Ulysses: A Facsimile of the First Edition Published in Paris in 1922

Ulysses: A Facsimile of the First Edition Published in Paris in 1922

3.8 162
by James Joyce, Orchises Press
     
 

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The Orchises Ulysses is a hardcover, sewn, full-size reproduction of the first edition as published in Paris in 1922. Unlike the facsimile in the Oxford World Classics, the dimensions of the pages in the Orchises facsimile are those of the original volume -- hence it is possible to read the book comfortably. Orchises has not altered the sequence of front matter

Overview

The Orchises Ulysses is a hardcover, sewn, full-size reproduction of the first edition as published in Paris in 1922. Unlike the facsimile in the Oxford World Classics, the dimensions of the pages in the Orchises facsimile are those of the original volume -- hence it is possible to read the book comfortably. Orchises has not altered the sequence of front matter or 'corrected' broken type. The colophon has been retained. The lettering on and the color of the front cover are the same as those seen on the volume published in 1922 in Paris by Sylvia Beach's Shakespeare and Company. As many know, the text of Ulysses is a complex one. Because the 1922 first printing was the one on which Joyce worked most intensively, it presents, even with its imperfections and tyopgraphical errors, the most reliable text for the general reader and for the scholar. The Orchises Ulysses is printed on acid-balanced paper, is smythe sewn, and is bound in Roxite grade B cloth. It is designed for both the shelf of a public library and the collection of a private reader.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780914061700
Publisher:
Orchises Press
Publication date:
04/01/1998
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
732
Product dimensions:
7.40(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.80(d)

Read an Excerpt



Chapter One

    Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

    — Introibo ad altare Dei.

    Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:

    — Come up. Kinch. Come up, you fearful Jesuit.

    Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

    Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.

    — Back to barracks, he said sternly.

    He added in a preacher's tone:

    — For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

    He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call then paused awhile in rapt attention, hiseven white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.

    — Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?

    He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

    — The mockery of it, he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek.

    He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

    Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.

    — My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

    He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

    — Will he come? The jejune jesuit.

    Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

    — Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

    — Yes, my love?

    — How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

    Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

    — God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know. Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knifeblade.

    He shaved warily over his chin.

    — He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?

    — A woful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

    — I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. It he stays on here I am off.

    Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razor blade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

    — Scutter, he cried thickly.

    He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:

    — Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

    Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

    — The bard's noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you?

    He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

    — God, he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.

    Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown.

    — Our mighty mother, Buck Mulligan said.

    He turned abruptly his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.

    — The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.

    — Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

    — You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you ...

    He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.

    — But a lovely mummer, he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all.

    He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

    Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

    Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

    — Ah, poor dogsbody, he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

    — They fit well enough, Stephen answered.

    Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

    — The mockery of it, he said contentedly, secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed.

    — Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.

    — He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers.

    He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.

    Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

    — That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan says you have g. p. i. He's up in Dottyville with Conolly Norman. Genera paralysis of the insane.

    He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.

    — Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard.

    Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack, hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.

    — I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.

    Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

    — The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you.

    Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:

    — It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant.

    Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them.

    — It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them.

    Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The cold steel pen.

    — Cracked lookingglass of a servant. Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.

    Cranly's arm. His arm.

    — And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

    Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another, O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!

    Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

    To ourselves ... new paganism ... omphalos.

    — Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night.

    — Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now?

    They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.

    — Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.

    — Yes, what is it ? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.

    He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes.

    Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:

    — Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?

    Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:

    — What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?

    — You were making tea, Stephen said, and I went across the landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawing room. She asked you who was in your room.

    — Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.

    — You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is beastly dead.

    A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's cheek.

    — Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?

    He shook his constraint from him nervously.

    — And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting room. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.

    He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:

    — I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

    — Of what, then? Buck Mulligan asked.

    — Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.

    Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.

    — O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.

    He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks.

    A voice within the tower called loudly:

    — Are you up there, Mulligan?

    — I'm coming. Buck Mulligan answered.

    He turned towards Stephen and said:

    — Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

    His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof:

    — Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding.

    His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out or the stairhead:


And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery
For Fergus rules the brazen cars.


    Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.

    A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay behind him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it above in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery.

    Where now?

    Her secrets: old feather fans, tassled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomine of Turko the terrible and laughed with others when he sang:


I am the boy
That can enjoy
Invisibility.


    Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.


And no more turn aside and brood.


    Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts.

    In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

    Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet : iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

    Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!

    No, mother. Let me be and let me live.

    — Kinch ahoy!

    Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

    — Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It's all right.

    — I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.

    — Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.

    His head disappeared and reappeared.

    — I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.

    — I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

    — The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.

    — If you want it, Stephen said.

    — Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.

    He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent:


O, won't we have a merry time,
Drinking whisky, beer and wine,
On coronation
Coronation day?
O, won't we have a merry time
On coronation day?


    Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship?

    He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

    In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form moved briskly about the hearth to and fro, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

    — We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?

    Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.

    — Have you the key? a voice asked.

    — Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked.

(Continues...)

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Ulysses 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 162 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What people don't understand when reading Joyce's Ulysses- is that it is not so much the plot of the book that is important but way the book is written; people claim that it's boring. It is complicated but that is what makes the book the third most researched piece of literature...right behind Shakespeare's work and the bible. That alone says a lot about the work. The complicatedness was intentional. Joyce is a genius and this proves it. How many authors can claim they've parodied the greatest figures in literature--Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, and the bible? Does anyone realize that each chapter is written from a different character's point of view, each chapter is written in a different style, each chapter's is written to follow Homer's Oddyssey?

Ulysses is not made for people who want to sit back and just read and not think. It is not made to entertain people. It is written for people who APPRECIATE LITERATURE.
Speedball More than 1 year ago
A first reading of Ulysses can be daunting, if not downright frustrating. Take it in bite-sized chunks and keep an excellent description (such as The New Bloomsday Book by Blamires) by your side and you'll be on your way. A previous reading of The Odyssey, though useful, is by no means required, as Joyce draws on myriad sources in addition to Homer. Subsequent readings will come much more easily and reveal a mastery of the language that cannot be compared to any other book or author. Once you get the hang of it, you'll realize it isn't nearly as opaque (or pretentious) as it's made out to be. It's actually laugh out loud funny in many places. Even better, find an audio version of the book or read it aloud (especially the Penelope chapter -- the last in the book). It's a book to be heard as well as read. Also, there are DVDs of a walking tour of Joyce's Dublin that I found enormously useful in adding context to the book -- the city is itself a character.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This IS the greatest and best book ever written, but casual readers beware, it is also the most difficult to read book ever written.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This IS a great novel--probably the high-water mark of the art form. Brilliant by any measure, it caries so many layers of meaning that one feels like Krishna's mother, when she saw all the universe in her son's open mouth.... Tenzing--I strongly suggest you consult one of the excellent works that break down some of the stickier themes in Ulysses. My favorites are Joseph Campbell's Mythic Worlds Modern Words (which has an amazing section on that very weird word, CONTRASMAGNIFICANJEWELBANGTANTIABILITY, along with much else); and Blamire's wonderful Bloomsday Book, which I think came out in a revised edition a few years back.
K-Star More than 1 year ago
It is not formatted at all, just blocks of text and dialogue with no spacing between. It's already a tough read without trying to figure what is being narrated and what the characters are saying. Do not buy the New Century Books edition. This was my first e-book purchase and I am totally disappointed. I am obviously going to have to spend more time previewing copies if just anyone can publish an e-book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Most readers probably won't be able to approach this famous novel without some outside aid, but don't let that deter you. I've read parts of it many times and still haven't any idea what the central theme is supposed to be, yet it remains a fascinating work. The book is less about plot and character as it is about the creative use of language - stream-of-consciousness, changing narrators, parodies and other rhetorical devices are some of the techniques Joyce uses to the fullest. This is one of those rare books that can be read over and over and something new understood each time. For that alone, I recommend this to curious readers.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
While skimming this book a few minutes after buying it, I found two errors in the text: a misspelled word on one page and a paragraph accidentally repeated on another. A line-by-line comparison would probably find many more. This kind of sloppiness might be acceptable in some cheap digital reprints, but not in a book like Ulysses, whose precise wording is an important part of its meaning. Unfortunately, Barnes & Noble offers multiple versions of Ulysses for the Nook but tells you nothing about how they were prepared, so the other versions might be just as bad. But definitely don't buy this one.
Guest More than 1 year ago
It is the best novel but also the most demanding one. In order to properly read it it took me four months and a course in Columbia University but every single minute I´ve spend with it couldnt be more intense and fruitfull. It takes a lot of work but the reward is inmense. Now I'm reading finnegans wake and each page is so full with connections, references, etc.. that it will take me at least 4 or 5 months, I can wait!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Ulysees can be a bit inaccessible at times but well worth the initial confusion. Perhaps the finest work of modernist literature I have read, Joyce's stream of consciousness technique is often imitated but has never been equaled. I WOULD however, suggest reading Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man BEFORE tackling this difficult work.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have to confess to being torn concerning this book labeled by many as the best of the 20th Century. I can appreciate the achievement: paralleling Homer with each chapter while employing just about every literary device available is to be commended. Bloom is truly a creation fit for modern literature. On the other hand, I get the feeling Joyce is toying with me as I read, flaunting his genius. Perhaps he has licence to do so. When a book is able to generate such potent responses, it is great. Several readings are needed to appreciate this book. My professor in Joyce seminar poured over this book for years and found new insights each time. The Cliff's Notes to Ulysses are not very good. For a better reading aid, opt for the Bloomsday Book instead (yes, you will need an aid of some sort).
BoysRGreat More than 1 year ago
My son and I are reading Joyces' Ulysses.  Superb experience!  Oct 15, 2008 review is spot-on.
Seghetto More than 1 year ago
I read this book twice, and it still stands out in my mind as the most creative use of English in the history of the language. Taking the plot of a classic work is not unique, the way it was executed in this book was. Ulysses doesn't explore any of the great secrets of life. It doesn't seek to take on some great social issue. It is just a great work of art. It is difficult to understand, but with such an ambitious work this is no surprise. Any fan of English literature needs to read this.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I've tried, but I have not been able to finish this. It's not easy reading, so it may just be that it requires longer spans of reading time than I am willing to give.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Carl Jung 'diagnosed' this book as 'schizoid,' and it's a fact that Joyce's daughter Lucia had the disease schizophrenia. I studied this disordered work fifteen years ago as a senior in college, and two years later I had my initial episode of the dreaded mental illness schizophrenia. I believe that my illness would have happened anyway - but, just in case, I would strongly caution those who are already diagnosed away from not only _Ulysses_ but also _Finnegan_ and anything by Ezra Pound (especially _The Cantos_). I love the fact that Joyce rips anti-Semitism to shreds in _Ulysses_, but the schizoid language in places is just too much for me and I suppose others like me to handle. If you do get an overdose of Joyce, a pretty down-to-earth antidote is Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This e-edition claims to have helpful annotations. There were none that I could see. Caveat emptor.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Sits in his throne.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is not a place for personal chats and solicitations.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ok. I think we'll be back. Bye Dad! Guys, say bye to your parents.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Bye dad. And remember.... my name is payton:)
venjuemagi More than 1 year ago
A challenge for most (myself included), but the trick is not to expect a plot driven story (something we're all too expectant of these days). Just read it for the insights and the interesting use of words.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Walks in
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Thank you, and goodbye.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Deliver the wine too! *tosses him a bag of drachma and races after Vic.*