Call the Dancers, a short novel, almost a novella, is set in Dublin and features a punk band, Bloom Jimmy, who only perform the words of James Joyce. The lights went out. Bloom Jimmy returned to the stage.”Like to be that rock she sat on,” Jack announced quietly and then sang, “‘O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do love sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul to perfume your wife black hair heave under embon senorita young eyes Mulvey plump years dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in her next her next.'” The drums and guitars began. He began screaming. “Darling, I saw your! I saw all! Darling, I saw your! I saw all! Friction of the position! Like to be that rock she sat on! Like to be that rock she sat on! Like to be that rock she sat on!”   The music was churning; the crowd smoked and thrashed. Stephanie was glad for the shelter provided by Nicholas. Joyce or not. It wasn’t good. What would he think of this? She had read a little of Ulysses, but just the sections about sex, penises being hat racks and crowbars. What was her name? Milly. The wife was Milly. That wasn’t right. Molly. That was it. Her name was Molly. Ulysses intimidated her. All of the masterpieces did, To the Lighthouse, those, consciousness and no story.