« Never know whose thoughts you’re chewing », écrit Joyce dans Ulysse et je termine Ulysse. Une fois tombés les derniers mots (Yes) trois autres ¹ suivent. Comme souvent, je suis pas là quand l’oeil s’amarre à la dernière page, même s’il n’y a plus de page : je lis sur la Sony. Je ne sais que ce Yes que je savais d’avance et que tout le monde connaît. Avant-hier l’autre Ulysse a massacré tout le monde, fait nettoyer le sang par les femmes après la fin du carnage, une fois les derniers mots. Voilà ce que j’explique à mon médecin, enfin pas mon médecin, un autre, car je ne sais pas quelles pensées mâcher, serait-ce pour ça que ma peau se ressert ? Ce que je fais ici : je m’intéresse à cet « autre monde qui est l’homme », voilà ce que je dis montant sur la balance avec mes pompes aux pieds. Je repars avec d’autres analyses ordonnées, quelques idéogrammes sur une feuille double-jeu. Lorsque je poste un manuscrit je n’y joins plus d’enveloppe pré-affranchie pour le retour. Je ne pense plus qu’à sens unique. Je ne veux pas qu’il me revienne. Je croise ces autres corps que je prends en photo. Une fois l’écran fermé ils disparaissent. L’iPhone mémorise même le goût. L’été (Oui) se termine car je termine Ulysse. Je m’en souviendrais (Oui) comme l’été d’un nouveau job, l’été d’un mois malade, l’été où j’ai bouffé Ulysse, où Ulysse m’a bouffé, où pleure l’Husky d’en face à force de pleurer.

(...) I suppose hes 20 or more Im not too old for him if hes 23 or 24 I hope hes not that stuckup university student sort no otherwise he wouldnt go sitting down in the old kitchen with him taking Eppss cocoa and talking of course he pretended to understand it all probably he told him he was out of Trinity college hes very young to be a professor I hope hes not a professor like Goodwin was he was a potent professor of John Jameson they all write about some woman in their poetry well I suppose he wont find many like me where softly sighs of love the light guitar where poetry is in the air the blue sea and the moon shining so beautifully coming back on the nightboat from Tarifa the lighthouse at Europa point the guitar that fellow played was so expressive will I ever go back there again all new faces two glancing eyes a lattice hid Ill sing that for him theyre my eyes if hes anything of a poet two eyes as darkly bright as loves own star arent those beautiful words as loves young star itll be a change the Lord knows to have an intelligent person to talk to about yourself not always listening to him and Billy Prescotts ad and Keyess ad and Tom the Devils ad then if anything goes wrong in their business we have to suffer Im sure hes very distinguished Id like to meet a man like that God not those other ruck besides hes young those fine young men I could see down in Margate strand bathingplace from the side of the rock standing up in the sun naked like a God or something and then plunging into the sea with them why arent all men like that thered be some consolation for a woman like that lovely little statue he bought I could look at him all day long curly head and his shoulders his finger up for you to listen theres real beauty and poetry for you I often felt I wanted to kiss him all over also his lovely young cock there so simple I wouldnt mind taking him in my mouth if nobody was looking as if it was asking you to suck it so clean and white he looks with his boyish face I would too in 1/2 a minute even if some of it went down what its only like gruel or the dew theres no danger besides hed be so clean compared with those pigs of men I suppose never dream of washing it from I years end to the other the most of them only thats what gives the women the moustaches Im sure itll be grand if I can only get in with a handsome young poet at my age Ill throw them the 1st thing in the morning till I see if the wishcard comes out or Ill try pairing the lady herself and see if he comes out Ill read and study all I can find or learn a bit off by heart if I knew who he likes so he wont think me stupid if he thinks all women are the same and I can teach him the other part Ill make him feel all over him till he half faints under me then hell write about me lover and mistress publicly too with our 2 photographs in all the papers when he becomes famous O but then what am I going to do about him though (...)

James Joyce, Ulysses