Let’s do something fun. I have extracted, from the impenetrable text of ch. 3 below, the few scraps of text (or clothesline or longline, as I call them), knotted them all together, and placed just that underneath the original text. With a little help, pretty legible, if dry.
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. . . . They came down the steps from Leahy’s terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand.. . . Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs.. . . His pace slackened. . . . The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man’s ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. . . . He halted.. . . He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.. . . His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. . . . He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness.. . . He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. . . . Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. . . . He lifted his feet up from the suck, and turned back by the mole of boulders. . . .
He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool
of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike. . . .
A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat,
sunk in sand. . . .
A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. . . .
The dog’s bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. . . .