in a case.

MULLIGAN:
Butterflies? Locusts more like. Still, he pays his share of the rent. That’s devotion enough for me.

(Haines now enters, a tall Englishman in tweeds, curious, carrying a notebook. He looks both eager and awkward.)

HAINES:
Morning. The sea’s wild today. One might almost hear the voices in it.

MULLIGAN (mocking tone):
The voices of Erin herself! Come, Haines, write it in your notebook.

STEPHEN (softly, as if to himself):
The cracked voice of a shell, the sea’s wash.

HAINES (leaning toward Stephen, eager):
Yes, yes, exactly. You Irish have the gift. Old myths alive in your tongues.

STEPHEN (coldly):
Myth and nightmare. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

MULLIGAN (snorting, waving razor like a wand):
Listen to him! Our young Hamlet, brooding and black. Kinch, if you’d smile once, the sun might rise.

(He finishes shaving, splashes water, and dons his clothes with flamboyance. The three men move about the tower space — Stephen silent, Haines observant, Mulligan noisy and mocking. The tension builds.)

Stage Directions

As they speak, projections shift on the back wall: images of Stephen’s dying mother, the shadow of a priest, and the restless sea. Words occasionally appear — fragments of Joyce’s prose: “ghoul, chewer of corpses… omphalos… nightmare.”

HAINES:
Tell me, Stephen, do you believe in your Irish destiny?

STEPHEN (flat, bitter):
I believe in silence. Exile. Cunning.

MULLIGAN (mock gasp):
Exile! He’d leave us for Paris, for smoke and absinthe. While I — I’ll make Dublin laugh. That’s worth more than all his silence.

STEPHEN:
Laughter is easy. Thought is hard.

MULLIGAN:
And you, Kinch, are hard on everyone. Your dead mother, your Church, your friends. Even yourself.

(Stephen flinches, his face tightening.)

HAINES:
Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s keep the peace. (He flips open his notebook.) Though truly, there is a story here — a young intellectual, haunted by ghosts, mocked by his companions. A tragedy waiting to be written.

STEPHEN (cutting in, sharp):
You’d write it, Englishman, and own it. Another colony on your page.

MULLIGAN (laughs loudly, trying to dispel the tension):
Enough! Breakfast calls. Come, Kinch, come, Haines. The sea is wild, and the world waits.

Stage Directions

They descend the stairs, Mulligan leading, Haines following with notebook in hand. Stephen lingers last.

The stage darkens to a single shaft of light on Stephen.

STEPHEN (monologue, inward, voice low, lyrical):
Mother, you called me to your bed, to pray, to kneel. I would not. And now your eyes are with me, the eyes of the dead, the eyes of the sea. Mockery above, silence within. Exile is my prayer, cunning my faith. Yes. I will not serve.

Stage Directions

The sea projection swells, waves crashing louder. A tolling bell sounds faintly. Stephen exits slowly into the darkness.

Curtain falls on Scene 1.

Act I, Scene 2 — The School (Nestor)

Stage Directions

A modest boys’ schoolroom: long desks, inkpots, a blackboard with chalk dust, a map of Ireland slightly torn at the edge. Morning light slants in from tall windows; from beyond the panes we hear faint cart wheels, hoofbeats, street cries. A stack of copybooks sits on the teacher’s desk.

A small CHORUS OF BOYS (4–6 actors doubling) are mid-lesson, whispering, nudging, half-contained energy. STEPHEN DEDALUS stands at the front, jacket too dark for the sunny room, chalk in hand.

STEPHEN (tapping the board):
Dates are bones. But history— (he taps his temple) —history is nerves. Who recalls the battle?

BOY 1 (shoots a hand up, eager):
Sir! The French one, with the ships! They came like heroes!

BOY 2 (muttering):
And ran like thieves.

STEPHEN (dry):
Courage by rumor, retreat by memory. Names?

BOY 3:
Vinegar Hill, sir?

STEPHEN:
Different mountain. Closer to home. (He writes a date, then stops, as if the chalk weighed more than it should.) Never mind. Tell me this: what does a nation remember—and what does it forget?

BOY 1 (baffled, hopeful):
The wins, sir?

STEPHEN:
And the losses are buried under the schoolyard grass. (He half-smiles.) Open your copybooks.

(Paper rustles. Pens scratch. Whispered insults traded like contraband.)

BOY 2 (stage whisper):
He looks like a priest but talks like a ghost.

BOY 3 (snorts):
A ghost who hates sums.

STEPHEN (without looking up):
I hear every mistake twice: once in ink, once in your laughter. Write.

(They write. A moment of calm, broken by a blot of ink splashing.)

BOY 1 (panic):
Sir—sir—!

STEPHEN (soft):
Let it spread. There: a map of your thoughts. Wipe it, begin again.

(A KNOCK at the door. Enter MR. DEASY, the headmaster: spare, tight-jawed, with a watch chain that glints like a law. He carries a letter.)

DEASY (brisk, paternal):
Mr. Dedalus. A word, if you please. Boys— (a curt nod) —mind your manners for once.

STEPHEN (to the boys):
Hands steady, eyes awake. (He follows DEASY to a corner of the stage, not far—close enough the boys can still be seen.)

Side Space / Headmaster’s Corner

A small office nook rolls on: ledger, quill, a framed print of an English statesman. The classroom action dims but remains visible.

DEASY (lowering his voice):
I’ve written a letter—important—concerning the sickness among cattle. Ruinous, sir, ruinous. The newspapers must print it. (Offers the letter.) You will take it to them, yes? You have… acquaintances.

STEPHEN (accepts the letter, glancing at the neat, righteous handwriting):
A hoof-and-mouth sermon. I can deliver it.

DEASY:
Not sermon, truth. England— (he touches the print in the frame) —only England keeps order, and commerce follows order. Mark me.

STEPHEN (neutral):
I mark you.

DEASY (warming to his theme):
This country’s trouble comes from loose talk and looser habits. And from those who are not truly of us. (A thin smile.) Certain elements—always coin counting, always foreign in spirit.

STEPHEN (still, careful):
Foreignness is a matter of invitation. Or denial.

DEASY:
Oh, Mr. Dedalus, don’t put on your continental airs. I speak plain: no nation prospers by coddling outsiders. History proves it.

STEPHEN (a flicker of irony):
History proves everything eventually.

DEASY (leaning in):
You young men—all nerves, no backbone. I served my time. I paid my debts. I keep my accounts clear. (He taps the ledger.) There is virtue in paying what is owed.

STEPHEN (a ghost of a smile):
Virtue may be balance due.

DEASY (with a tight laugh):
You have wits enough. Use them for the right side. Take the letter to the papers. Tell them Mr. Deasy stands with… prudence.

STEPHEN:
Prudence will be glad of the company.

DEASY (eyes narrowing; a new tack):
And your salary, Mr. Dedalus—punctual as tides. I keep order. (A glance at Stephen’s black clothes.) And I keep sympathy for the bereaved. But the world moves on. We are none of us orphans of sorrow. Remember that.

STEPHEN (quiet):
I don’t forget.

(A beat. Neither moves. In the background, BOYS hum a tune too softly to be scolded for it.)

DEASY (crisp again):
Very good. Return to your little savages.

(They step back into the classroom light. The nook slides off. The boys freeze, then fidget.)

Back to the Classroom

DEASY (to the room):
A fine crop of blotted maps, I see. Keep your ink and your tempers in the pot. (To Stephen, aside.) Bring me word once the letter is accepted.

STEPHEN:
I will.

DEASY (on his way out, pauses; can’t resist one last maxim):
A nation is made by men of property and principle. Remember that. (He exits.)

(Silence. Then the room loosens like a held breath.)

BOY 2 (imitating):
Property and principle! Property first!

BOY 3 (the chorus of dissent):
Principle last!

STEPHEN (deadpan):
Both after spelling. Read me your lines.

BOY 1 (stands, reading with pride):
“The heroes rose and charged, the sun on their—” (stumbles) —“helmits.”

STEPHEN:
Helmets. The sun forgives the hero but not the speller. Again.

BOY 1 (corrects, brighter):
“Helmets!”

STEPHEN (nods):
Better.

BOY 2 (hand up, conspiratorial):
Sir, will you tell us a story? A real one. With ghosts.

STEPHEN (a faint smile, then a shadow):
Ghosts prefer the sea.

BOY 3:
Or the tower.

(The boys laugh; Stephen lets it pass.)

STEPHEN (softly):
All right. A short story, then work. A man once stood at the shore and tried to stop the tide with his hands. He failed, but he learned something: the tide is not your enemy. It is your calendar. (A glance toward the door where Deasy went.) And your creditor.

BOY 1 (puzzled):
Is that history, sir?

STEPHEN:
It is time. And time writes history when no one’s looking.

BOY 2 (emboldened):
Sir… do you believe in miracles?

STEPHEN (a breath; the room tilts toward him):
I believe in work. And in accidents of grace. They are cousins.

(He moves among the desks, checking copybooks, a quick touch here, a re-angled elbow there.)

STEPHEN *(aside, low—a brief inner monologue):
Ink and boys and the smell of chalk. A salary to count, a letter to deliver, a face in the ledger. And beyond the window a city that does not know my name. (He sets a hand on the back of a chair.) Silence, exile, cunning—dear words, my unruly trinity.

BOY 3 (holding up his page):
Sir, is this right?

STEPHEN (looks, nods):
Right enough to build on. (He taps the page.) The rest you’ll learn by making better mistakes.

(A bell CLACKS somewhere in the building. The boys leap up, energy unbottled.)

STEPHEN:
Gently—gently. Books first, rush after.

BOY 1 (as they gather things):
Will you be here tomorrow, sir?

STEPHEN (a beat; then lightly):
Tomorrow belongs to the timetable.

BOY 2 (saluting with a grin):
Aye, sir!

(They tumble out, a small storm of boots and whispers. The room settles. Daylight has shifted a fraction.)

Quiet Interlude / Stephen Alone

STEPHEN (to the empty room, almost amused):
A nation of property and principle. And boys who blot maps into continents.

(He picks up DEASY’S LETTER from the desk, weighs it.)

STEPHEN (inner, measured):
A messenger without a message. I carry other men’s words to other men’s pages. (He pockets the letter.) It pays. It pays.

(He closes copybooks one by one, neat ritual.)

STEPHEN (aloud, to the room):
I will not kneel. I will deliver. I will depart.

*(From outside: a cart rumbles, a tram bell, the city calling. He straightens, takes his hat from the peg.)

He pauses, hand on the doorframe, listening as if the sea had found him again.)

STEPHEN (barely above a whisper):
Wake up, then.

*(He exits.)

Lights fade on the empty classroom, chalk dust drifting in the slant of sun. A final, small sound: the ink in one pot plops—time keeping its own ledger.

BLACKOUT.

Act I, Scene 3 — Bloom’s Kitchen (Calypso)

Stage Directions

A modest Dublin kitchen, morning. Warm amber light. A small range; a frying pan waits. A chipped blue teapot, two cups, a plate with fresh bread, butter, honey. On a chair, Bloom’s hat; on a nail, his walking stick. A black cat (puppet or sleek prop with a puppeteer) perches, tail flicking.

Through a doorframe we glimpse a bedroom with soft linens: Molly’s bed. Sunlight curves across the quilt.

Ambient city sounds: distant tram bell, a milk cart, a vendor’s call.

LEOPOLD BLOOM enters in shirtsleeves, gentle-eyed, practical. He inhales the room like a blessing.

BLOOM (to himself, delighted):
Mm. Kidney. Nice warm thick fry, the faint tang— (he savors the thought) —melt on the tongue.

(The cat meows.)

BLOOM (to the cat):
Good puss. Milk? You’ll have your sip. Not too much—turns your stomach. (He pours a little saucer, sets it down.) There now.

(The cat laps. Bloom prepares the teapot with easy ritual: warming the pot, measuring leaves.)

BLOOM (internal, musing aloud):
Two spoons for Molly. A dollop of honey, she likes that. Tea, the word curled round the tongue. T—eee. (He smiles.)

(He takes a tray: teapot, cup, bread, butter. He lifts it, steady, and goes to the bedroom door.)

Shift: Molly’s Room (played in the same space by opening lighting / scrim)

MOLLY BLOOM reclines in bed, hair loose, eyes half-lidded, amused by morning. She is sensual, comfortable in her skin, not yet fully awake. A letter rests on the coverlet, unopened, addressed in a bold hand.

BLOOM (softly):
Morning, love. Tea and toast.

MOLLY (without opening her eyes):
Put it by me, Poldy. (She opens one eye, smiles.) You’re the best.

BLOOM (sets the tray, arranges pillow):
Bit of honey. Warm the throat.

MOLLY (sits a little, sips; pleased):
Mmm. You know.

BLOOM:
Practice. (A glance at the letter.) Post early.

MOLLY (casual):
From him. The concert arrangements. (A little glint.) Four o’clock he says.

BLOOM (careful-neutral):
Four.

MOLLY (changes subject):
Will you run out for the kidney after?

BLOOM (light):
Aye. Dlugacz’s. The fresh ones, if he’s not sold out. (A beat; he considers her face with tender curiosity.) You slept?

MOLLY (shrugs):
Like a cat in a patch of sun. (She breaks bread, smears butter lavishly.) You’ll eat too?

BLOOM:
After. The walk puts an appetite. (He straightens a little cloth on the bedside table; small acts of service.) Need anything else?

MOLLY:
Bring back a bar of soap. Lemon. And look at me dress— (she gestures lazily toward a score on the chair) —Mr. Boylan wants a new song. He said.

BLOOM (gentle):
You’ll sing like always.

MOLLY (a soft laugh):
You sweet talker. Go on then. Before the butcher sells it all to those women with their elbows.

BLOOM (bows playfully):
Obedient.

(He hesitates; she notices.)

MOLLY (teasing):
What?

BLOOM (a small private smile):
Nothing. The day. A nice day.

MOLLY (waves him off):
Go, Poldy. Mind the cat.

(He takes the empty butter knife and one crust, pockets it absently. He exits back to the kitchen.)

Back to Kitchen

(Bloom moves with domestic efficiency: finds his purse, counts coins, a brief frown—money.)

BLOOM (half to himself):
Penny tight. Letter postage yesterday, milkman, soap today. But the kidney—worth it.

(He spies the letter rack, palps the envelopes, finds one addressed to “Mr. Henry Flower, Esq.” — a pseudonym letter from Martha. He turns it in his hands, curious, pleased, guilty.)

BLOOM (low, confiding to the air):
Martha. (He slides it into his pocket for later.) Later. Not now.

(He takes his hat and stick.)

BLOOM (to the cat):
Guard the domain, puss. No mice to the butter.

(He exits. The lights shift to a brief street interlude.)

Interlude: The Street & Butcher (Dlugacz)

Minimal roll-on: a counter with hooks (no gore shown), a cash box. DLUGACZ, bearded, brisk. A couple of DUBLIN WOMEN queue, elbows sharp, purses clutched. A faint street vendor cry: “Milk! Fresh milk!”

WOMAN 1 (to Woman 2, loud whisper):
If he gives me the end cut again—

WOMAN 2:
Elbows first. You’ll never eat otherwise.

(Bloom slips in amiably, not pushing.)

BLOOM:
Morning, Mr. Dlugacz.

DLUGACZ (a nod):
Morning, Mr. Bloom. Fine kidneys today. Fresh.

BLOOM (eyes light):
I’ll take one nice, please. Not too big.

WOMAN 1 (eyeing Bloom):
He gets the fine ones always.

WOMAN 2 (shrug):
He smiles. Butchers like smiles.

(Dlugacz wraps a kidney in paper. Bloom pays, counting coins with care, friendly.)

DLUGACZ (lowering voice):
Price jumps next week. You tell the missus.

BLOOM:
I will. (He breathes in the faint iron scent, almost ceremonious.) Thank you.

*(He tucks the parcel into his pocket, tips hat to the women—who do not move for him—and slips out.)

WOMAN 1 (after he’s gone):
Gentle as a lamb, that one.

WOMAN 2:
A lamb won’t get you a good cut.

(Lights shift back to the kitchen.)

Kitchen, later that same morning

(Bloom returns. The cat perks up; the frying pan is set. He unwraps the kidney like a treasure, salts it, lays it in the pan. A sizzle. Aroma rises. He closes his eyes in brief bliss.)

BLOOM (soft rapture):
There now. Listen. (Sizzle.) Like rain on flags. A good sound.

(He flips it with care. Kettle murmurs. He hums a tune Molly once sang, under breath. He tears a small corner—tastes. A private happiness flickers across his face.)

BLOOM (aside, inner drift):
Molly’s voice… that night at the concert, the dress with the little roses, soft on the shoulder. The way the note held in the rafters. (A pang.) Four o’clock.

(He plates the kidney for himself, but first sets fresh tea for Molly, and a note: “Soap—lemon. Back soon.” He takes the plate, sits at the small table, eats slowly, thinking.)

BLOOM (to himself between bites):
Must get the soap. The lemon one, not lavender—too heady. Boylan’s letter—arrangements only. He’ll call at four. (He chews, swallows.) Don’t be foolish. She’s hers as I’m mine.

(He wipes the plate with bread, neat, tidy.)

(A knock at the door—off. Bloom stands, wipes hands, goes to the threshold; a milk woman stands with a small pail.)

MILKWOMAN (off / from doorway):
Mornin’, Mr. Bloom. Your pint.

BLOOM (cheerful):
Morning. Fine day for it.

MILKWOMAN:
Fine or foul, cows don’t read the sky. (She chuckles; he pays.) And say to the missus—fresh as ever.

BLOOM:
I will. Thank you.

*(He sets the milk aside, watches the door after she goes—some tenderness in his gaze for all the world’s small trades.)

He pours a splash into the cat’s dish, a bit more into a jug, and reheats the kettle.)

BLOOM (low):
Cows don’t read the sky. (He smiles.)

(He hears Molly stir; he lifts the tray for a second round.)

Back to Molly’s Room

MOLLY (still in bed, reading now—the letter open. Her eyes glitter.)
Poldy, listen to this— (she considers, then doesn’t read; folds it instead) —no, you’ll hear later. Tea?

BLOOM (setting down):
Fresh pot.

MOLLY (peering at him):
You smell like heaven. Did you get it?

BLOOM (nods):
Yes. Fat as a sergeant.

MOLLY (laughs):
You and your soldier’s dinners.

*(A beat. She watches him. He watches the letter in her hand. The silence is not hostile; it is complicated, lived-in.)

MOLLY (carefree):
I’ll need a new pair of stockings. If there’s change.

BLOOM (calculating gently):
There might be. (He doesn’t promise.) The soap first.

MOLLY:
Yes, yes. (She sips.) Will you be back for dinner?

BLOOM (thinking of the day’s sales calls, the newspaper office, the cemetery):
I will, after a turn or two. (A change of tone.) You rest. Save your voice.

MOLLY (half-lidded pleasure):
My voice will be grand.

*(She pats the bed beside her as if to invite him to sit; he hovers, then perches on the edge, careful not to crowd her. He looks at her hands, her hairline, with quiet adoration that expects nothing.)

BLOOM (soft):
You’re… (he searches for a word not too large) …well.

MOLLY (a small smile):
I am. Go on, Poldy—before the day runs off without you.

*(He stands, touched by her tone, by what it contains and what it avoids. He gathers the tray.)

BLOOM:
Call if—

MOLLY (light):
I know. I’ll call.

*(He nods, exits to the kitchen.)

Kitchen, moments later

*(Bloom sets the tray down, glances at the letter rack again. He takes out Martha’s letter from his pocket, turns it over, tempted, then slips it back unopened. He takes up Boylan’s envelope—the bold hand—hesitates, does not open, returns it carefully to the bedroom doorway table.)

He looks around: hat, stick, shopping list in his head. He tucks a coin behind a jar—emergency—and speaks to the cat.*

BLOOM:
We men of the house must keep accounts. Isn’t that so?

*(The cat blinks.)

He writes on a scrap: “Lemon soap. Post letter.” He picks up a small card addressed to “Henry Flower”—his own reply in progress—then lays it down again. Not yet.

He opens the back door; a square of sunlight falls in. Dublin’s day rustles: wheels, shoes, a child’s laugh, bells far off.)

BLOOM (breathing it in):
Good air.

*(He steps out, then back in—remembers the tea caddy, tightens the lid, a small protective habit. He adjusts the chair, squares the cloth on the table, aligns the salt.)

BLOOM (half-chiding himself):
Ready, steady, Poldy.

*(He pockets his purse, checks it again; money is thought made metal. He touches the kidney pan—cool now, job done.)

He looks toward the bedroom door one last time—Molly’s silhouette a suggestion in the light. He softens.)

BLOOM (almost to her, almost to himself):
Back soon.

*(He exits.)

Transitional Montage (optional, brisk)

For a fluid stage rhythm, a 30–45 second physical/sonic montage may follow: Bloom crossing Dublin thresholds—stoops, street corners, close shaves of carts—while snatches of voices crisscross (vendors, newsboys, priests murmuring, women bargaining). Bloom’s head turns with curiosity at each—life as an endless buffet of small phenomena. He vanishes into the crowd’s rhythm.

BLACKOUT.

Notes for Direction & Pacing

• Tone: This scene should feel tactile: the sizzle, the tea steam, the cat’s paws, the softness of Molly’s bed. Let the audience smell the kitchen and hear the city. It’s the “everyday as epic” in miniature.

• Molly’s Letter: Keep it present but not sinister. It’s there, it glints, it draws Bloom’s eye—but their marriage is a living, tender thing, complicated rather than brittle.

• Martha’s Letter: Seed it quietly (Henry Flower). It will pay off later without underlining it now.

• Bloom’s Humanity: Every small domestic act is love: warming the pot, measuring honey, fixing a cloth, tightening a lid. Let those gestures “speak.”

• Length: This plays ~12–15 minutes, depending on pacing and any added transitions.

Act II, Scene 1 — The Funeral (Hades)

Stage Directions

The stage is spare: four wooden seats in a row suggest a funeral carriage. Behind them, a panoramic projection of Dublin slides slowly right to left — shopfronts, the Liffey’s shimmer, brick terraces, passing carts. Hoofbeats and wheel-wood creak at an unhurried pace. The light is gray daylight, thinning.

LEOPOLD BLOOM sits second from the aisle; beside him MARTIN CUNNINGHAM (quick-eyed, kindly authoritative), JACK POWER (genial, a bit self-important), and on the end SIMON DEDALUS (Stephen’s father: rumpled dignity, musical melancholy). Hats in laps.

A small black ribbon at each man’s buttonhole.

As they settle, the carriage gives a soft lurch; the city begins to move.

CUNNINGHAM (adjusting gloves):
Poor Paddy. Quick at a joke, slow at his book. God rest him.

POWER:
A pity, and a warning. Debts trample quicker than horses.

SIMON DEDALUS (half to the window):
He sang a baritone once at Barney Kiernan’s would lift your scalp. Then the drink put bricks in his throat.

BLOOM (mild):
A fine man for a story at a fireside.

CUNNINGHAM (with a nod to Bloom):
Indeed, Mr. Bloom. (A beat.) Mrs. Dignam—bearing up?

POWER:
As they do. Neighbors in and out, the plate on the sideboard, ham carved too thick—consolation in slices. (He grimaces, then softens.) God spare us the day.

SIMON (sudden heat):
And all the saints couldn’t spare me from collectors. (He exhales, a shrug.) Well—amen anyway.

(A street-crier voice passes in the soundscape: “Evening Mail! Racing final!” Fades.)

BLOOM (inward, half-spoken):
Always a paper at the door. Words for sale. (He folds his hat brim: neatness, a private ritual.)

CUNNINGHAM (lightly):
You’ve the look of fresh air about you, Mr. Bloom. Walking the city early?

BLOOM:
A turn, yes. Good for appetite. (A fleeting smile.) The butcher had fine kidneys.

POWER (grins):
Ah! The comfort of the lower man. Give me my supper and I’ll forgive the world.

SIMON (without smiling):
Till the world comes to eat you back.

*(They ride. Projection shifts: a bridge, the river’s dull shine, gulls.)

BLOOM glances to the audience: a sliver of inner monologue becomes audible.*

BLOOM (aside):
Funeral pace. Men in black, collars too tight, minds wandering where they mustn’t. (He watches a boy running beside the carriage, then falling behind.)
Small feet. Rudy— (a blink of pain) —my little man, eleven days. (A breath.) The box no bigger than a sideboard drawer. The earth a cool mouth.

POWER (oblivious):
Weather holds, thank God. Rain on a burial is a misery.

CUNNINGHAM:
And mud for the boots. You know the way home then, Jack.

(A brief chuckle shared; Bloom does not join. The projection shows St. George’s spire, then shops with gold-lettered windows.)

SIMON (squinting out):
There’s Kavanagh’s—still open-handed with credit if you can sing for it.

CUNNINGHAM (gently):
You sang for Dublin, Simon, when it had fewer songs.

SIMON (with a flicker of pride):
And she paid me in tears. (He settles.)

POWER:
Speaking of songs— (to Bloom) —your lady’s a throat to reckon with. Concert soon, isn’t it?

BLOOM (careful):
She’ll sing, yes. A program after. (He smooths his trouser knee.)

POWER:
Boylan putting it on? (He says it lightly, but it hangs.)

BLOOM (a beat; then pleasantly):
Arrangements, yes.

SIMON (half-smile, not kind):
Arrangements. A fine word, that. Covers a multitude.

CUNNINGHAM (nudging away from the edge):
Well now, Paddy was a man for arrangements that didn’t arrange. But he’d leave you laughing on a gallows.

POWER:
He would. (Sober again.) Poor fella.

(They fall to silence; hoofbeats fill it. The projection slows at a church front; a bell tolls once. Bloom watches the doors, the holy water font imagined in his mind.)

BLOOM (aside):
Water in a stone cup. First touch, cold, then only the memory of cold. (He rubs his thumb across his finger—habit.) My father would cross himself in the foyer, out of politeness, then wink at me. (A cloud passes.) My father. (He turns his face slightly to shadow.) One morning didn’t wake. Bottle by the bed like a mute finger.

SIMON (sensing Bloom’s drift, but speaking to the air):
It’s the quiet after that kills—house empty, fire dead, the smell of boots that won’t be worn again.

CUNNINGHAM (low):
We’ll do what we can for Mrs. Dignam. A fund, I’m thinking. A few lads are willing. (He looks at Bloom.) Might I call on you?

BLOOM (immediate):
Yes, of course.

POWER (with relief):
Good man.

CUNNINGHAM (to Power):
Farrell will manage the list. No fuss.

*(Projection: they pass a bookshop—a flash of spines like teeth. Bloom watches greedily then looks away, almost bashful.)

BLOOM (aside):
Books like people in a row; some shabby, some gilt. Words stacked like loaves. (A faint smile.)

SIMON (abruptly, to Bloom):
And your faith, Mr. Bloom—where does it lie?

*(The carriage creaks; a slight tension.)

BLOOM (mild, steady):
In kindness, Mr. Dedalus. And in a bit of hot water when the throat is sore.

SIMON (a grunt, not displeased):
A sensible creed, if not very churchable.

POWER (trying for camaraderie; tone a touch clumsy):
Ah, Simon—leave the man. We’re all the same in the clay.

CUNNINGHAM (bridging):
None of us gets out of this carriage by argument.

*(They settle again. Projection changes: Cemetery Gates looming far off yet—iron lace against the pale sky. A faint crow caws.)

BLOOM (aside):
All gates open for the dead. Even the ones they kept shut in life. (He thinks of faces around a parlor table, the plate of ham, the widow’s hands.) After-rooms. Slices on bread. Rubbered footsteps. The air smells of ironed black.

POWER (practical):
Who’s saying the words?

CUNNINGHAM:
Father Coffey, I think. Short piece. Paddy wasn’t one for long prayers.

SIMON (with a sad, sly warmth):
He’d dodge a psalm like a landlord.

*(A cart crosses close in the projection; wheels jolt the carriage—actors sway slightly.)

BLOOM (apologetic hand to his hat):
Beg pardon. (A small smile.) Even the coffin rides lighter than us—knows where it’s going.

POWER (glances at him, surprised by the sentiment):
You’ve a turn for thinking, Mr. Bloom.

BLOOM (polite):
It keeps me company.

*(Projection: They pass horse trough, workmen with caps; one man wipes his brow, looks at the carriage with quick curiosity, then away. Life watching death roll by.)

BLOOM (aside):
They look at us like we’re the show. We are, a small one—four men rehearsing silence. (He gazes toward the audience.) And under it, a thousand little sounds: boot leather, a coin against my thigh, breath through a moustache. The body refuses to be solemn long.

CUNNINGHAM (leans toward Simon):
And your son? I hear he’s writing for the angels.

SIMON (a flare of paternal pride and hurt):
Stephen. He writes for no one and everyone. He writes to hear himself answer. (He softens.) He’ll be a credit to me yet—God and the devil help him.

POWER:
He’ll find his path. The young are needles: they point where they must.

BLOOM (quiet):
He has a fine mind.

SIMON (grunts, then eyes Bloom with a grudging nod):
A fine mind won’t buy bread. But thank you.

*(Projection: the river again, calmer; a funeral cortège seen in miniature crossing another street. The bell tolls twice.)

BLOOM (aside):
Twice for the same man, or two men for once? (He watches the light fade in a window they pass.) One day ours, too. Shoe laces tied or not; a milk bill unpaid; soap forgotten. Someone will remember, someone will note, someone will say—he was a decent sort, or he owed me five shillings.

POWER (clearing his throat):
There’s some talk— (drops voice) —of the insurance. Mrs. Dignam may be… surprised by the arithmetic.

CUNNINGHAM (firm):
We’ll square something. People are better than papers.

SIMON (dry):
Till papers come to collect the people.

*(A pause. The carriage slows; projection shows the cemetery gates now large, iron-cold. A gatekeeper figure crosses in silhouette; the sound of iron latch.)

CUNNINGHAM (straightens):
Here we are.

*(They rise together, a brief shuffle of hats, cuffs, men making themselves presentable for death.)

Stage Shift: The chairs are carried downstage in a fluid motion by the actors themselves, transforming into graveside positions as the projection slides to rows of stones, a gray sky, clipped grass. A small group (the ensemble) forms at a modest distance: UNDERTAKER, MOURNERS, WIDOW MRS. DIGNAM (veiled), a PRIEST.

The men take their places. Wind rises faintly.

Graveside

PRIEST (Latin murmurs, then English):
Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return. (Sprinkles.) May the angels lead thee into paradise.

*(Silence. A cough. Birdcall. The clink of lowering gear as the coffin descends. Mrs. Dignam gives a small, strangled sound; a woman supports her.)

BLOOM (aside):
Lowered like a parcel with care. The earth a mouth, obedient. (He grips his hat tighter.) Once I thought I could climb into the box and talk him awake. Little Rudy— (his breath catches) —no words then either.

POWER (head bowed):
God be good to him.

CUNNINGHAM (quiet, practical kindness):
We’ll see to you, Mrs. Dignam. Leave the worry of it.

MRS. DIGNAM (through the veil, a whisper):
Thank you… thank you.

SIMON (a soft hum, almost involuntary—two bars of an old lament; then stops, ashamed of beauty at a grave.)

PRIEST:
Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord—

MOURNERS (murmur):
—and let perpetual light shine upon him.

*(A shovel takes one ceremonial scoop and sprinkles soil; it sounds soft, dry.)

BLOOM (aside):
A first pat on a new bed. (He watches hands—calloused, delicate, pink from cold.) Hands do everything. Hands put the living to bed, hands put the dead to bed. Molly’s hands— (he pictures them) —brown sugar hands.

POWER (leans closer to Bloom, sotto):
Shall we go by the office after? Speak to Farrell. Best while grief’s still numbed—less pride to fight.

CUNNINGHAM (already nodding):
I’ll call round at four.

BLOOM (flinches inward at the hour; then steady):
Yes. Four.

*(Wind moves the veil. The PRIEST steps back. The UNDERTAKER murmurs to his men: quiet instructions. Mourners begin to disperse in slow, natural clumps.)

SIMON (looking around at names on stones):
There’s a man I borrowed a shilling from. (A bleak little smile.) He’s no use to me now.

CUNNINGHAM (soft humor):
And you to him even less.

POWER (to Bloom, awkward kindly):
Come, Mr. Bloom. A glass after, to warm the living.

BLOOM (gentle):
I’ll walk a bit. (He glances at the earth.) He’ll rest easier without me hurrying.

CUNNINGHAM (sincere):
You’re a good soul.

BLOOM (deflecting):
I keep my hat dry.

*(They half-smile; they know it for modesty. Cunningham and Power move off to the edges with other mourners.)

SIMON (lingers with Bloom a moment; then, not unkindly):
You’re a curious man, Mr. Bloom. (A beat.) Look in on Stephen if you’ve a mind. He could use a decent ear more than a clever tongue.

BLOOM (surprised, touched):
I will.

SIMON (shrugs, pride crowding gratitude away):
Or don’t. He’ll find his way. (He goes, coat-tails fussed by the light wind.)

*(Bloom remains. The space clears to him and the mound; projection dims to a subtler gray-green.)

Bloom Alone (Graveyard)

BLOOM (aside):
We all come to this—carriage or no carriage. The body a habit the earth can break. (He kneels, not pious—practical—adjusts a stray wreath ribbon so the name shows clear.)
Names. (He reads softly.) Patrick Dignam. (Then another stone.) Joseph Bloom. (He swallows.) Father.

*(He stands slowly, rubbing his knee, looks up. The sky is blank linen.)

BLOOM (a fragile, stubborn warmth):
I’ll get the soap. Lemon. I’ll post the letter after. (He adds, to the air.) We keep moving. That’s the trick.

*(From off, the faintest drift of Molly’s singing—only a bar or two, memory-music. He half-turns, listening. Then he puts on his hat—firm, centered.)

BLOOM (to himself, almost smiling):
Yes.

*(He exits along a narrow path suggested by light. The projection spills from graves back to city streets, the hoofbeats returning as if the world resumes its practiced pace.)

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes & Expansion Hooks

• Tempo: Let silences breathe—especially Bloom’s asides and the graveside. The carriage talk should feel natural, overlapping slightly at times (notchaotic), to capture Dublin men pacing grief with banter.

• Bloom’s Asides: He can step a half pace downstage on asides—light isolates him briefly; projection softens to interior images (a tiny coffin, a bottle on a nightstand, Molly’s hands).

• Design Cue: Consider a gentle crossfade from city to cemetery over 10–12 seconds as the men rise; keep movement minimal and ritual.

• Optional Extension: Add a brief encounter with Mr. Kernan or Ned Lambert among mourners for extra Dublin color if you want to lengthen.

• Underscore: Sparse. A low organ drone (two notes) under the priest’s words; otherwise hoofbeats, wheels, wind.

Act II, Scene 2 — The Newspaper Office (Aeolus)

Stage Directions

A bustling Dublin newspaper office. Desks, high stools, a copy spike, a wall of pigeonholes, a pneumatic tube canister that clacks now and then. In the back, a suggestion of the pressroom: low rumble, rhythmic thump, metallic hiss. On a catwalk or scrim, a projection surface for text.

Throughout the scene, HEADLINES burst above the action in bold type, punctuating jokes and arguments.

At rise: LENEHAN (quick, fox-smiled), PROFESSOR MacHUGH (orating scholar), NANNETTI (foreman-like, precise), a harried CLERK, and—sweeping in like a gale—MYLES CRAWFORD, the editor: coat askew, voice like a brass band.

The room hums. LEOPOLD BLOOM slips in, hat in hand, courteous amid the gusts. A moment later, STEPHEN DEDALUS enters with MR. DEASY’S LETTER in his pocket.

A bell dings. The pneumatic tube thwip-thunks. Someone shouts “Copy!”

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
WIND IN THE WIRES!

CRAWFORD (booming):
Where’s that racing tip? Who’s got the elections? And where’s my copy on the Lord Mayor’s hat—was it silk or a sin?

LENEHAN (already grinning):
The hat was both, Myles—sin with a satin brim.

CRAWFORD:
Ink it! (He swivels, spies Bloom.) Mr. Bloom! The adman with the velvet manners. What have you for us—money first, enlightenment after.

BLOOM (cheerful, precise):
Morning, Mr. Crawford. The Keyes ad—two months’ insertion if we secure a two-column position above the fold; small caret at the catch-line to draw the eye—

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
YOU CAN’T EAT A CARET, MR. BLOOM!

CRAWFORD (half amused, half harried):
Carets don’t pay compositors, Bloom. Does Keyes have coin?

BLOOM (unruffled):
He will, once the coupon begins to bite. “Ask Keyes—he keys you in.” (He draws a neat box in the air.) A frame around the copy, solid rule, a short kicker: “What is home without—” and the brand.

LENEHAN (aside to the room):
What is home without credit, says the prophet.

NANNETTI (checking a slate):
Space is murder today. Lord Mayor on page one, shipping disaster on two, Parliament three. Ads pushed to four and five, half the column stolen already.

BLOOM (quickly):
Then split: six insertions this week, six next, to claim position by habit. The eye travels the same path each morning.

CRAWFORD (points with his whole body):
You hear him? He sells you your own pupils. (Warm.) I like a man who has a plan. Get me a promise from Keyes. Bring it back by—when?

BLOOM (a faint wince at the time):
Four o’clock.

CRAWFORD:
Four o’clock it is. (Already pivoting.) Lenehan, a paragraph—“City thrives under a plausible sun.” Make the sun plausible, anyway.

LENEHAN (scribbling nonsense cheerfully):
Plausibility shines like a new sovereign.

(Door swing; STEPHEN slips in, a shadow of sea in his black suit. CRAWFORD clocks him.)

CRAWFORD:
And the prodigal scribe! Mr. Dedalus, come to feed the press with paradox.

STEPHEN (mild):
I bring a letter, sir, from Mr. Deasy. On cattle sickness.

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
COWS DON’T READ THE SKY!

CRAWFORD (snorts):
Cattle and contagion—our readers crave it with breakfast. Leave it. We’ll cut it to ribbons and print the ribbons.

LENEHAN (peering):
“Sir—” (grimaces with theatrical pain) —the first crime in journalism.

MacHUGH (sonorous, stepping forward as if onto a rostrum):
Gentlemen! A small nation is not a small idea. Rome’s greatness was not its stones but its sentences—imperium romanum—the command the tongue lays upon the crowd.

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
THE TONGUE AS TRUMPET!

CRAWFORD (delighted):
Professor, preach! But stick a fact to it if you can find one.

MacHUGH (expanding):
Mark it: Rhetoric is the cavalry of the mind. It charges where thought fears to trudge. Give me a phrase and I will move a city.

LENEHAN (salutes with a pencil):
Move us to lunch first.

BLOOM (polite half-voice; he studies a broadsheet mockup):
A phrase and a placement, Professor. If the phrase is cavalry, the placement is the road.

CRAWFORD (hears the adman and points):
There he is—our Julius Adver- Caesar. (To Bloom.) Sit, man, sit. (To Stephen.) And you—give me something that bites. A paragraph on anything: the smell of the quay, the footfall of parliament, your father’s hat. Call it “Day’s Work.”

STEPHEN (the faintest smile):
Day’s work is in the purse, sir.

CRAWFORD (gruff fondness):
Then we owe you a day. (He claps a hand to Stephen’s shoulder, already roaming.) Nannetti—space! Lenehan—wit! Somebody fetch me a prayer for page three that won’t offend the bishop or his mistress.

*(Pneumatic tube pops. The CLERK darts, retrieves a canister, hands proofs to Nannetti. Press thumps underscore the patter.)

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
MAKE IT SING, MAKE IT STING!

LENEHAN (to Bloom, confiding):
Boylan’s around, eh? Buzzing like a bluebottle. Concert arrangements, they say.

BLOOM (smooth, opaque):
Arrangements, yes.

LENEHAN (shrug; then to Stephen):
What news of your tragedies, Hamlet? Any drownings today?

STEPHEN (flat):
We buried a man this morning. He did not drown. He drank.

LENEHAN (winces, then deflects with a grin):
Soaks in quicker.

MacHUGH (lifting his chin, back to lecture):
Gentlemen, England has a navy; Ireland has a voice. When Parnell spoke, men remembered. When he fell— (hand cuts the air) —we learned what silence costs.

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
REMEMBER PARNELL!

CRAWFORD (fierce, suddenly present):
Aye. (Softer.) We remember.

*(A beat. Even Lenehan respects it. Then—business resumes.)

CRAWFORD (snapping out of it):
Back to the belfry. Jack! (to a runner) Get me a telegraph on the races and a line from the docks—“Cargo up, spirits high.” If it isn’t true, it will be.

CLERK (calling):
Ad proofs! Need initials!

BLOOM (steps lightly to the counter, checking):
Small mistake here—Keyes with an e, not Keys. We sell locks, not confuse them. (He pencils the correction, smiling at his own small joke.)

CRAWFORD (sees Bloom’s neatness, approves):
That’s a man who minds his letters. Good. (To Stephen.) And you—Mr. Deasy’s sermon—cut the self-congratulation, keep the facts, toss the hatred to the spike.

STEPHEN (with dry courtesy):
As requested.

*(He moves to a corner desk, already slicing the letter with his eyes. Bloom hovers near the ad desk; they are near each other but not yet together.)

LENEHAN (lounging between them):
Two scholars of different orders. One sells space, one sells air.

BLOOM (pleasant):
Air is useful if bottled.

STEPHEN (without looking up):
Bottled air is a paradox, Mr. Bloom.

BLOOM (genuinely interested):
And useful paradoxes sell well.

CRAWFORD (overhearing, delighted):
Put that on a masthead! (He strides to the projection operator’s station—could be a visible tech or simply a cue.) Headline me, boy!

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
PARADOX FOR BREAKFAST!

NANNETTI (checking a galley, sharp):
Mind the widows and orphans.

LENEHAN (mock-pious):
Save them, save them!

BLOOM (automatically):
Tighten tracking here, shift a half-em to bring the last word up a line.

CRAWFORD (to no one and everyone):
Hear him! He thinks in ems and picas. The man eats hot lead with his eggs.

(Press thump deepens; the room vibrates faintly. Voices overlap—short, crisp cross-talk to show bustle.)

RUNNER (bursting in):
Telegram—races delayed—track sodden!

CRAWFORD (without missing a beat):
Then the sun blazed moments later. (To Lenehan.) Make it a metaphor. “Uncertain footing, like politics.”

LENEHAN (writing as he talks):
“Uncertain footing, like politics.” (He winks at Bloom.) There—your caret will point the way.

MacHUGH (still orating, to a little audience of two compositors):
Consider Demosthenes—stones in his mouth to train the tongue. Consider the sound that rules the senate—voice is empire.

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
VOICE IS EMPIRE

STEPHEN (soft, almost to himself):
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

BLOOM (hears it, turns; something like recognition):
Nightmare breaks with breakfast, sometimes.

STEPHEN (meets his eye; a flicker of wryness):
And sometimes breakfast breaks the man.

*(They share a quick, almost invisible smile—two wanderers acknowledging each other. Then—back to the gale.)

CRAWFORD (to Stephen):
Give me a “Day’s Work” causerie by noon—two sticks, tight. (To Bloom.) And you—bring me Keyes’s coin and I’ll give your caret a throne.

BLOOM (friendly salute):
Four o’clock.

CRAWFORD (already elsewhere):
Ink it, print it, drink it!

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
INK IT, PRINT IT, DRINK IT!

(Nannetti slides a galley to Bloom to initial the ad proof; Bloom signs neatly. Stephen tears Mr. Deasy’s letter down to a lean paragraph, speaks it aloud as he revises—half to himself, half to the air.)

STEPHEN (reading as he edits):
“Sir,—While others look to Providence, our farmers look to ruin. The disease spreads not by the cow’s prayer but by man’s neglect. Inspectors needed; fences mended; facts, not pieties.” (He scratches out a line, replaces.) “Yours, etc.”

LENEHAN (applauding quietly):
Facts, not pieties—there’s a masthead for a republic.

CRAWFORD (snatches the sheet, scans fast):
Sharp. No sermon, just sting. That’ll do. (He pins it with a spike.) On we go.

*(Pneumatic tube pops again; a canister zips; press hammers, louder.)

BLOOM (checking his watch, pocket, his small list; to himself):
Soap. Letter. Keyes’s promise. (A quick thought shadows him—four o’clock—then passes.)

MacHUGH (gently, to Stephen):
Dedalus, you walk like a man who carries a ghost on his shoulder.

STEPHEN (without defense):
I do.

CRAWFORD (claps once, refocusing the room):
Enough gloom! We are vendors of daylight! Let the priests keep the shadows. (Points around like a conductor.) You—races. You—parliament. You—temperance rally with intemperate results. You—advertisements with morals.

PROJECTION (HEADLINE):
VENDORS OF DAYLIGHT!

BLOOM (tipping his hat toward the room):
Gentlemen.

CRAWFORD (with a broad, genuine warmth):
Bring me that Keyes coin, Mr. Bloom, and I’ll set your caret on the prow of the ship of state.

LENEHAN (calling after Bloom):
And bring me gossip—my column’s starving!

BLOOM (at the door, smiling):
I feed what I can.

*(Bloom exits into the city noise—door swing, clatter, gone.)

CRAWFORD (already pivoted):
Dedalus! A final line for the leader—give me thunder in twelve words.

STEPHEN (thinks a beat; then):
“Words move crowds; deeds move graves; facts remain to bury us all.”

PROJECTION (HEADLINE—appears big, then flickers away):
WORDS MOVE CROWDS; FACTS BURY US.

CRAWFORD (satisfied):
Good lad. (He points the sheet toward the invisible pressroom.) Take it and beat it into sense!

*(The press thunders a notch louder; lights warm, as if the paper itself were heating the air. The office surges into a choreographed bustle: papers passed, stamps thumped, tube clacked, pencils flying. Lenehan whistles a stupidly triumphant march.)

NANNETTI (calling over the din):
Mind the widows! Mind the orphans!

ALL (a ragged chorus, laughing as they work):
Mind the widows! Mind the orphans!

PROJECTION (HEADLINE—final button):
EXTRA!

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes

• Rhythm: This scene is about tempo. Keep lines crisp, overlaps controlled. Use the press thump as a metronome that rises and falls with momentum.

• Headlines: Treat projections as a fifth character—punctuation and punchline. They should land cleanly, then vanish.

• Bloom/Stephen Micro-Beat: Preserve the tiny mutual recognition; it seeds their later bond.

• Windiness: Let Crawford and MacHugh swell, then be undercut by jokes or headlines—Joyce’s satire of hot air.

Act II, Scene 3 — Lunchtime Streets (Lestrygonians)

Stage Directions

The stage transforms into a busy Dublin street at midday.

• Modular shopfronts roll in: a pub doorway, a restaurant sign, a butcher’s awning.

• A chorus of Dubliners fills the space, voices overlapping: vendors hawking, children calling, carts rattling.

• Projections flash fragments of Joyce’s prose: “Wine shop. Ham hung. Stale smells.”

• Light is high sun, sharp shadows, bustling heat.

LEOPOLD BLOOM enters from one side, moving carefully through the crowd. He is hungry but queasy, curious, easily distracted. He pauses often, observing people eat, and his thoughts come aloud in fragmentary asides.

BLOOM (aside):
Smells of midday—hot bread, fish fried in old fat, onions cutting the air. Hungry and not. (He touches his stomach, grimace.) A gizzard in there already. Soup would do, light, clear. Too much grease and the heart says no.

(He steps aside as a BUTCHER BOY lugs a tray of dripping meat past. The CHORUS voices swell.)

CHORUS (overlapping street cries):
“Apples fresh!” … “Penny buns!” … “Fine beef, fine mutton!” … “Ale, a pint, a pint!”

(Bloom watches them, fascinated, half amused.)

BLOOM (aside):
Men eat with jaws like hammers. Meat tearing, grease on whiskers. (He mimics slightly, then shakes his head.) Animals eating animals. And yet— (he lingers at a bakery window) —a soft roll, butter melting. Better.

(A WOMAN bustles past, biting into a thick sandwich, mustard streaking the bread. Bloom studies it almost clinically.)

BLOOM (aside):
She bites, mustard, meat, fat sliding. Hungry, yes, but the eye sickens before the stomach. (He rubs his lips.) If only a soup.

(From a doorway, RICHIE GOULDING—Bloom’s relative by marriage—waves cheerfully, mouth full of bread.)

RICHIE GOULDING:
Bloom! Out on the prowl, eh? Join us, a cut of beef’ll put life in you.

BLOOM (smiling, polite, shaking his head):
Another time, Richie. Business calls.

GOULDING (laughs, mouth full):
Business always hungry too! (He waves a greasy hand, disappears inside.)

(Bloom moves on, visibly queasier.)

BLOOM (aside):
Grease, grease everywhere. Butter thick, mouths chewing like cud. A cow chews, men chew. Difference? Must be one. Mind’s teeth sharper. Or not.

(He pauses before a pub sign; a group of MEN spill out, laughing, wiping mouths.)

MAN 1:
That was a pint fit for kings!

MAN 2 (belching good-naturedly):
Fit for hogs, more like.

BLOOM (aside):
Ale sloshing, bellies sloshing. Drunk at noon. A whole afternoon wasted. (He shakes his head, steps away.)

(He spots a restaurant window, posh, white tablecloths. Diners inside: ladies in hats, men with napkins tucked, a waiter carving meat. Bloom watches, fascinated but excluded.)

BLOOM (aside):
Knives flash. Napkins white as shrouds. Men carve, women dab lips, eyes half-closed with meat. Rich smell even through glass. (He inhales, then coughs.) Better out here. Soup would do. Thick broth, brown bread. Not too much.

(A CHORUS OF SCHOOLBOYS rush past, shouting, munching penny buns, laughing.)

BOY 1 (sing-song):
“Bloom, Bloom, give us a tune!”

BOY 2 (mocking):
“Bloom with his nose in a book!”

(They vanish. Bloom watches after them, a touch of sadness.)

BLOOM (aside):
Boys eat air with their mouths. Life devours itself, careless. Rudy would have run with them. (He softens.) Eleven days. A small cry, then silence.

(He gathers himself, moves on. The crowd thins. A BEGGAR sits at the roadside with a tin cup. Bloom pauses, drops a coin.)

BEGGAR (grateful, low):
Bless you, sir.

BLOOM (aside):
Blessings in copper. He eats what he can, same as the mayor eats. Hunger equalizes—rich, poor, all jaws in motion. (He rubs his stomach again.) Soup. Find soup.

(He turns a corner; a SIGN for “BURTON HOTEL RESTAURANT” looms. Smell of roast meat pours out. Bloom peers in: a crowded lunchroom, men eating ravenously, knives scraping, lips smacking.)

BLOOM (aside):
There it is—feeding trough. Men elbowing, mouths open, shoveling. (He winces.) Too much, too many. Grease on collars, stains on ties. They eat like trenches at war. No. Not in there.

(He steps back, shakes his head. Then brightens—spots a modest sign: “Davy Byrne’s Pub”. Quiet, respectable. He enters: shift in lighting.)

Inside Davy Byrne’s (quieter, calmer)

Small, tidy, polished. DAVY BYRNE, the publican, stands behind the counter, neat moustache, calm. The noise outside mutes.

BLOOM (relieved):
Mr. Byrne.

DAVY BYRNE (pleasant, unhurried):
Mr. Bloom. Out on your travels? What’ll you have?

BLOOM (considering):
Soup. And a sandwich. Cheese.

DAVY BYRNE (already preparing):
Good choice. Fresh cut. Soup’s broth, not too heavy.

BLOOM (aside):
Perfect. Broth warms, steadies, doesn’t weigh. Cheese sharpens. That’s life’s trick—light when others load themselves.

(Byrne serves him a small bowl of soup, a cheese sandwich, a glass of burgundy. Bloom sits at a table, savoring the neatness.)

BLOOM (soft, almost prayerful):
Soup hot, bread soft, cheese tang—yes. (He eats with quiet dignity, no haste.)

(The pub door opens; Nosey Flynn, a gossipy acquaintance, pokes his head in.)

NOSEY FLYNN (calling):
Bloom! Heard about the Dignam funeral? You were there, eh?

BLOOM (nodding, polite):
I was.

NOSEY FLYNN:
Sad case. And your missus—singing soon, I hear. Boylan’s arranging it? Grand fella, Boylan. Always knows his way round the ladies.

(He winks, laughs. Bloom smiles faintly, does not answer. Flynn shrugs, waves, goes.)

BLOOM (aside):
Boylan. Four o’clock. (He bites his sandwich, slow, deliberate.) Think of the taste only. Mustard, cheese, bread. Think of nothing else.

(He finishes, sets coins carefully on the counter. Byrne nods approvingly. Bloom exits, calm restored.)

Street Again (exit)

The bustle resumes, but Bloom is steadier, less queasy. He adjusts his hat, walks with more certainty.

BLOOM (aside):
Fed, ready. Errands left: soap, letter, Keyes’s promise. Life goes on, bellies full or empty. (He looks outward, almost smiling.) Soup, yes. That’s enough for a day.

(He blends into the crowd projection, swallowed by the living Dublin street. The noise swells, then cuts.)

BLACKOUT.

Notes for Staging

• Contrast: Outside streets = noisy, chaotic, earthy. Davy Byrne’s = calm, ordered, almost temple-like.

• Projection cues: Words like “Grease. Soup. Boys. Rudy. Boylan. Yes.” can flicker behind Bloom’s asides.

• Chorus work: Street voices should overlap but remain comprehensible, building atmosphere more than content.

• Bloom’s Monologues: Delivered directly to audience, often while moving; keep them intimate and ironic, not heavy.

Act III, Scene 1 — The Library (Scylla & Charybdis)

Stage Directions

The National Library of Ireland: long reading tables, green-shaded lamps, card catalog drawers, a bust of Shakespeare upstage. Light sifted like dust through high windows. A librarian’s “Silence” placard that everyone ignores.

At rise: JOHN EGLINTON (skeptical, elegant cynic), MR. BEST (eager, literary), LYSTER (kindly catalog mind), PROFESSOR MacHUGH (rhetorical warhorse). Whisper-buzz of readers. Pages turned. Pens scratch.

STEPHEN DEDALUS enters—black-clad, composed, eyes bright. He carries a notebook. His manner is courteous, his words edged.

EGLINTON (smiling like a duelist):
Ah, Dedalus—the boy with a theory for every father and a doubt for every son.

BEST (beckoning):
Sit, Stephen. Enlighten us or at least entertain us. Your Hamlet—you promised thunder.

LYSTER (kind):
A paragraph only, Mr. Dedalus. We are librarians, not life-rafts.

MacHUGH (spreading arms):
Let him launch it! Athens listened to boys with bright swords. Dublin will suffer a paragraph.

STEPHEN (calmly, standing rather than sitting):
Very well. Briefly:
Thesis—Shakespeare wrote Hamlet not as a mask for the prince of Denmark but as a mirror for himself—the man William. The play is a grief-machine built from biography.

EGLINTON (purring):
Biography again. The idol of small critics and grave robbers.

STEPHEN:
Not the small life—the wound. Consider: a young man early married to a woman eight years his elder, three children quick, the son Hamnet dead at eleven. In Stratford, a wife—Anne—who keeps a bed warm while the husband seeks the stage. In London, the playwright hears the cuckoo.

BEST (leaning in):
Cuckoo?

STEPHEN:
Adultery—real or imagined—becomes the grammar of his imagination.
Now, Hamlet: a son adrift, a mother too quick to the next marriage, a ghostly father demanding memory and revenge. The playwright splits himself: father, son, and husband—all in conflict.

LYSTER (pleasantly alarmed):
You assign a trinity to the bard.

MacHUGH (hands aloft):
He theologizes the Swan!

STEPHEN (unmoved):
Art is the pity of the self made form. Shakespeare’s pity is large; his jealousy larger. Hamlet’s paralysis is Shakespeare’s question: If the bed is not mine, what am I? Not Denmark rotten: paternity rotten.

EGLINTON (tap-tap of his pencil):
You assume too much from rumor. We have wills and deeds; we do not have the playwright’s tears in a bottle.

STEPHEN (a fraction sharper):
We have the plays. There the tears are bottled and set to music.

BEST:
But the chronology—Hamlet after the son’s death?

STEPHEN:
Close enough for a heart’s calendar. Dates are bones. Grief supplies the flesh.

EGLINTON (catlike):
And Anne Hathaway? Your poor Penelope of Stratford—what part for her besides the bed?

STEPHEN:
She stands offstage and yet on every page. Hamlet’s mother is not wicked; she is indifferent to the metaphysics her son begs her to share. Shakespeare writes a woman he cannot possess as idea: a body that will not become a soul. He punishes her with the son’s accusation.

LYSTER (half to himself):
A cataloger’s nightmare—cross-referencing affections.

MacHUGH (rolling):
He makes of Gertrude a nation, of Hamlet a parliament; the boy adjourns, the queen prorogues—rhetoric, gentlemen! The stage as senate!

EGLINTON (waving away the thunder):
Parliament or parlour—Stephen, you illegitimize all plays by making them parents’ quarrels. Where then is the imagination—the sovereign creation not chained to the bedpost?

STEPHEN:
Imagination feeds on what it cannot resolve. A wound that scabs never stops the tongue from touching it.

(A hush: he has them. BEST beams. LYSTER arranges a pile of cards as if to file the idea.)

BEST:
And your Polonius?

STEPHEN (quick):
A parody of the actor-manager—Shakespeare’s world in father’s clothes. Words, words, words—as any clerk in a chancery.

LYSTER (amused):
And Ophelia?

STEPHEN (softer):
A drowned silence. The playwright wrings her like a rag and hangs her on the river. Love costs.

EGLINTON (struck despite himself):
That is… not ungraceful.

MacHUGH (pounding the air):
The boy has a trireme of a tongue!

*(A small cough at the desk: a LIBRARY ATTENDANT with a cart glares at them. “Silence.” They pause, then lower their voices only a little.)

EGLINTON (recovering irony):
But all this—this family romance—how proves it the text? You give us Shakespeare’s laundry and call it literature.

STEPHEN (measured):
The text itself betrays the bed. Hamlet cannot father action because his father was unfathered in his imagination. A suspicious husband breeds a suspicious son. The ghost demands a revenge that is really a proof—prove I was the only one.

BEST (excited):
So the play-within-the-play—“The Mousetrap”—is not only to catch the king, but to catch the wife?

STEPHEN (nods once):
To catch the truth—or its mask.

LYSTER (leafing a card, delighted):
Shall I file you under Blasphemies, Bright?

EGLINTON (leaning back, folding arms):
I smell a system, and systems are the enemies of play. Besides—what of the sonnets? You will tell me next that the dark lady is Gertrude in a different hat.

STEPHEN (without blinking):
The sonnets are the same clock chiming later and nearer the bed. The poet makes love a courtroom where paternity is tried without evidence and always acquitted for lack of a witness.

MacHUGH (laughing):
He charges Venus with perjury!

*(Footsteps. A breeze of irreverence. BUCK MULLIGAN saunters in, hat cocked, mock-solemn, a sacrilegious grin.)

MULLIGAN:
Introibo ad altare Shakes! What’s this—Dedalus on stilts? Gentle librarians, beware: he manufactures theories the way Dublin manufactures thirst.

EGLINTON (pleased at the new sport):
We are entertained. He re-baptizes Hamlet in Stratford ale.

MULLIGAN (to Stephen, purring):
And where in your gospel is Nora— (he catches himself, grins wolfishly) —I mean Anne? Does the sainted Will wear horns to fit your sermon?

STEPHEN (very quiet):
He wears what he wrote.

MULLIGAN (to the room):
You see? He answers like an oracle: foam with a sentence underneath. (He bows to the bust.) O Swan of Avon, forgive him—he is Irish and must mistrust his mother first, his father after, and himself most of all.

BEST (soothing):
Buck, let him finish.

MULLIGAN (dropping into a chair, sprawling):
Finish? He never finishes. He builds ladders into a sky of his own head.

EGLINTON (cat’s smile sharpened):
And how does your ladder end, Stephen? With Shakespeare as Hamlet’s father, Hamlet, and the ghost? You have him playing all parts to save on salaries.

STEPHEN (turning to the bust):
He does play all parts—that is art. He splits the heart to understand it. He puts the husband in the father’s sheet, the son in the husband’s doubt, the mother between them like a kingdom. Then he forgives none of them and calls it tragedy.

*(A breath. Even Mulligan is still a beat.)

LYSTER (soft awe):
File under Electric, Possibly Dangerous.

MacHUGH (approving like a general):
He sails between Scylla and Charybdis—between pedantry and madness—and keeps his keel.

EGLINTON (last thrust):
Suppose I accept your ghostly syllogism. Why does the play move us—we who have no Anne, no Hamnet?

STEPHEN (finally sits, voice lower):
Because we all doubt our fathers, and we all fear our mothers’ second love—be it for a man, a God, a Cause, or the grave. The play is a machine for recognition: the son sees the parent is mortal and the world leans.

*(Silence. Pages turn somewhere like distant surf.)

MULLIGAN (unable to resist, light again):
He’s good, our Stephen. He serves up metaphysics like tripe and onions—piping hot, makes you weep, keeps you hungry.

BEST (to Stephen):
You should write it—publish. Let the professors quarrel for a century.

EGLINTON (half-smiling):
He intends to. He will keep them busy and himself unemployed.

LYSTER (tidying cards):
A tidy essay could be found room in the Transactions.

MacHUGH (grand):
Or carved on the post office, to shame the Empire: Paternity is Hypothesis.

MULLIGAN (to Stephen, softer, needling with a trace of care):
And your own father, Kinch? Will you forgive him before you forgive Anne?

STEPHEN (a flicker, then the mask returns):
I forgive nothing. I remember.

*(Footfalls near the entrance. A polite figure appears—LEOPOLD BLOOM, hat in hand, peering in as if looking for a notice board, half shy. He hovers, not wanting to intrude.)

BLOOM (to an attendant, gently):
Pardon—Mr. Keyes’s advertisement—would there be a file of yesterday’s issue?

ATTENDANT (points him to a counter):
At the desk, sir.

*(Bloom nods, moves lightly, almost invisible. Stephen sees him—a brief glance across the room. No words. Two currents in the same sea.

MULLIGAN notices too and smirks.)

MULLIGAN (low, to Eglinton):
There goes Ulysses—without oars and selling soap.

EGLINTON (smiling):
All heroes adapt.

MacHUGH (with sudden benevolence toward Bloom):
A decent man is a kind of rhetoric—quiet persuasion.

*(Bloom finishes at the desk, nods thanks, slips out as modestly as he came. The door hushes behind him.)

BEST (watching Bloom go):
He looks… delicate.

STEPHEN (absently):
He looks human.

MULLIGAN (stretching):
Humanity is a poor meal. Dublin eats it daily.

EGLINTON (rising, collecting his irony like a cloak):
Gentlemen, I am convinced if not persuaded. Dedalus, you are a poet of conjecture. I await your printed contradictions.

LYSTER (warm):
Leave the pages with me when you’ve them. I will catalog your heresies with care.

MacHUGH (clapping Stephen once on the shoulder):
Go feed, boy. Rhetoric is a hungry trade.

MULLIGAN (already strolling off):
And bring back change—your change of mind, if you can afford it.

*(They disperse: Eglinton with feline grace, Lyster with card-stack, MacHugh booming farewell to a startled reader. Mulligan vanishes in a gust of mock-benediction.

Stephen remains a moment beneath the bust of Shakespeare. The light tilts, narrowing. He looks up.)

STEPHEN (aside):
Father, son, ghost—three masks and one face hidden. (A ghost of a smile.) I will forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race— (he stops himself, amused) —later. First, a crust.

*(He picks up his notebook, tucks it away. As he moves, the bust seems to darken into anonymity.)

Stage Directions
A faint sea-sound threads in—the memory of morning at the tower. Then it fades under the rustle of the library. Stephen exits into the day’s glare.

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes

• Pace: Keep the intellectual sparring brisk, witty, with clean status shifts. Let Stephen’s quieter lines land—he should never shout; his sharpness is in precision.

• Sound/Light: Library hum throughout; brighten subtly on Stephen’s mini-monologues, dim to neutral after. One discreet “Silence” look from the attendant is a running gag.

• Cameos: Mulligan’s entrance should change the air—mischief and sting. Bloom’s pass-through is gentle, almost invisible, but meaningful; give that glance a half-beat.

Act III, Scene 2 — The Pub (Cyclops)

Stage Directions

A Dublin pub interior: scarred tables, sawdust on the floor, smoke hanging. A giant painted Irish wolfhound on the wall. The bar is crowded: drinkers in caps, a barmaid, clatter of pints.

At center: a hulking figure in green sash and heavy beard — THE CITIZEN, larger-than-life, thunderous voice. Around him: JOE HYNES (reporter), ALF BERNS, THE NARRATOR (comic, coarse observer), and other PUB CHORUS.

LEOPOLD BLOOM enters modestly, hat in hand, almost apologetic.

Soundscape: laughter, pint glasses, bar clinks.

NARRATOR (aside to audience, bawdy):
In he comes, Bloom with his soft shoes, looking like he’s counting the stains on the floor. Not a pint among his pockets, nor a ballad to his name.

JOE HYNES (welcoming, neutral):
Bloom! Sit with us, man. A jar?

BLOOM (gentle):
Later, perhaps. Just passing.

ALF (mocking, to chorus):
Just passing! Like a ghost in broad day.

(Laughter. Bloom smiles, unfazed.)

CITIZEN (booming, filling the room):
And what’s your business, Mr. Bloom? Selling soap and foreign notions while Irishmen go hungry?

BLOOM (quietly, steady):
Everyone must eat, Citizen. Business feeds families as much as bread does.

CITIZEN (snorts):
Business! Parasites feeding off the Irish back. What Ireland needs is not traders but men—heroes with fists, not coupons.

NARRATOR (aside, smirking):
And he thumps the table so the glasses jump, as if he was Cuchulainn himself, only fatter and thirstier.

ALF (egging him on):
Tell him, Citizen! None of your soft talk.

CITIZEN (rising, voice swelling):
Ireland is for the Irish! Not for Jews, nor foreigners, nor mongrels sniffing at our door.

(The room cheers. Bloom stays seated, calm.)

BLOOM (after a pause):
A nation is made of people, Citizen. All people. Jew, Gentile, black, white, believer, skeptic. It’s not a kennel with one breed.

(A hush — murmurs ripple.)

CITIZEN (mocking Bloom’s tone):
Gentle words, fine words. But where were your kind when we fought? What have you to do with Ireland’s soul?

BLOOM (voice firmer):
I was born here. My home is here. My wife, my child. What is a nation but the sum of its homes?

NARRATOR (aside, wide-eyed):
And by God didn’t that drop like a stone in the well. For a moment the great Citizen was chewing air like cud.

CITIZEN (recovering, roaring):
Nation is blood! Faith! Land! The Irish heart beating in one chest!

BLOOM (leaning forward, low, intense):
Nation is the heart that beats for others. Otherwise it is only a fist.

(A beat. Tension thick. The PUB CHORUS mutters: “He’s bold,” “Cheek on him,” “Quiet man but sharp.”)

JOE HYNES (diplomatic):
Come now, gentlemen. A pint makes quick enemies.

ALF (laughing):
Or fast friends! Pour another round!

(The barmaid brings more pints. The chorus sings a half-drunk snatch of a rebel song. The Citizen sways, voice booming again.)

CITIZEN (mock-biblical, parody):
And lo, the Lord spake: Ireland shall be purged of the moneylenders, the mongrels, the weaklings!

NARRATOR (aside, comic):
Sounded like a prophet with froth on his whiskers. Moses in a pub apron.

BLOOM (rising now, voice clear, ringing, cuts through):
I say: Love is the law of nations. Not blood, not hate, not fists. Love. Otherwise, what are we but graves waiting for names?

(A stunned pause. Even the PUB CHORUS goes still. Then — a scoff, a laugh, a rumble of derision.)

CITIZEN (red, furious):
Love! He preaches love in a pub while men die for Ireland! Out with him!

(The wolfhound painted on the wall seems almost to stir in the dim light — symbolic. The chorus half rises, but Joe steadies them.)

JOE HYNES (calming):
Easy, Citizen. He’s no enemy. Words hurt no one.

CITIZEN (snarling):
Words betray. Words weaken.

BLOOM (final, standing tall despite his modest frame):
Words heal. They build. They save. I’ll hold to that even here.

(He tips his hat politely, edges toward the door. The PUB CHORUS mutters — half mocking, half grudging respect. Bloom exits quietly. The Citizen sits, breathing heavy, glaring. The laughter resumes, thinner, forced.)

NARRATOR (final aside, wry):
And so off he went, Bloom the soft-foot, leaving behind a room full of beer and bluster. A one-eyed Cyclops roaring at the world, and the little man walking out whole.

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes

• Tone: This scene should feel like a satirical trial by pub. Exaggerated rhetoric vs. quiet reason.

• Chorus: Use the PUB CHORUS as a rhythmic device: mutters, songs, laughs, side-comments. They embody the “mob.”

• Citizen: Larger-than-life, almost cartoonish, yet frightening in his force.

• Bloom: Quiet strength, his dignity contrasting the bluster. His final speech should land cleanly, modern in resonance.

• Comic Asides: The Narrator delivers Joyce’s parody voice—funny, coarse, undercutting the Citizen’s grandeur.

Act IV, Scene 1 — The Hospital (Oxen of the Sun)

Stage Directions

The set: a maternity ward suggested by white sheets, a partitioned bed upstage (the unseen woman in labor). Lamps burn low. A large clock ticks. Downstage, a cluster of young men in coats lounge, laughing, drinking, mocking: LYNCH, MADDEN, COSTELLO, CROTTHERS. STEPHEN drifts among them—half in, half out. LEOPOLD BLOOM enters, grave, solicitous, here to check on the woman (Mina Purefoy).

Design: The language styles shift like lighting gels. Sometimes the men speak in archaic Chaucerian tones, sometimes in biblical cadences, sometimes like newspaper reports or slangy music hall banter. Projections echo these shifts: fonts and scripts scrolling, flickering, mutating.

Scene Opens

BLOOM (soft, to an ATTENDANT):
Mrs. Purefoy—still in her travail?

ATTENDANT (tired, nodding):
Since dawn. Long labor.

BLOOM (gentle):
Poor soul. Tell her husband—I’ll wait. Anything wanted—milk, oranges?

(The attendant nods, moves off. Bloom turns, faces the group of boisterous young men.)

LYNCH (mock-solemn, Chaucerian parody):
Lo, then cameth a merchant mild, Master Bloom, with his pouch of simples and his heart ful lowly.

MADDEN (booming, faux-biblical):
And verily did he knock, saying: open ye unto me, for I bring comfort in the hour of travail!

CHORUS (overlapping, laughing in faux-psalm):
Amen! So say we all!

(Bloom bows slightly, enduring the jest with calm patience.)

BLOOM (aside to audience):
They play with words as drunkards with dice. But the woman suffers in truth. Words don’t ease the pang.

Style Shift: Legal/Oratorical

(MacHugh appears briefly, striding in like a barrister, parody of legal prose.)

MacHUGH:
Gentlemen of this august assembly, I rise to submit that the pains of childbirth are unjustly taxed upon the weaker vessel and therefore demand relief, compensation, and recognition in statute!

COSTELLO (cheering):
Hear, hear! Put it in Hansard!

STEPHEN (half-laugh, half-sober):
What statute can command the womb? What parliament legislate the hour of blood?

(They pause—Stephen’s line cuts deeper than jest. Then laughter resumes.)

Style Shift: Newspaper Report

(Projection: newsprint scrolls behind them.)

NARRATOR (mock-journalistic tone):
At precisely 11:15 p.m. the party adjourned to the maternity hospital, where uproarious scenes were witnessed. Mr. Leopold Bloom, well-known advertising canvasser, was observed making inquiries of a medical officer. The general conduct of the younger set was pronounced uproarious, though no disorderly charge was pressed.

(The lads cheer, tossing hats.)

Bloom’s Humanity

BLOOM (to the group, quiet but firm):
Think less of your jests. A woman lies there bringing forth life. Every one of us came the same way. Respect it.

LYNCH (mocking, but uneasy):
Listen to the preacher!

STEPHEN (suddenly sharp, to the lads):
He is right. Your mothers’ cries fed you before milk did.

(The room hushes a moment. Bloom and Stephen glance at each other—recognition of seriousness.)

Style Shift: Music-Hall Slang

(The tension breaks; Costello breaks into comic patter with Cockney inflection. Projection flashes gaudy music-hall posters.)

COSTELLO:
Ladies an’ gents, step right up, it’s the grand baby derby! Odds on the mare in labor, who’ll give us a shout for the little nipper crowning?

(The lads roar with laughter again, but it rings hollow.)

Bloom’s Interior Monologue

BLOOM (aside, stepping downstage, lit softly):
My Rudy—eleven days, no more. Small coffin, smaller than a drawer. Mina fights for hers now. Life screams to enter, death waits at the gate. Who keeps account? We fathers stand with empty hands.

(He covers his eyes briefly, then steadies.)

Style Shift: Epic/Oratorical

(Sudden swell of light, as if the hospital transforms into a mythic hall. Voices become heroic, parodying Homeric epic.)

CHORUS (booming):
And lo, the champions gathered in the house of birth. They clashed in word and wit, while in the inner chamber the goddess of travail bent her brows. And Bloom of the quiet heart kept watch.

(Projection: “OXEN OF THE SUN” in golden letters.)

Crescendo

STEPHEN (sudden poetic outburst, almost drunken):
The womb is the word. We are born not of nations but of bodies. Creation is the cry in the dark. And God, if He listens, listens through the moan of a mother.

(The lads blink, caught off guard. Even they feel the weight of it. Bloom watches Stephen with something like paternal concern.)

Resolution

(An ATTENDANT returns, smiling, relieved.)

ATTENDANT:
A boy, healthy. Mother safe.

(The room exhales. Even the rowdies clap each other’s backs. Bloom closes his eyes a moment in silent gratitude.)

BLOOM (aside):
Life enters again. A boy, strong lungs. Mina smiles perhaps. And I—alone—remember my own lost one.

(He looks at Stephen, who sways slightly with wine and words. Bloom steadies him with a hand on his arm.)

STEPHEN (quiet, to Bloom):
We are midwives of words, at least.

BLOOM (gentle):
Words, yes. And care.

(They stand together a beat—two threads drawing nearer. The rowdy men call for more drink, but it’s thinner now, the bravado broken by the birth’s reminder. Bloom leads Stephen toward the door.)

CHORUS (in unison, mixed tones—biblical, slang, epic):
Life born, words born, all of us born.

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes

• Styles: Make the stylistic shifts bold with lighting, sound, projection (medieval script, newspaper font, neon posters, epic gold). The audience should feel the parody.

• Chorus: Ensemble doubles as commentators—sometimes comic, sometimes solemn.

• Bloom & Stephen: Their quiet humanity cuts through the stylistic noise, foreshadowing their companionship in the night journey ahead.

• Crescendo: Stephen’s drunken lyricism + Bloom’s quiet grief balance each other—birth and loss.

Act IV, Scene 2 — The Brothel (Circe)

Stage Directions

Set: Bella Cohen’s brothel in Dublin’s Nighttown. The stage is a shifting dreamscape: red lanterns, gilt mirrors, smoke, velvet curtains. Behind, a projection surface constantly morphs — at times it shows Dublin streets, at times grotesque visions, sometimes literal stage directions (words like “Metamorphosis” or “Bloom Crowned King”). Music is eerie: snatches of street songs, hymns, circus tunes.

Ensemble actors double as hallucinations, appearing and vanishing in costume changes.

Onstage at rise: LEOPOLD BLOOM (wary, anxious) follows STEPHEN DEDALUS (drunk, electric), trailed by raucous STUDENTS. BELLA COHEN, the madam, presides like a queen.

Opening Chaos

BELLA COHEN (grand, mock-royal):
Enter, my swains, my scholars, my heroes! Night’s kingdom has no law but delight.

(The STUDENTS cheer, tossing hats, grabbing at girls. Laughter and clink of glasses. Bloom hangs back, uneasy.)

BLOOM (aside, low):
Cheap perfume, stale breath. Rudy—if you’d lived, you’d be older than these boys. Don’t think. Keep him safe.

(He glances at Stephen, who already sways dangerously with wine. Projection: “DANGER.”)

Hallucination 1 — Bloom Accused

(Suddenly the stage freezes. Lights snap harsh white. A MAGISTRATE figure appears, gavel in hand. The chorus becomes a courtroom. Bloom is shoved forward.)

MAGISTRATE (booming):
Leopold Bloom, stand forth! Accused of indecency, cowardice, and unnatural practices!

CHORUS (chanting, mocking):
Bloom! Bloom! Soft Bloom!

BLOOM (stammering):
I—I did nothing—

MAGISTRATE:
You solicited! You blasphemed! You dreamed unclean dreams!

(Projection shows absurd charges in giant text: “UNNATURAL VICES. WOMANISH.”)

BLOOM (aside, frantic):
Always accused, always the stranger.

(Suddenly — flip — lighting warms; the vision vanishes. The brothel returns. Bloom gasps, steadies himself. The STUDENTS laugh, oblivious.)

Hallucination 2 — Bloom as Woman

(Bella Cohen steps close, mock-seductive, then suddenly stern. Lights shift pink. She produces a whip.)

BELLA:
On your knees, Leopoldina!

(Gasps, laughter. Bloom is dragged forward; his clothes symbolically rearranged by the CHORUS so he appears feminized — a shawl, a bonnet thrown on him. Projection: “METAMORPHOSIS.”)

CHORUS (jeering):
Mrs. Bloom! Madame Bloom!

BLOOM (helpless, half yielding):
Yes… punish me. Better me than others.

BELLA (commanding):
Crawl! Obey!

(Bloom obeys briefly, humiliated. Then suddenly, lighting snaps; he’s back upright, alone. No whip, no shawl. He breathes hard.)

BLOOM (aside):
Inside out. Man, woman, father, mother. Who am I?

Hallucination 3 — Bloom Crowned King

(A trumpet blares. Projection shows golden banners. The CHORUS cheers.)

HERALD:
Make way for Leopold, Emperor of Dublin, Savior of the Poor, King of the Jews!

(Bloom is hoisted onto a chair, crowned absurdly with a chamber pot. The CHORUS kneels in mock reverence.)

CHORUS (chanting):
Bloom! Bloom the Magnificent!

BLOOM (dazed, almost enjoying it):
Yes… lift them up. Give all men food, women rights, children joy—

HERALD:
He abolishes property! He feeds the hungry! He fathers the fatherless!

(Cheers swell. Then abruptly — a BOOM. The projection shatters into flames. The vision collapses. Bloom is dumped on the floor.)

BLOOM (aside, shaken):
A dream. All gone. Always gone.

Stephen’s Collapse

(Meanwhile Stephen, drunk, declaims to a GIRL like Hamlet.)

STEPHEN (wild):
Who fears the thunder of God’s silence? I spit on heaven’s steps!

(He smashes a glass. Projection: “CRASH.” Others laugh, but some are alarmed.)

BLOOM (urgent):
Stephen—careful—

STEPHEN (defiant, to everyone):
Whore of Babylon! Ireland! Mother! Father! None!

(He swings wildly at a lamp. It crashes. The CHORUS shouts, chaos erupts. The GIRLS scream. A POLICEMAN figure appears in projection, looming.)

BLOOM (aside, desperate):
He’ll be taken, beaten. Alone, like my boy. Not again.

(He pushes through, shielding Stephen.)

BLOOM (to the others, strong):
Leave him! He’s only drunk! I’ll see him safe!

(The commotion stills. Bloom lifts Stephen, arm around him. Projection softens: “PROTECTION.”)

Vision of Rudy

(As Bloom steadies Stephen, the room dims. From the shadows, a small boy in white appears — RUDY, Bloom’s dead son, age 11, spectral. Bloom sees him. Time halts.)

BLOOM (whisper, broken):
Rudy… my little man.

RUDY (soft):
Papa.

(They reach toward each other. Bloom’s hand trembles inches from the boy’s. Projection glows with faint stars. Then the boy fades. Bloom clutches air.)

BLOOM (aside, tears):
Gone. Always gone. But Stephen—alive.

(He looks down at Stephen, unconscious against him. Determination hardens.)

Exit Nighttown

(The brothel dissolves — curtains vanish, red lights fade to gray street lamps. The STUDENTS scatter off laughing, leaving Bloom and Stephen alone under a bare Dublin lamppost. The hallucination ebbs. Reality cools. Sound: night wind, distant bell.)

BLOOM (to Stephen, gently):
Come, boy. Home.

(He half-carries Stephen into the dark. Projection: “COMPANIONSHIP.”)

BLACKOUT.

Director’s Notes

• Style: Treat the hallucinations like quick-change theatre: projections, props, chorus transformations. Make the audience dizzy, amused, disturbed.

• Bloom’s Arc: Humiliation → Absurd Glory → Compassion. Each hallucination strips him, then restores him in new form.

• Stephen’s Role: From witty sparring partner to dangerous collapse; Bloom becomes protector, echoing father/son bond.

• Rudy Vision: Should be still, tender, luminous — the emotional core amid chaos.

Act V, Scene 1 — The Cabman’s Shelter (Eumaeus)

Stage Directions

A dim cabman’s shelter: tin roof, kettle steaming on a tiny stove, cracked cups, a bench. Rain beads outside; night wind hums. LEOPOLD BLOOM supports a wavering STEPHEN DEDALUS, easing him to sit. A kindly SHELTER-KEEPER wipes mugs with a rag. Low lamps; the world hushed after Nighttown’s chaos.

SHELTER-KEEPER (gentle):
Wet night. Warm yourself, gents. Tea’ll put a lining on it.

BLOOM (grateful):
Two teas. And… a slice of bread if you’ve it.

STEPHEN (spent; a ghost of bravado):
Bread for the body, words for the rest.

BLOOM (soft):
Both then.

*(He settles Stephen; adjusts his coat like a blanket. Steam curls from the kettle.)

SHELTER-KEEPER (setting mugs):
There you are. Pay when you can.

BLOOM (counts coins, careful, honest):
We can. Thank you.

*(Stephen sips; flinches, then steadies. Silence, the good kind.)

BLOOM (gently conversational):
A long day makes short tempers. You’ve a fine head, Mr. Dedalus.

STEPHEN (weary smile):
A fine head in need of a pillow. (Beat.) You… pulled me from the mouth of the night.

BLOOM:
We pull one another. It’s what we do when we can.

STEPHEN (looking at him):
Why?

BLOOM (matter-of-fact):
Because no one else was you just then.

*(A small laugh from the Shelter-Keeper, approving the thought. Thunder mutters far off.)

STEPHEN (after a moment):
You have a son?

BLOOM (a breath):
Had. Rudy. (Quiet.) Eleven days.

STEPHEN (soft):
I am sorry.

BLOOM (nods once; then, to brighten):
You play? Sing?

STEPHEN (taps the table, a rhythm of thought):
I’ve a tune that follows me like a stray dog. (He hums a bar—broken but lovely.)

BLOOM (listening):
Good. Carry it home. Music leads the feet back.

*(They drink. The Shelter-Keeper tops the mugs unasked. The night eases its shoulders. Bloom stands.)

BLOOM:
Come with me. Cocoa at my house. A chair to sit. Your coat can dry by the range.

STEPHEN (hesitates, then nods):
All right.

BLOOM (to the Shelter-Keeper, warm):
You keep men from the rain. That’s a trade worth more than ink says.

SHELTER-KEEPER (shrugs, pleased):
The night’s long. We shorten it where we can.

*(Bloom helps Stephen up. They step into the rain; lamps halo them briefly, then the dark takes them kindly.)

BLACKOUT.

Act V, Scene 2 — Bloom’s House (Ithaca)

Stage Directions

Bloom’s kitchen again, now midnight-blue. The range glows faintly. On the table: kettle, tin of cocoa, two cups. In the bedroom doorway, a long oval of shadow—Molly sleeps beyond.

As this scene plays, a call-and-response rhythm (the “catechism”) lightly shapes the dialogue: short, precise, tender.

QUESTION (voice, neutral; can be an offstage chorus or a projected prompt):
What did they do upon entering the house?

BLOOM (answering simply while doing it):
Boiled water. Opened cocoa. Shared heat.

*(He gestures Stephen to a chair; stirs, serves.)

QUESTION:
What did they speak of?

STEPHEN (counting on fingers):
Ariadne on the strand; Rome on the Liffey; a father; a son; the price of soap; the habit of being kind.

BLOOM (with a small smile):
And the stars.

STEPHEN (looks up; Bloom follows his gaze):
Name them, then.

*(Bloom moves to the window, draws the blind a crack. A projection of a quiet Dublin sky appears—pinprick stars.)

BLOOM (pointing):
That’s the Plough, they call it; the Pole Star there. And the rest— (he chuckles) —the rest I name “far.”

QUESTION:
What transactions occurred?

BLOOM (practical, gentle):
I offered a bed. He refused. I offered my old hat. He refused that too. We accepted tea and cocoa as sufficient treaty.

STEPHEN (lifting his cup):
Treaty ratified.

*(They drink; companionable silence.)

QUESTION:
What was felt?

BLOOM (quietly):
That the world, being large, is less lonely shared.

STEPHEN (after a beat):
That a stranger’s kitchen can be a room in one’s mind forever.

QUESTION:
What was remembered?

BLOOM (the smallest hitch):
A small white coffin.

STEPHEN (equally soft):
A mother’s breath.

*(They do not look at each other; they share the stillness.)

QUESTION:
What conclusion was reached?

STEPHEN (standing, steadier now):
That I must go. (He looks around, fixing the room in memory.) Thank you. (Beat.) You are… a decent man, Mr. Bloom.

BLOOM (shrugs, touched):
I keep the kettle filled.

*(They move to the door. Bloom offers his hand. Stephen shakes it, earnest, slight bow, then steps into the hall’s dark.)

STEPHEN (from the threshold):
Good night.

BLOOM:
Good night.

*(The door closes softly. The house is quiet as breath.)

QUESTION:
What remained?

*(Bloom alone; he tidies the cups, folds the cloth, sets the chairs square. He pockets the stray coin he’d left earlier. He looks toward the bedroom. He removes his shoes, sets them neatly side by side.)

BLOOM (to himself, with a faint, fond irony):
What remains? Soap to buy tomorrow. A letter to post. A voice to listen to.

*(He dims the lamp; the kitchen rests.)

BLACKOUT (brief).

Act V, Scene 3 — Molly’s Bed (Penelope)

Stage Directions

Only Molly’s bed—moonlight across linen. The rest of the stage is night air. MOLLY BLOOM lies awake, eyes open, hair loose. No punctuation in her flow—just breath and thought. Her voice rises and falls like tide.

MOLLY
so he’s home then tiptoeing like he does with his quiet hands oh Poldy you and your little ways warming the pot and thinking I don’t notice I notice everything the way he looked at me this morning and then not looking the letter from Boylan I put it away I know what I’m doing don’t I after all these years men and their mouths and their pockets and their plans a woman has to mind herself too and still he brought me tea honey in it like I like and went out for that kidney and back again smelling of frying and streets and soap he’ll buy tomorrow he always says tomorrow but he remembers small things how many men remember small things

and I lay there thinking of Gibraltar the warm rock the hot wind and that officer with his fine mustache and the sea like a plate of beaten silver and how I said yes to the world then yes to the sun on my skin and yes to the sound of my own name I was younger then I’m still myself aren’t I I won’t be put in a little box and called good and quiet no not me I’ve a body and a voice and I’ll use both when I choose and tonight I could hear him breathing from the kitchen slower than before like he’s been out walking with ghosts he brings them home sometimes his dear little boy I know he still sees him the way his eyes go soft all of a sudden poor Poldy he wants looking after as much as any of them

and Boylan with his bold hands and his songs he thinks he’s the only one ever kissed a woman the peacock God help us men and their strut well the day is over and it’s my bed and my head and I decide what to remember and what to forget I could have gone any way in this life and yet here I am with him and he with me because he is kind that’s the truth of him people don’t see it they see soft they don’t see steady the way he’ll set the chair right or cover a plate or fold a thing small as if it mattered because it does it does and I felt it tonight in the quiet of the house like a hand smoothing the creases

and the world talks about sin and virtue as if they were shelves to put people on I say the body knows what it knows and love is not a judge with a book in his hand love is a door left on the latch love is a cup of cocoa waiting and a chair pulled out and a look that doesn’t demand and maybe I have done this and that and so has he and still we have a life between us full of breaths and breakfasts and the color of the sky over the river when the gulls hang like bits of paper and all the little nothings that make a day large

he asked me once do you ever think of the first time and I said I do I do I think of the headland and the flowers crushed warm under us and the sky turning and my heart like a drum and I said yes first to myself and then to him because I wanted the yes more than the no I was made for saying yes to the big wide day and the big wide night and if I said other things today well the day was long and I am tired and tomorrow is another day and he will come in with the tea and look at me as if he’s looking at a country he can never quite map and I’ll turn to him like I always do because he’s mine in the way that matters and I’m his

and I’ll say yes you can touch me yes I’m here yes I remember yes let’s live again today and tomorrow and as long as there’s breath in us because what else is there the city can shout and the papers can print and the priests can wag their fingers and the men in pubs can pound their chests but in this room I decide I the woman in the bed with my body my mouth my heart I decide and tonight I decide for kindness and for the warm hand and for the little careful ways and for the big foolish love that won’t give up

yes I said yes I will yes

*(On her last “yes,” the moonlight brightens a breath, then slowly cools. In the kitchen, unseen, a kettle ticks as it cools. The house rests. Dublin’s first gull cries somewhere far.)

BLACKOUT.

Curtain & Notes

• Runtime for Act V as drafted: ~30–35 minutes (Shelter ~8–10; Ithaca ~10–12; Penelope ~12–15).
• Music/Sound: Keep it spare—night wind in Scene 1, a faint star-hum in Scene 2, silence for Molly until the last lines.
• Lighting: Warm human ambers in Eumaeus; cool lunar blues in Ithaca; a single silvery source for Penelope.

Epilogue

Stage Directions

The stage returns to near-bare. Molly’s bed remains faintly lit in the background, moonlight fading toward dawn. From offstage, the Chorus of Dublin voices heard earlier returns, this time softer—milkman, newsboy, beggar, gossip. One by one, their voices fade until silence.

JOYCE (Epilogue) (returns, stepping forward once more, voice quieter, almost fond)
And so—
The day ends.
Bloom sleeps. Stephen walks. Molly remembers.

A city breathes.
Nothing special, yet everything.

A whole life—hidden in the folds of one day.
That is the trick. That is the truth.

(He takes off his hat, holding it at his chest.)
And if you ask what remains—
listen closely.

(He pauses. Molly’s faint voice is heard in the background, lingering, the last word stretching.)

MOLLY (offstage/echoing):
Yes.

(Lights dim to black. A projection of the word YES fills the backdrop in white, then slowly dissolves into dawn light over Dublin.)

BLACKOUT. Curtain.

Short Bios:

James Joyce

Irish novelist and poet (1882–1941), Joyce revolutionized modern literature with Ulysses, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and Finnegans Wake. His innovative stream-of-consciousness style reshaped narrative form, capturing the depth of inner life.

Leopold Bloom

The central character of Ulysses. A Jewish advertising canvasser in Dublin, Bloom is humane, curious, and quietly resilient. His daylong wander through the city mirrors the epic journey of Odysseus, though rooted in the ordinary streets of Dublin.

Stephen Dedalus

Joyce’s alter ego, first introduced in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. A young intellectual and aspiring writer, Stephen wrestles with questions of art, religion, identity, and freedom. His debates and doubts echo Hamlet’s brooding spirit.

Molly Bloom

Leopold Bloom’s wife, a passionate and independent singer. Her closing monologue in Ulysses, the “Penelope” episode, is a landmark in modern literature: an unbroken flow of thought on love, memory, body, and affirmation.

The Citizen

A satirical character representing nationalist extremism in Ulysses. Loud, one-eyed, and domineering, he embodies the blustering side of political rhetoric, standing in stark contrast to Bloom’s quiet humanism.

Bella Cohen

Madam of the Nighttown brothel in the hallucinatory “Circe” episode. She dominates the scene with theatrical power, becoming a figure of both authority and fantasy in Bloom’s visions.

Directorial & Playwright Inspirations

Peter Brook (1925–2022)
Legendary British theatre director known for The Empty Space and visionary stagings that stripped theatre down to its essentials. Brook’s use of minimalism, symbolic staging, and human intimacy resonates in the Ulysses adaptation.

Katie Mitchell (b. 1964)
British director celebrated for her bold, cinematic stagecraft and focus on interior life. Her integration of live video and stage realism mirrors Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness style, influencing the modern staging of Ulysses.

Robert Lepage (b. 1957)
Canadian playwright, actor, and director renowned for multimedia storytelling and imaginative transformations of stage space. His innovations inspire the surreal, hallucinatory staging of the “Circe” episode.

Tom Stoppard (b. 1937)
Playwright whose works (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Arcadia) combine intellectual brilliance with wit. Stoppard’s playful engagement with philosophy and language echoes Joyce’s own artistry and informs the dialogue rhythm in the library and pub scenes.

Anne Bogart (b. 1951)
American director and theorist, co-founder of the SITI Company. Her focus on physicality, ensemble, and space underpins the choral aspects of Ulysses on stage, especially in episodes like “Oxen of the Sun” and “Cyclops.”