Bronze
by
gold
heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn. Chips, picking chips
off
rocky
thumbnail, chips. Horrid!
And
gold
flushed more.
A
husky
fifenote blew. Blew. Blue
bloom
is
on
the. Goldpinnacled hair.
A
jumping
rose
on
satiny
breast
of
satin,
rose
of
Castile. Trilling, trilling: Idolores. Peep! Who's
in
the... peepofgold? Tink cried
to
bronze
in
pity.
And
a
call, pure,
long
and
throbbing. Longindying call. Decoy.
Soft
word. But look: the
bright
stars fade. Notes chirruping answer. O rose! Castile. The
morn
is
breaking. Jingle jingle jaunted jingling.
Coin
rang. Clock clacked. Jingle. Bloo. Boomed crashing chords.
When
love
absorbs. War! War! The tympanum.
A
sail!
A
veil
awave
upon
the waves. Lost.
Throstle
fluted. All
is
lost now. Horn. Hawhorn.
When
first
he
saw. Alas!
Full
tup.
Full
throb. Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring. Martha! Come! Clapclap. Clipclap. Clappyclap. Goodgod henev erheard inall.
Deaf
bald
Pat brought
pad
knife took up.
A
moonlit nightcall: far, far. I feel
so
sad. P. S.
So
lonely blooming. Listen! The spiked
and
winding cold seahorn.
Have
you
the? Each,
and
for
other,
plash
and
silent
roar. Pearls:
when
she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.
You
don't?
Did
not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd.
With
a
cock
with
a
carra. Black. Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do.
Wait
while
you
wait. Hee hee.
Wait
while
you
hee. But wait!
Low
in
dark
middle
earth. Embedded ore. Naminedamine.
Preacher
is
he: All gone. All fallen. Tiny, her
tremulous
fernfoils
of
maidenhair. Amen!
He
gnashed
in
fury. Fro. To, fro.
A
baton cool protruding. Bronzelydia
by
Minagold.
By
bronze,
by
gold,
in
oceangreen
of
shadow. Bloom.
Old
Bloom.
One
rapped,
one
tapped,
with
a
carra,
with
a
cock.
Pray
for
him! Pray,
good
people!
His
gouty fingers nakkering.
Big
Benaben.
Big
Benben.
Last
rose
Castile
of
summer
left
bloom
I feel
so
sad
alone. Pwee!
Little
wind piped wee. True men.
Lid
Ker
Cow
De
and
Doll. Ay, ay.
Like
you
men.
Will
lift your tschink
with
tschunk. Fff! Oo!
Where
bronze
from
anear?
Where
gold
from
afar?
Where
hoofs? Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl.
Then
not
till
then. My eppripfftaph.
Be
pfrwritt. Done. Begin!
Bronze
by
gold,
miss
Douce's
head
by
miss
Kennedy's head,
over
the crossblind
of
the Ormond
bar
heard the viceregal hoofs
go
by, ringing steel. —Is
that
her? asked
miss
Kennedy. —Exquisite contrast,
miss
Kennedy said.
When
all agog
miss
Douce said eagerly: —Look
at
the
fellow
in
the
tall
silk. —Who? Where?
gold
asked
more
eagerly. —In the
second
carriage,
miss
Douce's
wet
lips said, laughing
in
the sun. He's looking.
Mind
till
I see.
She
darted, bronze,
to
the backmost corner, flattening her face against the
pane
in
a
halo
of
hurried breath. Her
wet
lips tittered: —He's killed looking back.
She
laughed: —O wept! Aren't men
frightful
idiots?
With
sadness.
Miss
Kennedy sauntered sadly
from
bright
light, twining
a
loose
hair
behind
an ear. Sauntering sadly,
gold
no more,
she
twisted twined
a
hair. Sadly
she
twined
in
sauntering
gold
hair
behind
a
curving ear. —It's
them
has the
fine
times, sadly
then
she
said.
A
man. Bloowho went
by
by
Moulang's pipes bearing
in
his
breast
the sweets
of
sin,
by
Wine's antiques,
in
memory
bearing
sweet
sinful
words,
by
Carroll's dusky battered plate,
for
Raoul. The boots
to
them,
them
in
the bar,
them
barmaids came.
For
them
unheeding
him
he
banged
on
the
counter
his
tray
of
chattering china.
And
—There's your teas,
he
said.
Miss
Kennedy
with
manners transposed the teatray
down
to
an upturned lithia crate,
safe
from
eyes, low. —What
is
it?
loud
boots unmannerly asked. —Find out,
miss
Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint.
A
haughty
bronze
replied: —I'll
complain
to
Mrs
de
Massey
on
you
if
I
hear
any
more
of
your
impertinent
insolence. —Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely,
as
he
retreated
as
she
threatened
as
he
had come. Bloom.
On
her flower frowning
miss
Douce said: —Most aggravating
that
young
brat
is.
If
he
doesn't
conduct
himself
I'll
wring
his
ear
for
him
a
yard
long.
Ladylike
in
exquisite
contrast. —Take no notice,
miss
Kennedy rejoined.
She
poured
in
a
teacup tea,
then
back
in
the teapot tea.
They
cowered under
their
reef
of
counter, waiting
on
footstools, crates upturned, waiting
for
their
teas
to
draw.
They
pawed
their
blouses, both
of
black
satin,
two
and
nine
a
yard, waiting
for
their
teas
to
draw,
and
two
and
seven. Yes,
bronze
from
anear,
by
gold
from
afar, heard
steel
from
anear, hoofs ring
from
afar,
and
heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel. —Am I awfully sunburnt?
Miss
bronze
unbloused her neck. —No, said
miss
Kennedy.
It
gets brown after.
Did
you
try
the
borax
with
the
cherry
laurel
water?
Miss
Douce halfstood
to
see
her skin
askance
in
the barmirror gildedlettered
where
hock
and
claret
glasses shimmered
and
in
their
midst
a
shell. —And
leave
it
to
my hands,
she
said. —Try
it
with
the glycerine,
miss
Kennedy advised. Bidding her
neck
and
hands adieu
miss
Douce —Those things
only
bring
out
a
rash, replied, reseated. I asked
that
old
fogey
in
Boyd's
for
something
for
my skin.
Miss
Kennedy, pouring
now
a
fulldrawn tea, grimaced
and
prayed: —O, don't remind
me
of
him
for
mercy' sake! —But
wait
till
I
tell
you,
miss
Douce entreated.
Sweet
tea
miss
Kennedy having poured
with
milk
plugged both
two
ears
with
little
fingers. —No, don't,
she
cried. —I won't listen,
she
cried. But Bloom?
Miss
Douce grunted
in
snuffy fogey's tone: —For your what? says he.
Miss
Kennedy unplugged her ears
to
hear,
to
speak: but said, but prayed again: —Don't
let
me
think
of
him
or
I'll expire. The
hideous
old
wretch!
That
night
in
the Antient
Concert
Rooms.
She
sipped distastefully her brew,
hot
tea,
a
sip, sipped,
sweet
tea. —Here
he
was,
miss
Douce said, cocking her
bronze
head
three
quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa! Shrill
shriek
of
laughter
sprang
from
miss
Kennedy's throat.
Miss
Douce huffed
and
snorted
down
her nostrils
that
quivered imperthnthn
like
a
snout
in
quest. —O! shrieking,
miss
Kennedy cried.
Will
you
ever
forget
his
goggle
eye?
Miss
Douce chimed
in
in
deep
bronze
laughter, shouting: —And your
other
eye! Bloowhose dark
eye
read Aaron Figatner's name.
Why
do
I
always
think
Figather?
Gathering
figs, I think.
And
Prosper
Lore's huguenot name.
By
Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by. Bluerobed,
white
under,
come
to
me.
God
they
believe
she
is:
or
goddess.
Those
today. I
could
not see.
That
fellow
spoke.
A
student.
After
with
Dedalus' son.
He
might
be
Mulligan. All
comely
virgins.
That
brings
those
rakes
of
fellows in: her white.
By
went
his
eyes. The sweets
of
sin.
Sweet
are
the sweets.
Of
sin.
In
a
giggling peal
young
goldbronze voices blended, Douce
with
Kennedy your
other
eye.
They
threw
young
heads back,
bronze
gigglegold,
to
let
freefly
their
laughter, screaming, your other, signals
to
each
other, high piercing notes. Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah, fordone,
their
mirth
died down.
Miss
Kennedy lipped her
cup
again, raised, drank
a
sip
and
gigglegiggled.
Miss
Douce, bending
over
the teatray, ruffled
again
her
nose
and
rolled
droll
fattened eyes.
Again
Kennygiggles, stooping, her
fair
pinnacles
of
hair, stooping, her
tortoise
napecomb showed, spluttered
out
of
her
mouth
her tea, choking
in
tea
and
laughter, coughing
with
choking, crying: —O greasy eyes!
Imagine
being married
to
a
man
like
that!
she
cried.
With
his
bit
of
beard! Douce gave
full
vent
to
a
splendid
yell,
a
full
yell
of
full
woman, delight, joy, indignation. —Married
to
the greasy nose!
she
yelled. Shrill,
with
deep
laughter, after,
gold
after
bronze,
they
urged
each
each
to
peal
after
peal, ringing
in
changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep,
to
laughter
after
laughter.
And
then
laughed more. Greasy I knows. Exhausted, breathless,
their
shaken heads
they
laid, braided
and
pinnacled
by
glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating (O!), all breathless. Married
to
Bloom,
to
greaseabloom. —O saints above!
miss
Douce said, sighed
above
her jumping rose. I wished I hadn't laughed
so
much. I feel all wet. —O,
miss
Douce!
miss
Kennedy protested.
You
horrid
thing!
And
flushed
yet
more
(you horrid!),
more
goldenly.
By
Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom,
by
Ceppi's virgins,
bright
of
their
oils. Nannetti's father hawked
those
things about, wheedling
at
doors
as
I.
Religion
pays.
Must
see
him
for
that
par.
Eat
first. I want. Not yet.
At
four,
she
said.
Time
ever
passing. Clockhands turning. On.
Where
eat? The Clarence, Dolphin. On.
For
Raoul. Eat.
If
I
net
five
guineas
with
those
ads. The
violet
silk
petticoats. Not yet. The sweets
of
sin. Flushed less,
still
less, goldenly paled.
Into
their
bar
strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips
off
one
of
his
rocky
thumbnails. Chips.
He
strolled. —O,
welcome
back,
miss
Douce.
He
held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays? —Tiptop.
He
hoped
she
had
nice
weather
in
Rostrevor. —Gorgeous,
she
said.
Look
at
the
holy
show
I am. Lying
out
on
the
strand
all day.
Bronze
whiteness. —That
was
exceedingly
naughty
of
you, Mr Dedalus told her
and
pressed her
hand
indulgently. Tempting
poor
simple
males.
Miss
Douce
of
satin
douced her
arm
away. —O
go
away!
she
said. You're
very
simple, I don't think.
He
was. —Well
now
I am,
he
mused. I looked
so
simple
in
the
cradle
they
christened
me
simple
Simon. —You
must
have
been
a
doaty,
miss
Douce
made
answer.
And
what
did
the doctor order today? —Well now,
he
mused, whatever
you
say
yourself. I
think
I'll
trouble
you
for
some
fresh
water
and
a
half glass
of
whisky. Jingle. —With the greatest alacrity,
miss
Douce agreed.
With
grace
of
alacrity
towards
the
mirror
gilt
Cantrell
and
Cochrane's
she
turned herself.
With
grace
she
tapped
a
measure
of
gold
whisky
from
her
crystal
keg.
Forth
from
the
skirt
of
his
coat Mr Dedalus brought
pouch
and
pipe.
Alacrity
she
served.
He
blew through the
flue
two
husky
fifenotes. —By Jove,
he
mused, I
often
wanted
to
see
the Mourne mountains.
Must
be
a
great
tonic
in
the air
down
there. But
a
long
threatening comes
at
last,
they
say. Yes. Yes. Yes.
He
fingered shreds
of
hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's,
into
the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing. Mute.
None
nought
said nothing. Yes.
Gaily
miss
Douce polished
a
tumbler, trilling: —Was Mr Lidwell
in
today?
In
came Lenehan. Round
him
peered Lenehan. Mr
Bloom
reached Essex bridge. Yes, Mr
Bloom
crossed
bridge
of
Yessex.
To
Martha I
must
write.
Buy
paper. Daly's.
Girl
there civil. Bloom.
Old
Bloom. Blue
bloom
is
on
the rye. —He
was
in
at
lunchtime,
miss
Douce said. Lenehan came forward. —Was Mr Boylan looking
for
me?
He
asked.
She
answered: —Miss Kennedy,
was
Mr Boylan
in
while
I
was
upstairs?
She
asked.
Miss
voice
of
Kennedy answered,
a
second
teacup poised, her gaze
upon
a
page: —No.
He
was
not.
Miss
gaze
of
Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell
wound
his
round
body
round. —Peep! Who's
in
the corner? No glance
of
Kennedy rewarding
him
he
yet
made
overtures.
To
mind
her stops.
To
read
only
the
black
ones: round o
and
crooked ess. Jingle
jaunty
jingle. Girlgold
she
read
and
did
not glance.
Take
no notice.
She
took no notice
while
he
read
by
rote
a
solfa
fable
for
her, plappering flatly: —Ah
fox
met ah stork. Said
thee
fox
too
thee
stork:
Will
you
put
your
bill
down
inn
my troath
and
pull
upp ah bone?
He
droned
in
vain.
Miss
Douce turned
to
her
tea
aside.
He
sighed aside: —Ah me! O my!
He
greeted Mr Dedalus
and
got
a
nod. —Greetings
from
the
famous
son
of
a
famous
father. —Who
may
he
be? Mr Dedalus asked. Lenehan opened
most
genial
arms. Who? —Who
may
he
be?
he
asked.
Can
you
ask? Stephen, the
youthful
bard. Dry. Mr Dedalus,
famous
father, laid
by
his
dry
filled pipe. —I see,
he
said. I didn't
recognise
him
for
the moment. I
hear
he
is
keeping
very
select
company.
Have
you
seen
him
lately?
He
had.
He
smiled
at
bronze's teabathed lips,
at
listening lips
and
eyes: MacHugh, Dublin's
most
brilliant
scribe
and
editor
and
that
minstrel
boy
of
the wild
wet
west
who
is
known
by
the euphonious
appellation
of
the O'Madden Burke.
After
an
interval
Mr Dedalus raised
his
grog
and
—That
must
have
been
highly
diverting, said he. I see.
He
see.
He
drank.
With
faraway
mourning
mountain
eye.
Set
down
his
glass.
He
looked
towards
the
saloon
door. —I
see
you
have
moved the piano. —The tuner
was
in
today,
miss
Douce replied, tuning
it
for
the smoking
concert
and
I
never
heard
such
an
exquisite
player. —Is
that
a
fact? —Didn't he,
miss
Kennedy? The
real
classical,
you
know.
And
blind too,
poor
fellow. Not
twenty
I'm
sure
he
was. —Is
that
a
fact? Mr Dedalus said.
He
drank
and
strayed away. —So
sad
to
look
at
his
face,
miss
Douce condoled. God's
curse
on
bitch's bastard. Tink
to
her
pity
cried
a
diner's bell.
To
the
door
of
the
bar
and
diningroom came
bald
Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter
of
Ormond.
Lager
for
diner.
Lager
without
alacrity
she
served.
With
patience
Lenehan waited
for
Boylan
with
impatience,
for
jinglejaunty blazes boy. Upholding the
lid
he
(who?) gazed
in
the
coffin
(coffin?)
at
the
oblique
triple
(piano!) wires.
He
pressed (the
same
who
pressed indulgently her hand),
soft
pedalling,
a
triple
of
keys
to
see
the thicknesses
of
felt advancing,
to
hear
the muffled hammerfall
in
action.
Two
sheets cream
vellum
paper
one
reserve
two
envelopes
when
I
was
in
Wisdom
Hely's
wise
Bloom
in
Daly's Henry Flower bought.
Are
you
not
happy
in
your home? Flower
to
console
me
and
a
pin
cuts lo.
Means
something,
language
of
flow.
Was
it
a
daisy?
Innocence
that
is. Respectable
girl
meet
after
mass.
Thanks
awfully muchly.
Wise
Bloom
eyed
on
the
door
a
poster,
a
swaying
mermaid
smoking mid
nice
waves.
Smoke
mermaids, coolest whiff
of
all.
Hair
streaming: lovelorn.
For
some
man.
For
Raoul.
He
eyed
and
saw
afar
on
Essex
bridge
a
gay
hat
riding
on
a
jaunting car.
It
is. Again.
Third
time. Coincidence. Jingling
on
supple
rubbers
it
jaunted
from
the
bridge
to
Ormond quay. Follow.
Risk
it.
Go
quick.
At
four.
Near
now. Out. —Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared
to
say. —Aha... I
was
forgetting... Excuse... —And four.
At
four she. Winsomely
she
on
Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi
qui
go. Ternoon.
Think
you're the
only
pebble
on
the beach? Does
that
to
all.
For
men.
In
drowsy
silence
gold
bent
on
her page.
From
the
saloon
a
call
came,
long
in
dying.
That
was
a
tuningfork the tuner had
that
he
forgot
that
he
now
struck.
A
call
again.
That
he
now
poised
that
it
now
throbbed.
You
hear?
It
throbbed, pure, purer, softly
and
softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer
in
dying call. Pat paid
for
diner's popcorked bottle:
and
over
tumbler,
tray
and
popcorked bottle
ere
he
went
he
whispered,
bald
and
bothered,
with
miss
Douce.
A
voiceless
song
sang
from
within, singing:
A
duodene
of
birdnotes chirruped
bright
treble
answer
under
sensitive
hands. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called
to
a
voice
to
sing the strain
of
dewy
morn,
of
youth,
of
love's leavetaking, life's, love's morn. Lenehan's lips
over
the
counter
lisped
a
low
whistle
of
decoy. —But
look
this
way,
he
said,
rose
of
Castile. Jingle jaunted
by
the curb
and
stopped.
She
rose
and
closed her reading,
rose
of
Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. —Did
she
fall
or
was
she
pushed?
he
asked her.
She
answered, slighting: —Ask no questions
and
you'll
hear
no lies.
Like
lady, ladylike. Blazes Boylan's
smart
tan
shoes creaked
on
the barfloor
where
he
strode. Yes,
gold
from
anear
by
bronze
from
afar. Lenehan heard
and
knew
and
hailed him: —See the conquering
hero
comes.
Between
the
car
and
window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero.
See
me
he
might. The
seat
he
sat on: warm.
Black
wary
hecat walked
towards
Richie Goulding's
legal
bag, lifted aloft, saluting. —I heard
you
were
round, said Blazes Boylan.
He
touched
to
fair
miss
Kennedy
a
rim
of
his
slanted straw.
She
smiled
on
him. But
sister
bronze
outsmiled her, preening
for
him
her richer hair,
a
bosom
and
a
rose.
Smart
Boylan bespoke potions. —What's your cry? Glass
of
bitter? Glass
of
bitter, please,
and
a
sloegin
for
me. Wire
in
yet? Not yet.
At
four she.
Who
said four? Cowley's
red
lugs
and
bulging
apple
in
the
door
of
the sheriff's office. Avoid. Goulding
a
chance.
What
is
he
doing
in
the Ormond?
Car
waiting. Wait. Hello.
Where
off
to?
Something
to
eat? I
too
was
just.
In
here. What, Ormond?
Best
value
in
Dublin.
Is
that
so? Diningroom.
Sit
tight
there. See, not
be
seen. I
think
I'll
join
you.
Come
on. Richie led on.
Bloom
followed bag.
Dinner
fit
for
a
prince.
Miss
Douce reached high
to
take
a
flagon, stretching her
satin
arm, her bust,
that
all but burst,
so
high. —O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping
at
each
stretch. O! But easily
she
seized her
prey
and
led
it
low
in
triumph. —Why don't
you
grow? asked Blazes Boylan. Shebronze, dealing
from
her
oblique
jar
thick
syrupy
liquor
for
his
lips, looked
as
it
flowed (flower
in
his
coat:
who
gave him?),
and
syrupped
with
her voice: —Fine
goods
in
small parcels.
That
is
to
say
she. Neatly
she
poured slowsyrupy sloe. —Here's fortune, Blazes said.
He
pitched
a
broad
coin
down.
Coin
rang. —Hold on, said Lenehan,
till
I... —Fortune,
he
wished, lifting
his
bubbled ale. —Sceptre
will
win
in
a
canter,
he
said. —I plunged
a
bit, said Boylan winking
and
drinking. Not
on
my own,
you
know. Fancy
of
a
friend
of
mine. Lenehan
still
drank
and
grinned
at
his
tilted
ale
and
at
miss
Douce's lips
that
all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled. Idolores. The
eastern
seas. Clock whirred.
Miss
Kennedy passed
their
way
(flower,
wonder
who
gave), bearing
away
teatray. Clock clacked.
Miss
Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister.
It
clanged. Clock clacked.
Fair
one
of
Egypt teased
and
sorted
in
the
till
and
hummed
and
handed coins
in
change.
Look
to
the west.
A
clack.
For
me. —What
time
is
that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four? O'clock. Lenehan, small eyes ahunger
on
her humming,
bust
ahumming, tugged Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve. —Let's
hear
the time,
he
said. The
bag
of
Goulding, Collis,
Ward
led
Bloom
by
ryebloom flowered tables. Aimless
he
chose
with
agitated aim,
bald
Pat attending,
a
table
near
the door.
Be
near.
At
four. Has
he
forgotten?
Perhaps
a
trick. Not come:
whet
appetite. I couldn't do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited. Sparkling
bronze
azure
eyed Blazure's skyblue
bow
and
eyes. —Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one.
He
never
heard. High,
a
high
note
pealed
in
the
treble
clear. Bronzedouce communing
with
her
rose
that
sank
and
rose
sought Blazes Boylan's flower
and
eyes. —Please, please.
He
pleaded
over
returning phrases
of
avowal. —Afterwits,
miss
Douce promised coyly.
She
looked. Quick.
Miss
Kenn
out
of
earshot.
Sudden
bent.
Two
kindling faces watched her bend. Quavering the chords strayed
from
the air, found
it
again, lost chord,
and
lost
and
found it, faltering. Bending,
she
nipped
a
peak
of
skirt
above
her knee. Delayed. Taunted
them
still, bending, suspending,
with
wilful
eyes. Smack.
She
set
free
sudden
in
rebound her nipped
elastic
garter
smackwarm against her smackable
a
woman's warmhosed thigh.
She
smilesmirked
supercilious
(wept! aren't men?), but, lightward gliding,
mild
she
smiled
on
Boylan. —You're the
essence
of
vulgarity,
she
in
gliding said. Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed
to
fat
lips
his
chalice, drank
off
his
chalice
tiny, sucking the
last
fat
violet
syrupy drops.
His
spellbound eyes went after,
after
her gliding
head
as
it
went
down
the
bar
by
mirrors,
gilded
arch
for
ginger
ale,
hock
and
claret
glasses shimmering,
a
spiky shell,
where
it
concerted, mirrored,
bronze
with
sunnier bronze. Yes,
bronze
from
anearby. —I'm off, said Boylan
with
impatience.
He
slid
his
chalice
brisk
away, grasped
his
change. —Wait
a
shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted
to
tell
you. Tom Rochford... —Come
on
to
blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going. Lenehan gulped
to
go. —Got the
horn
or
what?
he
said. Wait. I'm coming.
He
followed the
hasty
creaking shoes but stood
by
nimbly
by
the threshold, saluting forms,
a
bulky
with
a
slender. —How
do
you
do, Mr Dollard? —Eh?
How
do?
How
do?
Ben
Dollard's
vague
bass
answered, turning an
instant
from
Father Cowley's woe.
He
won't
give
you
any
trouble, Bob. Alf Bergan
will
speak
to
the
long
fellow. We'll
put
a
barleystraw
in
that
Judas Iscariot's
ear
this
time. Sighing Mr Dedalus came through the saloon,
a
finger
soothing an eyelid. —Hoho,
we
will,
Ben
Dollard yodled jollily.
Come
on, Simon.
Give
us
a
ditty.
We
heard the piano.
Bald
Pat, bothered waiter, waited
for
drink
orders. Power
for
Richie.
And
Bloom?
Let
me
see. Not
make
him
walk twice.
His
corns. Four now.
How
warm
this
black
is.
Course
nerves
a
bit. Refracts (is it?) heat.
Let
me
see. Cider. Yes, bottle
of
cider. —What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I
was
only
vamping, man. —Come on,
come
on,
Ben
Dollard called. Begone
dull
care. Come, Bob.
He
ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before
them
(hold
that
fellow
with
the:
hold
him
now)
into
the saloon.
He
plumped
him
Dollard
on
the stool.
His
gouty paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt.
Bald
Pat
in
the doorway met tealess
gold
returning. Bothered,
he
wanted Power
and
cider.
Bronze
by
the window, watched,
bronze
from
afar. Jingle
a
tinkle jaunted.
Bloom
heard
a
jing,
a
little
sound. He's off.
Light
sob
of
breath
Bloom
sighed
on
the
silent
bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear. —Love
and
War, Ben, Mr Dedalus said.
God
be
with
old
times. —Poor
old
Goodwin
was
the
pianist
that
night, Father Cowley reminded them. There
was
a
slight
difference
of
opinion
between
himself
and
the
Collard
grand. There was. —A
symposium
all
his
own, Mr Dedalus said. The
devil
wouldn't stop him.
He
was
a
crotchety
old
fellow
in
the
primary
stage
of
drink. —God,
do
you
remember?
Ben
bulky Dollard said, turning
from
the punished keyboard.
And
by
Japers I had no
wedding
garment.
They
laughed all three.
He
had no wed. All
trio
laughed. No
wedding
garment. —Our
friend
Bloom
turned
in
handy
that
night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's my pipe,
by
the way?
He
wandered
back
to
the
bar
to
the lost
chord
pipe.
Bald
Pat carried
two
diners' drinks, Richie
and
Poldy.
And
Father Cowley laughed again. —I saved the situation, Ben, I think. —You did, averred
Ben
Dollard. I
remember
those
tight
trousers
too.
That
was
a
brilliant
idea, Bob. Father Cowley blushed
to
his
brilliant
purply lobes.
He
saved the situa.
Tight
trou.
Brilliant
ide. —I knew
he
was
on
the rocks,
he
said. The
wife
was
playing the
piano
in
the
coffee
palace
on
Saturdays
for
a
very
trifling
consideration
and
who
was
it
gave
me
the
wheeze
she
was
doing the
other
business?
Do
you
remember?
We
had
to
search
all Holles
street
to
find
them
till
the chap
in
Keogh's gave
us
the number. Remember?
Ben
remembered,
his
broad
visage
wondering. —By God,
she
had
some
luxurious
operacloaks
and
things there. Mr Dedalus wandered back,
pipe
in
hand. —Merrion
square
style. Balldresses,
by
God,
and
court dresses.
He
wouldn't
take
any
money
either. What?
Any
God's
quantity
of
cocked hats
and
boleros
and
trunkhose. What? —Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion
Bloom
has
left
off
clothes
of
all descriptions. Jingle jaunted
down
the quays. Blazes sprawled
on
bounding tyres.
Liver
and
bacon.
Steak
and
kidney
pie. Right, sir. Right, Pat. Mrs Marion. Met
him
pike
hoses.
Smell
of
burn.
Of
Paul
de
Kock.
Nice
name
he. —What's
this
her
name
was?
A
buxom
lassy. Marion... —Tweedy. —Yes.
Is
she
alive? —And kicking. —She
was
a
daughter
of... —Daughter
of
the regiment. —Yes, begad. I
remember
the
old
drummajor. Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury
puff
after
—Irish? I don't know, faith.
Is
she, Simon?
Puff
after
stiff,
a
puff, strong, savoury, crackling. —Buccinator
muscle
is... What?...
Bit
rusty... O,
she
is... My Irish Molly, O.
He
puffed
a
pungent
plumy blast. —From the rock
of
Gibraltar... all the way.
They
pined
in
depth
of
ocean
shadow,
gold
by
the beerpull,
bronze
by
maraschino,
thoughtful
all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore terrace, Drumcondra
with
Idolores,
a
queen, Dolores, silent. Pat served, uncovered dishes. Leopold
cut
liverslices.
As
said before
he
ate
with
relish the
inner
organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes
while
Richie Goulding, Collis,
Ward
ate
steak
and
kidney,
steak
then
kidney,
bite
by
bite
of
pie
he
ate
Bloom
ate
they
ate.
Bloom
with
Goulding, married
in
silence, ate. Dinners fit
for
princes.
By
Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor,
in
sun
in
heat, mare's glossy
rump
atrot,
with
flick
of
whip,
on
bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn.
Have
you
the? Horn.
Have
you
the?
Haw
haw
horn.
Over
their
voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming
over
bombarding chords:
Roll
of
Bensoulbenjamin rolled
to
the quivery loveshivery roofpanes. —War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior. —So I am,
Ben
Warrior
laughed. I
was
thinking
of
your landlord.
Love
or
money.
He
stopped.
He
wagged
huge
beard,
huge
face
over
his
blunder huge. —Sure, you'd
burst
the
tympanum
of
her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said through
smoke
aroma,
with
an
organ
like
yours.
In
bearded
abundant
laughter
Dollard shook
upon
the keyboard.
He
would.
In
liver
gravy
Bloom
mashed mashed potatoes.
Love
and
War
someone is.
Ben
Dollard's famous.
Night
he
ran round
to
us
to
borrow
a
dress suit
for
that
concert.
Trousers
tight
as
a
drum
on
him. Musical porkers.
Molly
did
laugh
when
he
went out. Threw herself
back
across
the bed, screaming, kicking.
With
all
his
belongings
on
show. O saints above, I'm drenched! O, the women
in
the
front
row! O, I
never
laughed
so
many! Well,
of
course
that's
what
gives
him
the base barreltone.
For
instance
eunuchs.
Wonder
who's playing.
Nice
touch.
Must
be
Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever
note
you
play.
Bad
breath
he
has,
poor
chap. Stopped.
Miss
Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed
to
suave
solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman, entering.
Good
afternoon.
She
gave her
moist
(a lady's)
hand
to
his
firm
clasp. Afternoon. Yes,
she
was
back.
To
the
old
dingdong again. —Your friends
are
inside, Mr Lidwell. George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held
a
lydiahand.
Bloom
ate liv
as
said before. Clean here
at
least.
That
chap
in
the Burton, gummy
with
gristle. No-one here: Goulding
and
I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres
of
napkins. Pat
to
and
fro.
Bald
Pat.
Nothing
to
do.
Best
value
in
Dub.
Piano
again. Cowley
it
is.
Way
he
sits
in
to
it,
like
one
together, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles,
eye
on
the bowend, sawing the cello, remind
you
of
toothache. Her high
long
snore.
Night
we
were
in
the box.
Trombone
under blowing
like
a
grampus,
between
the acts,
other
brass
chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy.
Do
right
to
hide
them. Jiggedy jingle
jaunty
jaunty.
Only
the harp. Lovely.
Gold
glowering light.
Girl
touched it. Poop
of
a
lovely. Gravy's
rather
good
fit
for
a.
Golden
ship. Erin. The
harp
that
once
or
twice. Cool hands.
Ben
Howth, the rhododendrons.
We
are
their
harps. I. He. Old. Young. —Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless. Strongly. —Go on,
blast
you!
Ben
Dollard growled.
Get
it
out
in
bits. Cowley sang:
She
waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil,
to
one
departing,
dear
one,
to
wind, love, speeding sail, return. —Go on, Simon. —Ah, sure, my dancing days
are
done, Ben... Well... Mr Dedalus laid
his
pipe
to
rest
beside
the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the
obedient
keys. —No, Simon, Father Cowley turned.
Play
it
in
the original.
One
flat. The keys, obedient,
rose
higher, told, faltered, confessed, confused.
Up
stage
strode Father Cowley. —Here, Simon, I'll
accompany
you,
he
said.
Get
up.
By
Graham Lemon's
pineapple
rock,
by
Elvery's
elephant
jingly jogged. Steak, kidney, liver, mashed,
at
meat
fit
for
princes sat princes
Bloom
and
Goulding. Princes
at
meat
they
raised
and
drank, Power
and
cider.
Never
would Richie
forget
that
night.
As
long
as
he
lived: never.
In
the gods
of
the
old
Royal
with
little
Peake.
And
when
the first note.
Speech
paused
on
Richie's lips. Coming
out
with
a
whopper now. Rhapsodies
about
damn
all. Believes
his
own
lies. Does really.
Wonderful
liar. But
want
a
good
memory. —Which air
is
that? asked Leopold Bloom. Richie cocked
his
lips apout.
A
low
incipient
note
sweet
banshee
murmured: all.
A
thrush.
A
throstle.
His
breath, birdsweet,
good
teeth he's
proud
of, fluted
with
plaintive
woe.
Is
lost.
Rich
sound.
Two
notes
in
one
there. Blackbird I heard
in
the
hawthorn
valley. Taking my motives
he
twined
and
turned them. All
most
too
new
call
is
lost
in
all. Echo.
How
sweet
the answer.
How
is
that
done? All lost now. Mournful
he
whistled. Fall, surrender, lost.
Bloom
bent leopold ear, turning
a
fringe
of
doyley
down
under the vase. Order. Yes, I remember.
Lovely
air.
In
sleep
she
went
to
him.
Innocence
in
the moon. Brave. Don't
know
their
danger.
Still
hold
her back.
Call
name.
Touch
water. Jingle jaunty.
Too
late.
She
longed
to
go. That's why. Woman.
As
easy
stop the sea. Yes: all
is
lost. —A beautiful air, said
Bloom
lost Leopold. I
know
it
well.
Never
in
all
his
life
had Richie Goulding.
He
knows
it
well
too.
Or
he
feels.
Still
harping
on
his
daughter.
Wise
child
that
knows her father, Dedalus said. Me?
Bloom
askance
over
liverless saw. Face
of
the all
is
lost. Rollicking Richie once. Jokes
old
stale now. Wagging
his
ear. Napkinring
in
his
eye.
Now
begging letters
he
sends
his
son
with. Crosseyed Walter sir I
did
sir. Wouldn't
trouble
only
I
was
expecting
some
money. Apologise.
Piano
again. Sounds
better
than
last
time
I heard. Tuned probably. Stopped again. Dollard
and
Cowley
still
urged the lingering
singer
out
with
it. —With it, Simon. —It, Simon. —Ladies
and
gentlemen, I
am
most
deeply
obliged
by
your
kind
solicitations. —It, Simon. —I
have
no
money
but
if
you
will
lend
me
your
attention
I
shall
endeavour
to
sing
to
you
of
a
heart
bowed down. The harping chords
of
prelude
closed.
A
chord, longdrawn, expectant, drew
a
voice away. Richie turned. —Si Dedalus' voice,
he
said. Braintipped,
cheek
touched
with
flame,
they
listened feeling
that
flow endearing flow
over
skin limbs
human
heart
soul spine.
Bloom
signed
to
Pat,
bald
Pat
is
a
waiter
hard
of
hearing,
to
set
ajar the
door
of
the bar. The
door
of
the bar. So.
That
will
do. Pat, waiter, waited, waiting
to
hear,
for
he
was
hard
of
hear
by
the door. Through the
hush
of
air
a
voice sang
to
them, low, not rain, not leaves
in
murmur,
like
no voice
of
strings
or
reeds
or
whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers touching
their
still
ears
with
words,
still
hearts
of
their
each
his
remembered lives. Good,
good
to
hear:
sorrow
from
them
each
seemed
to
from
both
depart
when
first
they
heard.
When
first
they
saw, lost Richie Poldy,
mercy
of
beauty, heard
from
a
person
wouldn't
expect
it
in
the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. Tenors
get
women
by
the score. Increase
their
flow. Throw flower
at
his
feet.
When
will
we
meet? My
head
it
simply. Jingle all delighted.
He
can't sing
for
tall
hats. Your
head
it
simply swurls. Perfumed
for
him.
What
perfume
does your wife? I
want
to
know. Jing. Stop. Knock.
Last
look
at
mirror
always
before
she
answers the door. The hall. There?
How
do
you? I
do
well. There? What? Or?
Phial
of
cachous, kissing comfits,
in
her satchel. Yes? Hands felt
for
the opulent. Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
Glorious
tone
he
has still. Cork air softer
also
their
brogue.
Silly
man!
Could
have
made
oceans
of
money. Singing
wrong
words. Wore
out
his
wife:
now
sings. But
hard
to
tell.
Only
the
two
themselves.
If
he
doesn't
break
down.
Keep
a
trot
for
the avenue.
His
hands
and
feet sing too. Drink. Nerves overstrung.
Must
be
abstemious
to
sing. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage,
raw
eggs, half
pint
of
cream.
For
creamy dreamy. Tenderness
it
welled: slow, swelling,
full
it
throbbed. That's the chat. Ha, give! Take! Throb,
a
throb,
a
pulsing
proud
erect. Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.
Bloom
looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. Bloom. Flood
of
warm
jamjam lickitup secretness flowed
to
flow
in
music
out,
in
desire, dark
to
lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores
to
dilate
dilating. Tup. The
joy
the feel the
warm
the. Tup.
To
pour
o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now!
Language
of
love. Beaming. Lydia
for
Lidwell squeak scarcely
hear
so
ladylike
the
muse
unsqueaked
a
ray
of
hopk. The voice
of
Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied.
It
sang
again
to
Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell
also
sang
to
Pat
open
mouth
ear
waiting
to
wait.
How
first
he
saw
that
form
endearing,
how
sorrow
seemed
to
part,
how
look, form,
word
charmed
him
Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
Wish
I
could
see
his
face, though.
Explain
better.
Why
the
barber
in
Drago's
always
looked my face
when
I
spoke
his
face
in
the glass.
Still
hear
it
better
here
than
in
the
bar
though farther. First
night
when
first I
saw
her
at
Mat
Dillon's
in
Terenure. Yellow,
black
lace
she
wore. Musical chairs.
We
two
the last. Fate.
After
her. Fate. Round
and
round slow.
Quick
round.
We
two. All looked. Halt.
Down
she
sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing.
Yellow
knees. Quitting all
languor
Lionel cried
in
grief,
in
cry
of
passion
dominant
to
love
to
return
with
deepening
yet
with
rising chords
of
harmony.
In
cry
of
lionel loneliness
that
she
should know,
must
martha feel.
For
only
her
he
waited. Where? Here there
try
there here all
try
where. Somewhere. Alone.
One
love.
One
hope.
One
comfort
me. Martha, chestnote, return!
It
soared,
a
bird,
it
held its flight,
a
swift
pure
cry,
soar
silver
orb
it
leaped serene, speeding, sustained,
to
come, don't spin
it
out
too
long
long
breath
he
breath
long
life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high
in
the
effulgence
symbolistic, high,
of
the etherial bosom, high,
of
the high
vast
irradiation
everywhere
all soaring all
around
about
the all, the endlessnessnessness... Siopold! Consumed. Come.
Well
sung. All clapped.
She
ought
to. Come.
To
me,
to
him,
to
her,
you
too, me, us. —Bravo! Clapclap.
Good
man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap clap.
Sound
as
a
bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all,
Ben
Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy,
two
gentlemen
with
two
tankards, Cowley, first gent
with
tank
and
bronze
miss
Douce
and
gold
MJiss Mina. An afterclang
of
Cowley's chords closed, died
on
the air
made
richer.
And
Richie Goulding drank
his
Power
and
Leopold
Bloom
his
cider
drank, Lidwell
his
Guinness,
second
gentleman said
they
would
partake
of
two
more
tankards
if
she
did
not mind.
Miss
Kennedy smirked, disserving,
coral
lips,
at
first,
at
second.
She
did
not mind. —Seven days
in
jail,
Ben
Dollard said,
on
bread
and
water.
Then
you'd sing, Simon,
like
a
garden
thrush. Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father
Bob
Cowley played. Mina Kennedy served.
Second
gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired, admired. But
Bloom
sang dumb. Admiring. He, Mr Bloom, listened
while
he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom,
of
the
night
he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK
AND
FAME
in
his, Ned Lambert's, house. Brothers-in-law: relations.
We
never
speak
as
we
pass by.
Rift
in
the
lute
I think. Treats
him
with
scorn. See.
He
admires
him
all the more. The
night
Si sang. The
human
voice,
two
tiny silky chords, wonderful,
more
than
all others.
That
voice
was
a
lamentation. Calmer now. It's
in
the silence
after
you
feel
you
hear. Vibrations.
Now
silent
air.
Bloom
ungyved
his
crisscrossed hands
and
with
slack
fingers plucked the
slender
catgut thong.
He
drew
and
plucked.
It
buzz,
it
twanged.
While
Goulding talked
of
Barraclough's voice production,
while
Tom Kernan, harking
back
in
a
retrospective
sort
of
arrangement
talked
to
listening Father Cowley,
who
played
a
voluntary,
who
nodded
as
he
played.
While
big
Ben
Dollard talked
with
Simon Dedalus, lighting,
who
nodded
as
he
smoked,
who
smoked.
Yet
too
much
happy
bores.
He
stretched more, more.
Are
you
not
happy
in
your? Twang.
It
snapped. Jingle
into
Dorset street.
Miss
Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased. —Don't
make
half
so
free, said she,
till
we
are
better
acquainted. George Lidwell told her really
and
truly: but
she
did
not believe. First gentleman told Mina
that
was
so.
She
asked
him
was
that
so.
And
second
tankard
told her so.
That
that
was
so.
Miss
Douce,
miss
Lydia,
did
not believe:
miss
Kennedy, Mina,
did
not believe: George Lidwell, no:
miss
Dou
did
not: the first, the first: gent
with
the tank: believe, no, no:
did
not,
miss
Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the tank.
Better
write
it
here. Quills
in
the postoffice chewed
and
twisted.
Bald
Pat
at
a
sign
drew nigh.
A
pen
and
ink.
He
went.
A
pad.
He
went.
A
pad
to
blot.
He
heard,
deaf
Pat. —Yes, Mr
Bloom
said, teasing the curling catgut line.
It
certainly is.
Few
lines
will
do. My present. All
that
Italian
florid
music
is.
Who
is
this
wrote?
Know
the
name
you
know
better.
Take
out
sheet
notepaper, envelope: unconcerned. It's
so
characteristic. —Grandest
number
in
the
whole
opera, Goulding said. —It is,
Bloom
said. Numbers
it
is. All
music
when
you
come
to
think.
Two
multiplied
by
two
divided
by
half
is
twice
one. Vibrations: chords
those
are.
One
plus
two
plus
six
is
seven.
Do
anything
you
like
with
figures juggling.
Always
find
out
this
equal
to
that.
Symmetry
under
a
cemetery
wall.
He
doesn't
see
my mourning. Callous: all
for
his
own
gut. Musemathematics.
And
you
think
you're listening
to
the etherial. But
suppose
you
said
it
like: Martha,
seven
times
nine
minus x
is
thirtyfive thousand.
Fall
quite
flat. It's
on
account
of
the sounds
it
is.
Bald
deaf
Pat brought
quite
flat
pad
ink. Pat
set
with
ink
pen
quite
flat
pad. Pat took
plate
dish knife fork. Pat went.
It
was
the
only
language
Mr Dedalus said
to
Ben.
He
heard
them
as
a
boy
in
Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing
their
barcaroles. Queenstown harbour
full
of
Italian ships. Walking,
you
know, Ben,
in
the moonlight
with
those
earthquake
hats. Blending
their
voices. God,
such
music, Ben. Heard
as
a
boy.
Cross
Ringabella
haven
mooncarole.
Sour
pipe
removed
he
held
a
shield
of
hand
beside
his
lips
that
cooed
a
moonlight nightcall, clear
from
anear,
a
call
from
afar, replying. Bore this. Bored
Bloom
tambourined gently
with
I
am
just
reflecting fingers
on
flat
pad
Pat brought. On.
Know
what
I mean. No,
change
that
ee. Accep my
poor
litt pres enclos.
Ask
her no answ.
Hold
on.
Five
Dig.
Two
about
here.
Penny
the gulls. Elijah
is
com.
Seven
Davy Byrne's.
Is
eight
about.
Say
half
a
crown. My
poor
little
pres: p. o.
two
and
six.
Write
me
a
long.
Do
you
despise? Jingle,
have
you
the?
So
excited.
Why
do
you
call
me
naught?
You
naughty
too? O, Mairy lost the string
of
her. Bye
for
today. Yes, yes,
will
tell
you.
Want
to.
To
keep
it
up.
Call
me
that
other.
Other
world
she
wrote. My
patience
are
exhaust.
To
keep
it
up.
You
must
believe. Believe. The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly
am
I writing? Husbands don't. That's
marriage
does,
their
wives.
Because
I'm
away
from. Suppose. But how?
She
must.
Keep
young.
If
she
found out.
Card
in
my high grade ha. No, not
tell
all. Useless pain.
If
they
don't see. Woman. Sauce
for
the gander.
A
hackney car,
number
three
hundred
and
twentyfour, driver Barton James
of
number
one
Harmony
avenue, Donnybrook,
on
which
sat
a
fare,
a
young
gentleman, stylishly dressed
in
an indigoblue
serge
suit
made
by
George Robert Mesias,
tailor
and
cutter,
of
number
five
Eden quay,
and
wearing
a
straw
hat
very
dressy, bought
of
John Plasto
of
number
one
Great
Brunswick street, hatter. Eh?
This
is
the jingle
that
joggled
and
jingled.
By
Dlugacz' porkshop
bright
tubes
of
Agendath trotted
a
gallantbuttocked mare. —Answering an ad?
keen
Richie's eyes asked Bloom. —Yes, Mr
Bloom
said.
Town
traveller.
Nothing
doing, I expect.
Bloom
mur:
best
references. But Henry wrote:
it
will
excite
me.
You
know
how.
In
haste. Henry. Greek ee.
Better
add
postscript.
What
is
he
playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The
rum
tum tum.
How
will
you
pun?
You
punish
me? Crooked
skirt
swinging, whack by.
Tell
me
I
want
to. Know. O.
Course
if
I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails
off
there
sad
in
minor.
Why
minor
sad?
Sign
H.
They
like
sad
tail
at
end. P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel
so
sad
today. La ree.
So
lonely. Dee.
He
blotted
quick
on
pad
of
Pat. Envel. Address.
Just
copy
out
of
paper. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman
and
Co, limited. Henry wrote:
Miss
Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin's
Barn
Lane
Dublin Blot
over
the
other
so
he
can't read. There. Right.
Idea
prize
titbit.
Something
detective read
off
blottingpad.
Payment
at
the
rate
of
guinea
per
col. Matcham
often
thinks the laughing witch.
Poor
Mrs Purefoy. U. P: up.
Too
poetical
that
about
the sad.
Music
did
that.
Music
hath charms. Shakespeare said. Quotations
every
day
in
the year.
To
be
or
not
to
be.
Wisdom
while
you
wait.
In
Gerard's rosery
of
Fetter
lane
he
walks, greyedauburn.
One
life
is
all.
One
body. Do. But do. Done anyhow.
Postal
order, stamp. Postoffice
lower
down. Walk now. Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised
to
meet them.
Dislike
that
job.
House
of
mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear.
Deaf
beetle
he
is.
Car
near
there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling
those
napkins.
Lot
of
ground
he
must
cover
in
the day. Paint face
behind
on
him
then
he'd
be
two.
Wish
they'd sing more.
Keep
my
mind
off.
Bald
Pat
who
is
bothered mitred the napkins. Pat
is
a
waiter
hard
of
his
hearing. Pat
is
a
waiter
who
waits
while
you
wait. Hee hee hee hee.
He
waits
while
you
wait. Hee hee.
A
waiter
is
he. Hee hee hee hee.
He
waits
while
you
wait.
While
you
wait
if
you
wait
he
will
wait
while
you
wait. Hee hee hee hee. Hoh.
Wait
while
you
wait. Douce now. Douce Lydia.
Bronze
and
rose.
She
had
a
gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time.
And
look
at
the
lovely
shell
she
brought.
To
the
end
of
the
bar
to
him
she
bore
lightly
the spiked
and
winding seahorn
that
he, George Lidwell, solicitor,
might
hear. —Listen!
she
bade him. Ah,
now
he
heard,
she
holding
it
to
his
ear. Hear!
He
heard. Wonderful.
She
held
it
to
her own.
And
through the sifted
light
pale
gold
in
contrast glided.
To
hear. Tap.
Bloom
through the bardoor
saw
a
shell held
at
their
ears.
He
heard
more
faintly
that
that
they
heard,
each
for
herself alone,
then
each
for
other, hearing the
plash
of
waves, loudly,
a
silent
roar.
Bronze
by
a
weary
gold, anear, afar,
they
listened. Her
ear
too
is
a
shell, the peeping
lobe
there. Been
to
the seaside.
Lovely
seaside
girls. Skin tanned raw. Should
have
put
on
coldcream first
make
it
brown. Buttered toast. O
and
that
lotion
mustn't forget.
Fever
near
her mouth. Your
head
it
simply.
Hair
braided over: shell
with
seaweed.
Why
do
they
hide
their
ears
with
seaweed
hair?
And
Turks the mouth, why? Her eyes
over
the sheet. Yashmak. Find the
way
in.
A
cave. No
admittance
except
on
business. The
sea
they
think
they
hear. Singing.
A
roar. The blood
it
is.
Souse
in
the
ear
sometimes. Well, it's
a
sea.
Corpuscle
islands.
Wonderful
really.
So
distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur, hearing:
then
laid
it
by, gently. —What
are
the wild waves saying?
he
asked her, smiled. Charming, seasmiling
and
unanswering Lydia
on
Lidwell smiled. Tap.
By
Larry O'Rourke's,
by
Larry,
bold
Larry O', Boylan swayed
and
Boylan turned.
From
the forsaken shell
miss
Mina glided
to
her tankards waiting. No,
she
was
not
so
lonely archly
miss
Douce's
head
let
Mr Lidwell know. Walks
in
the moonlight
by
the sea. No, not alone.
With
whom?
She
nobly answered:
with
a
gentleman friend.
Bob
Cowley's twinkling fingers
in
the
treble
played again. The landlord has the prior.
A
little
time.
Long
John.
Big
Ben.
Lightly
he
played
a
light
bright
tinkling
measure
for
tripping ladies, arch
and
smiling,
and
for
their
gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one: two, one, three, four. That's joyful I
can
feel.
Never
have
written it. Why? My
joy
is
other
joy. But both
are
joys. Yes,
joy
it
must
be.
Mere
fact
of
music
shows
you
are.
Often
thought
she
was
in
the
dumps
till
she
began
to
lilt.
Then
know.
Jog
jig
jogged stopped.
Dandy
tan
shoe
of
dandy
Boylan socks skyblue clocks came
light
to
earth. O,
look
we
are
so!
Chamber
music.
Could
make
a
kind
of
pun
on
that.
It
is
a
kind
of
music
I
often
thought
when
she. Acoustics
that
is. Tinkling. Empty vessels
make
most
noise.
Because
the acoustics, the
resonance
changes according
as
the
weight
of
the
water
is
equal
to
the
law
of
falling water.
Like
those
rhapsodies
of
Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One
rapped
on
a
door,
one
tapped
with
a
knock,
did
he
knock
Paul
de
Kock
with
a
loud
proud
knocker
with
a
cock
carracarracarra cock. Cockcock. Tap. —Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said.
Good
men
and
true. —Do, do,
they
begged
in
one. I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come.
He
came,
he
came,
he
did
not stay.
To
me.
How
much? —What key?
Six
sharps? —F sharp major,
Ben
Dollard said.
Bob
Cowley's outstretched talons griped the
black
deepsounding chords.
Must
go
prince
Bloom
told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got
money
somewhere. He's
on
for
a
razzle backache spree. Much?
He
seehears lipspeech.
One
and
nine.
Penny
for
yourself. Here.
Give
him
twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But
perhaps
he
has
wife
and
family
waiting, waiting
Patty
come
home. Hee hee hee hee.
Deaf
wait
while
they
wait. But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low.
In
a
cave
of
the dark
middle
earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic. The voice
of
dark age,
of
unlove, earth's
fatigue
made
grave
approach
and
painful,
come
from
afar,
from
hoary mountains, called
on
good
men
and
true. The
priest
he
sought.
With
him
would
he
speak
a
word. Tap.
Ben
Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing
his
level
best
to
say
it. Croak
of
vast
manless moonless womoonless marsh.
Other
comedown.
Big
ships' chandler's
business
he
did
once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships' lanterns. Failed
to
the tune
of
ten
thousand
pounds.
Now
in
the Iveagh home.
Cubicle
number
so
and
so.
Number
one
Bass
did
that
for
him. The priest's
at
home.
A
false
priest's
servant
bade
him
welcome.
Step
in. The
holy
father.
With
bows
a
traitor
servant. Curlycues
of
chords. Ruin them. Wreck
their
lives.
Then
build
them
cubicles
to
end
their
days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog.
Little
dog, die. The voice
of
warning,
solemn
warning, told
them
the
youth
had entered
a
lonely hall, told
them
how
solemn
fell
his
footsteps there, told
them
the gloomy chamber, the vested
priest
sitting
to
shrive. Listen.
Bloom
listened. Richie Goulding listened.
And
by
the
door
deaf
Pat,
bald
Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords harped slower. Tap.
They
listened. Tankards
and
miss
Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid
well
expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si. The sighing voice
of
sorrow
sang.
His
sins.
Since
Easter
he
had cursed
three
times.
You
bitch's bast.
And
once
at
masstime
he
had gone
to
play.
Once
by
the churchyard
he
had passed
and
for
his
mother's
rest
he
had not prayed.
A
boy.
A
croppy boy. Bronze, listening,
by
the beerpull gazed
far
away. Soulfully. Doesn't half
know
I'm.
Molly
great
dab
at
seeing
anyone
looking.
Bronze
gazed
far
sideways.
Mirror
there.
Is
that
best
side
of
her face?
They
always
know.
Knock
at
the door.
Last
tip
to
titivate. Cockcarracarra.
What
do
they
think
when
they
hear
music?
Way
to
catch
rattlesnakes.
Night
Michael Gunn gave
us
the box. Tuning up.
Shah
of
Persia liked
that
best. Remind
him
of
home
sweet
home. Wiped
his
nose
in
curtain
too. Custom
his
country
perhaps. That's
music
too. Not
as
bad
as
it
sounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses helpless, gashes
in
their
sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand
open
crocodile
music
hath jaws. Woodwind
like
Goodwin's name.
She
looked fine. Her
crocus
dress
she
wore lowcut, belongings
on
show.
Clove
her
breath
was
always
in
theatre
when
she
bent
to
ask
a
question. Told her
what
Spinoza says
in
that
book
of
poor
papa's. Hypnotised, listening. Eyes
like
that.
She
bent. Chap
in
dresscircle staring
down
into
her
with
his
operaglass
for
all
he
was
worth.
Beauty
of
music
you
must
hear
twice.
Nature
woman
half
a
look.
God
made
the
country
man
the tune. Met
him
pike
hoses. Philosophy. O rocks! All gone. All fallen.
At
the
siege
of
Ross
his
father,
at
Gorey all
his
brothers fell.
To
Wexford,
we
are
the boys
of
Wexford,
he
would.
Last
of
his
name
and
race. I too.
Last
of
my race. Milly
young
student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son. Rudy.
Too
late
now.
Or
if
not?
If
not?
If
still?
He
bore no hate. Hate. Love.
Those
are
names. Rudy.
Soon
I
am
old.
Big
Ben
his
voice unfolded.
Great
voice Richie Goulding said,
a
flush struggling
in
his
pale,
to
Bloom
soon
old. But
when
was
young? Ireland comes now. My
country
above
the king.
She
listens.
Who
fears
to
speak
of
nineteen
four?
Time
to
be
shoving. Looked enough. Tap.
Bloom
looked, unblessed
to
go. Got
up
to
kill:
on
eighteen
bob
a
week. Fellows shell
out
the dibs.
Want
to
keep
your weathereye open.
Those
girls,
those
lovely.
By
the
sad
sea
waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters read
out
for
breach
of
promise.
From
Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum.
Laughter
in
court. Henry. I
never
signed it. The
lovely
name
you.
Low
sank the music, air
and
words.
Then
hastened. The
false
priest
rustling soldier
from
his
cassock.
A
yeoman
captain.
They
know
it
all
by
heart. The thrill
they
itch
for.
Yeoman
cap. Tap. Tap. Thrilled
she
listened, bending
in
sympathy
to
hear.
Blank
face.
Virgin
should say:
or
fingered only.
Write
something
on
it: page.
If
not
what
becomes
of
them? Decline, despair. Keeps
them
young.
Even
admire
themselves. See.
Play
on
her.
Lip
blow.
Body
of
white
woman,
a
flute alive.
Blow
gentle. Loud.
Three
holes, all women. Goddess I didn't see.
They
want
it. Not
too
much
polite. That's
why
he
gets them.
Gold
in
your pocket,
brass
in
your face.
Say
something.
Make
her hear.
With
look
to
look. Songs without words. Molly,
that
hurdygurdy boy.
She
knew
he
meant the
monkey
was
sick.
Or
because
so
like
the Spanish.
Understand
animals
too
that
way. Solomon did.
Gift
of
nature. Ventriloquise. My lips closed.
Think
in
my stom. What? Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With
hoarse
rude
fury
the
yeoman
cursed,
swelling
in
apoplectic
bitch's bastard.
A
good
thought, boy,
to
come.
One
hour's your
time
to
live, your last. Tap. Tap. Thrill now.
Pity
they
feel.
To
wipe
away
a
tear
for
martyrs
that
want
to, dying to, die.
For
all things dying,
for
all things born.
Poor
Mrs Purefoy.
Hope
she's over.
Because
their
wombs.
A
liquid
of
womb
of
woman
eyeball
gazed under
a
fence
of
lashes, calmly, hearing.
See
real
beauty
of
the
eye
when
she
not speaks.
On
yonder
river.
At
each
slow
satiny heaving bosom's
wave
(her heaving embon)
red
rose
rose
slowly
sank
red
rose. Heartbeats: her breath:
breath
that
is
life.
And
all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled
of
maidenhair. But look. The
bright
stars fade. O rose! Castile. The morn. Ha. Lidwell.
For
him
then
not for. Infatuated. I
like
that?
See
her
from
here though. Popped corks, splashes
of
beerfroth, stacks
of
empties.
On
the
smooth
jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply,
leave
it
to
my hands. All lost
in
pity
for
croppy. Fro, to: to, fro:
over
the polished
knob
(she knows
his
eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb
and
finger
passed
in
pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching,
then
slid
so
smoothly,
slowly
down,
a
cool
firm
white
enamel
baton protruding through
their
sliding ring.
With
a
cock
with
a
carra. Tap. Tap. Tap. I
hold
this
house. Amen.
He
gnashed
in
fury. Traitors swing. The chords consented.
Very
sad
thing. But had
to
be.
Get
out
before the end. Thanks,
that
was
heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass
by
her.
Can
leave
that
Freeman.
Letter
I have.
Suppose
she
were
the? No. Walk, walk, walk.
Like
Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk. Well, I
must
be.
Are
you
off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue. Ow.
Bloom
stood up.
Soap
feeling
rather
sticky
behind.
Must
have
sweated: music.
That
lotion, remember. Well,
so
long. High grade.
Card
inside. Yes.
By
deaf
Pat
in
the doorway straining
ear
Bloom
passed.
At
Geneva
barrack
that
young
man
died.
At
Passage
was
his
body
laid. Dolor! O,
he
dolores! The voice
of
the mournful
chanter
called
to
dolorous
prayer.
By
rose,
by
satiny bosom,
by
the fondling hand,
by
slops,
by
empties,
by
popped corks,
greeting
in
going, past eyes
and
maidenhair,
bronze
and
faint
gold
in
deepseashadow, went Bloom,
soft
Bloom, I feel
so
lonely Bloom. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray
for
him, prayed the
bass
of
Dollard.
You
who
hear
in
peace.
Breathe
a
prayer,
drop
a
tear,
good
men,
good
people.
He
was
the croppy boy. Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy
Bloom
in
the Ormond
hallway
heard the growls
and
roars
of
bravo,
fat
backslapping,
their
boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy.
General
chorus
off
for
a
swill
to
wash
it
down.
Glad
I avoided. —Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried.
By
God, you're
as
good
as
ever
you
were. —Better, said Tomgin Kernan.
Most
trenchant
rendition
of
that
ballad,
upon
my soul
and
honour
It
is. —Lablache, said Father Cowley.
Ben
Dollard bulkily cachuchad
towards
the bar,
mightily
praisefed
and
all
big
roseate,
on
heavyfooted feet,
his
gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes
in
the air.
Big
Benaben Dollard.
Big
Benben.
Big
Benben. Rrr.
And
deepmoved all, Simon trumping
compassion
from
foghorn nose, all laughing
they
brought
him
forth,
Ben
Dollard,
in
right
good
cheer. —You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said.
Miss
Douce composed her
rose
to
wait. —Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's
fat
back
shoulderblade. Fit
as
a
fiddle
only
he
has
a
lot
of
adipose
tissue
concealed
about
his
person. Rrrrrrrsss. —Fat
of
death, Simon,
Ben
Dollard growled. Richie
rift
in
the
lute
alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly
he
waited. Unpaid Pat too. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Miss
Mina Kennedy brought
near
her lips
to
ear
of
tankard
one. —Mr Dollard,
they
murmured low. —Dollard, murmured tankard. Tank
one
believed:
miss
Kenn
when
she:
that
doll
he
was:
she
doll: the tank.
He
murmured
that
he
knew the name. The
name
was
familiar
to
him,
that
is
to
say.
That
was
to
say
he
had heard the
name
of. Dollard,
was
it? Dollard, yes. 'Tis the
last
rose
of
summer
dollard
left
bloom
felt wind
wound
round inside. Gassy
thing
that
cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice
near
Reuben J's
one
and
eightpence too.
Get
shut
of
it. Dodge round
by
Greek street.
Wish
I hadn't promised
to
meet. Freer
in
air. Music. Gets
on
your nerves. Beerpull. Her
hand
that
rocks the
cradle
rules the.
Ben
Howth.
That
rules the world. Far. Far. Far. Far. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Up
the
quay
went Lionelleopold,
naughty
Henry
with
letter
for
Mady,
with
sweets
of
sin
with
frillies
for
Raoul
with
met
him
pike
hoses went Poldy on.
Tap
blind walked tapping
by
the
tap
the curbstone tapping,
tap
by
tap. Cowley,
he
stuns
himself
with
it:
kind
of
drunkenness.
Better
give
way
only
half
way
the
way
of
a
man
with
a
maid.
Instance
enthusiasts. All ears. Not
lose
a
demisemiquaver. Eyes shut.
Head
nodding
in
time. Dotty.
You
daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited.
Always
talking shop. Fiddlefaddle
about
notes. All
a
kind
of
attempt
to
talk. Unpleasant
when
it
stops
because
you
never
know
exac.
Organ
in
Gardiner street.
Old
Glynn
fifty
quid
a
year. Queer
up
there
in
the cockloft, alone,
with
stops
and
locks
and
keys. Seated all
day
at
the organ.
Maunder
on
for
hours, talking
to
himself
or
the
other
fellow
blowing the bellows.
Growl
angry,
then
shriek
cursing (want
to
have
wadding
or
something
in
his
no don't
she
cried),
then
all
of
a
soft
sudden
wee
little
wee
little
pipy wind. Pwee!
A
wee
little
wind piped eeee.
In
Bloom's
little
wee. —Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning
with
fetched pipe. I
was
with
him
this
morning
at
poor
little
Paddy Dignam's... —Ay, the Lord
have
mercy
on
him. —By the bye there's
a
tuningfork
in
there
on
the... Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. —The
wife
has
a
fine
voice.
Or
had. What? Lidwell asked. —O,
that
must
be
the tuner, Lydia said
to
Simonlionel first I saw, forgot
it
when
he
was
here. Blind
he
was
she
told George Lidwell
second
I saw.
And
played
so
exquisitely, treat
to
hear.
Exquisite
contrast: bronzelid, minagold. —Shout!
Ben
Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out! —'lldo! cried Father Cowley. Rrrrrr. I feel I want... Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap
—Very, Mr Dedalus said, staring
hard
at
a
headless
sardine. Under the sandwichbell
lay
on
a
bier
of
bread
one
last,
one
lonely,
last
sardine
of
summer.
Bloom
alone. —Very,
he
stared. The
lower
register,
for
choice. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Bloom
went
by
Barry's.
Wish
I could. Wait.
That
wonderworker
if
I had. Twentyfour solicitors
in
that
one
house. Counted them. Litigation.
Love
one
another.
Piles
of
parchment. Messrs
Pick
and
Pocket
have
power
of
attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward. But
for
example
the chap
that
wallops the
big
drum.
His
vocation: Mickey Rooney's band.
Wonder
how
it
first struck him. Sitting
at
home
after
pig's
cheek
and
cabbage
nursing
it
in
the armchair. Rehearsing
his
band
part. Pom. Pompedy.
Jolly
for
the wife. Asses' skins.
Welt
them
through life,
then
wallop
after
death. Pom. Wallop. Seems
to
be
what
you
call
yashmak
or
I
mean
kismet. Fate. Tap. Tap.
A
stripling, blind,
with
a
tapping
cane
came taptaptapping
by
Daly's
window
where
a
mermaid
hair
all streaming (but
he
couldn't see) blew whiffs
of
a
mermaid
(blind couldn't), mermaid, coolest whiff
of
all. I
must
really. Fff.
Now
if
I
did
that
at
a
banquet.
Just
a
question
of
custom
shah
of
Persia.
Breathe
a
prayer,
drop
a
tear. All the
same
he
must
have
been
a
bit
of
a
natural
not
to
see
it
was
a
yeoman
cap. Muffled up.
Wonder
who
was
that
chap
at
the
grave
in
the brown macin. O, the whore
of
the lane!
A
frowsy whore
with
black
straw
sailor
hat
askew
came glazily
in
the
day
along
the
quay
towards
Mr Bloom.
When
first
he
saw
that
form
endearing? Yes,
it
is. I feel
so
lonely.
Wet
night
in
the lane. Horn.
Who
had the? Heehaw shesaw.
Off
her
beat
here.
What
is
she?
Hope
she. Psst!
Any
chance
of
your wash. Knew Molly. Had
me
decked. Stout
lady
does
be
with
you
in
the brown costume.
Put
you
off
your stroke, that.
Appointment
we
made
knowing we'd never,
well
hardly
ever.
Too
dear
too
near
to
home
sweet
home. Sees me, does she? Looks
a
fright
in
the day. Face
like
dip.
Damn
her. O, well,
she
has
to
live
like
the rest.
Look
in
here.
In
Lionel Marks's antique saleshop
window
haughty
Henry Lionel Leopold
dear
Henry Flower
earnestly
Mr Leopold
Bloom
envisaged battered candlesticks
melodeon
oozing maggoty blowbags. Bargain:
six
bob.
Might
learn
to
play. Cheap.
Let
her pass.
Course
everything
is
dear
if
you
don't
want
it. That's
what
good
salesman is.
Make
you
buy
what
he
wants
to
sell. Chap sold
me
the Swedish
razor
he
shaved
me
with. Wanted
to
charge
me
for
the
edge
he
gave it. She's passing now.
Six
bob.
Must
be
the
cider
or
perhaps
the burgund.
Near
bronze
from
anear
near
gold
from
afar
they
chinked
their
clinking glasses all, brighteyed
and
gallant, before
bronze
Lydia's tempting
last
rose
of
summer,
rose
of
Castile. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll,
a
fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus,
Bob
Cowley, Kernan
and
big
Ben
Dollard. Tap.
A
youth
entered
a
lonely Ormond hall.
Bloom
viewed
a
gallant pictured
hero
in
Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's
last
words.
Seven
last
words.
Of
Meyerbeer
that
is. —True men
like
you
men. —Ay, ay, Ben. —Will lift your glass
with
us.
They
lifted. Tschink. Tschunk. Tip. An unseeing stripling stood
in
the door.
He
saw
not bronze.
He
saw
not gold.
Nor
Ben
nor
Bob
nor
Tom
nor
Si
nor
George
nor
tanks
nor
Richie
nor
Pat. Hee hee hee hee.
He
did
not see. Prrprr.
Must
be
the bur. Fff! Oo. Rrpr. Pprrpffrrppffff.