Pineapple
rock,
lemon
platt,
butter
scotch.
A
sugarsticky
girl
shovelling scoopfuls
of
creams
for
a
christian brother.
Some
school
treat.
Bad
for
their
tummies.
Lozenge
and
comfit
manufacturer
to
His
Majesty
the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting
on
his
throne
sucking
red
jujubes white.
A
sombre
Y.M.C.A.
young
man, watchful
among
the
warm
sweet
fumes
of
Graham Lemon's, placed
a
throwaway
in
a
hand
of
Mr Bloom.
Heart
to
heart
talks. Bloo... Me? No. Blood
of
the Lamb.
His
slow
feet walked
him
riverward, reading.
Are
you
saved? All
are
washed
in
the blood
of
the lamb.
God
wants blood victim. Birth, hymen, martyr, war,
foundation
of
a
building, sacrifice,
kidney
burntoffering, druids' altars. Elijah
is
coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer
of
the church
in
Zion
is
coming.
Phosphorus
it
must
be
done with.
If
you
leave
a
bit
of
codfish
for
instance. I
could
see
the bluey
silver
over
it.
Night
I went
down
to
the
pantry
in
the kitchen. Don't
like
all the smells
in
it
waiting
to
rush
out.
What
was
it
she
wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking
of
Spain. Before Rudy
was
born. The phosphorescence,
that
bluey greeny.
Very
good
for
the brain.
From
Butler's
monument
house
corner
he
glanced
along
Bachelor's walk. Dedalus'
daughter
there
still
outside Dillon's auctionrooms.
Must
be
selling
off
some
old
furniture. Knew her eyes
at
once
from
the father. Lobbing
about
waiting
for
him.
Home
always
breaks
up
when
the mother goes.
Fifteen
children
he
had.
Birth
every
year
almost. That's
in
their
theology
or
the
priest
won't
give
the
poor
woman
the confession, the absolution. Increase
and
multiply.
Did
you
ever
hear
such
an idea?
Eat
you
out
of
house
and
home. No families
themselves
to
feed.
Living
on
the
fat
of
the land.
Their
butteries
and
larders. I'd
like
to
see
them
do
the
black
fast
Yom Kippur. Crossbuns.
One
meal
and
a
collation
for
fear
he'd collapse
on
the altar.
A
housekeeper
of
one
of
those
fellows
if
you
could
pick
it
out
of
her.
Never
pick
it
out
of
her.
Like
getting l.s.d.
out
of
him. Does
himself
well. No guests. All
for
number
one. Watching
his
water.
Bring
your
own
bread
and
butter.
His
reverence: mum's the word.
Good
Lord,
that
poor
child's dress
is
in
flitters. Underfed
she
looks too. Potatoes
and
marge, marge
and
potatoes. It's
after
they
feel it.
Proof
of
the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
As
he
set
foot
on
O'Connell
bridge
a
puffball
of
smoke
plumed
up
from
the parapet.
Brewery
barge
with
export stout. England.
Sea
air sours it, I heard.
Be
interesting
some
day
get
a
pass through Hancock
to
see
the brewery. Regular
world
in
itself. Vats
of
porter wonderful. Rats
get
in
too.
Drink
themselves
bloated
as
big
as
a
collie
floating.
Dead
drunk
on
the porter.
Drink
till
they
puke
again
like
christians.
Imagine
drinking that! Rats: vats. Well,
of
course,
if
we
knew all the things. Looking
down
he
saw
flapping strongly, wheeling
between
the
gaunt
quaywalls, gulls. Rough
weather
outside.
If
I threw
myself
down? Reuben J's
son
must
have
swallowed
a
good
bellyful
of
that
sewage.
One
and
eightpence
too
much. Hhhhm. It's the
droll
way
he
comes
out
with
the things. Knows
how
to
tell
a
story
too.
They
wheeled lower. Looking
for
grub. Wait.
He
threw
down
among
them
a
crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
per
sec
is
com. Not
a
bit. The
ball
bobbed unheeded
on
the
wake
of
swells, floated under
by
the bridgepiers. Not
such
damn
fools.
Also
the
day
I threw
that
stale
cake
out
of
the Erin's
King
picked
it
up
in
the
wake
fifty
yards astern.
Live
by
their
wits.
They
wheeled, flapping.
That
is
how
poets write, the
similar
sounds. But
then
Shakespeare has no rhymes:
blank
verse. The flow
of
the
language
it
is. The thoughts. Solemn.
His
gaze passed
over
the glazed apples
serried
on
her stand. Australians
they
must
be
this
time
of
year. Shiny peels: polishes
them
up
with
a
rag
or
a
handkerchief. Wait.
Those
poor
birds.
He
halted
again
and
bought
from
the
old
applewoman
two
Banbury cakes
for
a
penny
and
broke
the
brittle
paste
and
threw its fragments
down
into
the Liffey.
See
that? The gulls swooped silently, two,
then
all
from
their
heights, pouncing
on
prey. Gone.
Every
morsel.
Aware
of
their
greed
and
cunning
he
shook the powdery
crumb
from
his
hands.
They
never
expected that. Manna.
Live
on
fish, fishy flesh
they
have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans
from
Anna Liffey swim
down
here sometimes
to
preen
themselves. No
accounting
for
tastes.
Wonder
what
kind
is
swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had
to
live
on
them.
They
wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going
to
throw
any
more.
Penny
quite
enough.
Lot
of
thanks
I get. Not
even
a
caw.
They
spread
foot
and
mouth
disease
too.
If
you
cram
a
turkey
say
on
chestnutmeal
it
tastes
like
that.
Eat
pig
like
pig. But
then
why
is
it
that
saltwater
fish
are
not salty?
How
is
that?
His
eyes sought
answer
from
the
river
and
saw
a
rowboat
rock
at
anchor
on
the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.
Good
idea
that.
Wonder
if
he
pays
rent
to
the corporation.
How
can
you
own
water
really? It's
always
flowing
in
a
stream,
never
the same,
which
in
the
stream
of
life
we
trace.
Because
life
is
a
stream. All kinds
of
places
are
good
for
ads.
That
quack doctor
for
the clap used
to
be
stuck
up
in
all the greenhouses.
Never
see
it
now. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn't
cost
him
a
red
like
Maginni the dancing
master
self
advertisement. Got fellows
to
stick
them
up
or
stick
them
up
himself
for
that
matter
on
the q. t. running
in
to
loosen
a
button. Flybynight.
Just
the
place
too.
POST
NO BILLS.
POST
110 PILLS.
Some
chap
with
a
dose
burning
him.
If
he...? O! Eh? No... No. No, no. I don't
believe
it.
He
wouldn't surely? No, no. Mr
Bloom
moved forward,
raising
his
troubled eyes.
Think
no
more
about
that.
After
one. Timeball
on
the ballastoffice
is
down. Dunsink time. Fascinating
little
book
that
is
of
sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I
never
exactly understood. There's
a
priest.
Could
ask
him.
Par
it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Met
him
pike
hoses
she
called
it
till
I told her
about
the transmigration. O rocks! Mr
Bloom
smiled O rocks
at
two
windows
of
the ballastoffice. She's
right
after
all.
Only
big
words
for
ordinary
things
on
account
of
the sound. She's not exactly witty.
Can
be
rude
too. Blurt
out
what
I
was
thinking. Still, I don't know.
She
used
to
say
Ben
Dollard had
a
base barreltone voice.
He
has legs
like
barrels
and
you'd
think
he
was
singing
into
a
barrel. Now, isn't
that
wit.
They
used
to
call
him
big
Ben. Not half
as
witty
as
calling
him
base barreltone.
Appetite
like
an albatross.
Get
outside
of
a
baron
of
beef. Powerful
man
he
was
at
stowing
away
number
one
Bass.
Barrel
of
Bass. See?
It
all
works
out.
He
crossed Westmoreland
street
when
apostrophe
S had plodded by.
Rover
cycleshop.
Those
races
are
on
today.
How
long
ago
is
that?
Year
Phil Gilligan died.
We
were
in
Lombard
street
west. Wait:
was
in
Thom's. Got the job
in
Wisdom
Hely's
year
we
married.
Six
years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour
he
died
yes
that's
right
the
big
fire
at
Arnott's. Val Dillon
was
lord mayor. The Glencree dinner.
Alderman
Robert O'Reilly emptying the port
into
his
soup
before the
flag
fell. Bobbob lapping
it
for
the
inner
alderman. Couldn't
hear
what
the
band
played.
For
what
we
have
already
received
may
the Lord
make
us. Milly
was
a
kiddy then.
Molly
had
that
elephantgrey dress
with
the braided frogs. Mantailored
with
selfcovered buttons.
She
didn't
like
it
because
I sprained my
ankle
first
day
she
wore
choir
picnic
at
the Sugarloaf.
As
if
that.
Old
Goodwin's
tall
hat
done
up
with
some
sticky
stuff. Flies' picnic too.
Never
put
a
dress
on
her
back
like
it. Fitted her
like
a
glove, shoulders
and
hips.
Just
beginning
to
plump
it
out
well. Rabbitpie
we
had
that
day.
People
looking
after
her. Happy. Happier then.
Snug
little
room
that
was
with
the
red
wallpaper. Dockrell's,
one
and
ninepence
a
dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American
soap
I bought: elderflower. Cosy
smell
of
her bathwater. Funny
she
looked soaped all over. Shapely too.
Now
photography.
Poor
papa's
daguerreotype
atelier
he
told
me
of.
Hereditary
taste.
He
walked
along
the curbstone.
Stream
of
life.
What
was
the
name
of
that
priestylooking chap
was
always
squinting
in
when
he
passed?
Weak
eyes, woman. Stopped
in
Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My
memory
is
getting. Pen ...?
Of
course
it's years ago.
Noise
of
the trams probably. Well,
if
he
couldn't
remember
the dayfather's
name
that
he
sees
every
day.
Windy
night
that
was
I went
to
fetch her there
was
that
lodge
meeting
on
about
those
lottery
tickets
after
Goodwin's
concert
in
the supperroom
or
oakroom
of
the
Mansion
house.
He
and
I behind.
Sheet
of
her
music
blew
out
of
my
hand
against the High
school
railings. Lucky
it
didn't.
Thing
like
that
spoils the
effect
of
a
night
for
her.
Professor
Goodwin linking her
in
front. Shaky
on
his
pins,
poor
old
sot.
His
farewell
concerts. Positively
last
appearance
on
any
stage.
May
be
for
months
and
may
be
for
never.
Remember
her laughing
at
the wind, her
blizzard
collar up.
Corner
of
Harcourt
road
remember
that
gust. Brrfoo! Blew
up
all her skirts
and
her
boa
nearly smothered
old
Goodwin.
She
did
get
flushed
in
the wind.
Remember
when
we
got
home
raking
up
the
fire
and
frying
up
those
pieces
of
lap
of
mutton
for
her
supper
with
the Chutney sauce
she
liked.
And
the mulled rum.
Could
see
her
in
the bedroom
from
the
hearth
unclamping the
busk
of
her stays: white. Swish
and
soft
flop her stays
made
on
the bed.
Always
warm
from
her.
Always
liked
to
let
her
self
out. Sitting there
after
till
near
two
taking
out
her hairpins. Milly tucked
up
in
beddyhouse. Happy. Happy.
That
was
the night... —O, Mr Bloom,
how
do
you
do? —O,
how
do
you
do, Mrs Breen? —No
use
complaining.
How
is
Molly
those
times? Haven't seen her
for
ages. —In the pink, Mr
Bloom
said gaily. Milly has
a
position
down
in
Mullingar,
you
know. —Go away! Isn't
that
grand
for
her? —Yes.
In
a
photographer's there. Getting
on
like
a
house
on
fire.
How
are
all your charges? —All
on
the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.
How
many
has she? No
other
in
sight. —You're
in
black, I see.
You
have
no... —No, Mr
Bloom
said. I
have
just
come
from
a
funeral. Going
to
crop
up
all day, I foresee. Who's dead,
when
and
what
did
he
die
of?
Turn
up
like
a
bad
penny. —O,
dear
me, Mrs Breen said. I
hope
it
wasn't
any
near
relation.
May
as
well
get
her sympathy. —Dignam, Mr
Bloom
said. An
old
friend
of
mine.
He
died
quite
suddenly,
poor
fellow.
Heart
trouble, I believe.
Funeral
was
this
morning. —Sad
to
lose
the
old
friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.
Now
that's
quite
enough
about
that. Just: quietly: husband. —And your lord
and
master? Mrs Breen turned
up
her
two
large
eyes. Hasn't lost
them
anyhow. —O, don't
be
talking!
she
said. He's
a
caution
to
rattlesnakes. He's
in
there
now
with
his
lawbooks
finding
out
the
law
of
libel.
He
has
me
heartscalded.
Wait
till
I
show
you.
Hot
mockturtle
vapour
and
steam
of
newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured
out
from
Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the
top
of
Mr Bloom's gullet.
Want
to
make
good
pastry, butter,
best
flour, Demerara sugar,
or
they'd
taste
it
with
the
hot
tea.
Or
is
it
from
her?
A
barefoot
arab stood
over
the grating, breathing
in
the fumes. Deaden the
gnaw
of
hunger
that
way. Pleasure
or
pain
is
it?
Penny
dinner. Knife
and
fork chained
to
the table.
Opening
her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin:
ought
to
have
a
guard
on
those
things.
Stick
it
in
a
chap's
eye
in
the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money.
Please
take
one. Devils
if
they
lose
sixpence.
Raise
Cain. Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave
you
on
Monday?
Are
you
feeding
your
little
brother's family? Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Pastille
that
was
fell.
What
is
she?... —There
must
be
a
new
moon out,
she
said. He's
always
bad
then.
Do
you
know
what
he
did
last
night? Her
hand
ceased
to
rummage. Her eyes fixed
themselves
on
him,
wide
in
alarm,
yet
smiling. —What? Mr
Bloom
asked.
Let
her speak.
Look
straight
in
her eyes. I
believe
you.
Trust
me. —Woke
me
up
in
the night,
she
said.
Dream
he
had,
a
nightmare. Indiges. —Said the
ace
of
spades
was
walking
up
the stairs. —The
ace
of
spades! Mr
Bloom
said.
She
took
a
folded postcard
from
her handbag. —Read that,
she
said.
He
got
it
this
morning. —What
is
it? Mr
Bloom
asked, taking the card. U.P.? —U.P.: up,
she
said. Someone taking
a
rise
out
of
him. It's
a
great
shame
for
them
whoever
he
is. —Indeed
it
is, Mr
Bloom
said.
She
took
back
the card, sighing. —And
now
he's going round
to
Mr Menton's office. He's going
to
take
an
action
for
ten
thousand
pounds,
he
says.
She
folded the
card
into
her untidy
bag
and
snapped the catch.
Same
blue
serge
dress
she
had
two
years ago, the
nap
bleaching. Seen its
best
days. Wispish
hair
over
her ears.
And
that
dowdy toque:
three
old
grapes
to
take
the
harm
out
of
it.
Shabby
genteel.
She
used
to
be
a
tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth.
Only
a
year
or
so
older
than
Molly.
See
the
eye
that
woman
gave her, passing. Cruel. The
unfair
sex.
He
looked
still
at
her, holding
back
behind
his
look
his
discontent.
Pungent
mockturtle
oxtail
mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes
of
pastry
on
the
gusset
of
her dress:
daub
of
sugary flour stuck
to
her cheek.
Rhubarb
tart
with
liberal fillings,
rich
fruit
interior. Josie Powell
that
was.
In
Luke
Doyle's
long
ago. Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up.
Change
the subject. —Do
you
ever
see
anything
of
Mrs Beaufoy? Mr
Bloom
asked. —Mina Purefoy?
she
said. Philip Beaufoy I
was
thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham
often
thinks
of
the masterstroke.
Did
I
pull
the chain? Yes. The
last
act. —Yes. —I
just
called
to
ask
on
the
way
in
is
she
over
it. She's
in
the lying-in
hospital
in
Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's
three
days
bad
now. —O, Mr
Bloom
said. I'm
sorry
to
hear
that. —Yes, Mrs Breen said.
And
a
houseful
of
kids
at
home. It's
a
very
stiff birth, the
nurse
told me. —-O, Mr
Bloom
said.
His
heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news.
His
tongue clacked
in
compassion. Dth! Dth! —I'm
sorry
to
hear
that,
he
said.
Poor
thing!
Three
days! That's
terrible
for
her. Mrs Breen nodded. —She
was
taken
bad
on
the Tuesday... Mr
Bloom
touched her funnybone gently,
warning
her: —Mind!
Let
this
man
pass.
A
bony
form
strode
along
the curbstone
from
the
river
staring
with
a
rapt
gaze
into
the
sunlight
through
a
heavystringed glass.
Tight
as
a
skullpiece
a
tiny
hat
gripped
his
head.
From
his
arm
a
folded dustcoat,
a
stick
and
an
umbrella
dangled
to
his
stride. —Watch him, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
always
walks outside the lampposts. Watch! —Who
is
he
if
it's
a
fair
question? Mrs Breen asked.
Is
he
dotty? —His
name
is
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr
Bloom
said smiling. Watch! —He has
enough
of
them,
she
said. Denis
will
be
like
that
one
of
these
days.
She
broke
off
suddenly. —There
he
is,
she
said. I
must
go
after
him. Goodbye.
Remember
me
to
Molly, won't you? —I will, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
watched her dodge through passers
towards
the shopfronts. Denis Breen
in
skimpy frockcoat
and
blue
canvas
shoes shuffled
out
of
Harrison's hugging
two
heavy tomes
to
his
ribs.
Blown
in
from
the bay.
Like
old
times.
He
suffered her
to
overtake
him
without
surprise
and
thrust
his
dull
grey
beard
towards
her,
his
loose
jaw
wagging
as
he
spoke
earnestly. Meshuggah.
Off
his
chump. Mr
Bloom
walked
on
again
easily,
seeing
ahead
of
him
in
sunlight
the
tight
skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the
two
days.
Watch
him!
Out
he
goes again.
One
way
of
getting
on
in
the world.
And
that
other
old
mosey
lunatic
in
those
duds.
Hard
time
she
must
have
with
him. U.P.: up. I'll
take
my
oath
that's Alf Bergan
or
Richie Goulding. Wrote
it
for
a
lark
in
the Scotch
house
I bet anything. Round
to
Menton's office.
His
oyster
eyes staring
at
the postcard.
Be
a
feast
for
the gods.
Poor
Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband.
Method
in
his
madness.
Saffron
bun
and
milk
and
soda
lunch
in
the educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating
with
a
stopwatch, thirtytwo chews
to
the minute.
And
still
his
muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed
to
be
well
connected. Theodore's
cousin
in
Dublin Castle.
One
tony
relative
in
every
family.
Hardy
annuals
he
presents her with.
Saw
him
out
at
the
Three
Jolly
Topers marching
along
bareheaded
and
his
eldest
boy
carrying
one
in
a
marketnet. The squallers.
Poor
thing!
Then
having
to
give
the
breast
year
after
year
all hours
of
the night.
Selfish
those
t.t's are.
Dog
in
the manger.
Only
one
lump
of
sugar
in
my tea,
if
you
please.
He
stood
at
Fleet
street
crossing.
Luncheon
interval.
A
sixpenny
at
Rowe's?
Must
look
up
that
ad
in
the
national
library. An eightpenny
in
the Burton. Better.
On
my way.
He
walked
on
past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot
to
tap
Tom Kernan. Sss. Dth, dth, dth!
Three
days
imagine
groaning
on
a
bed
with
a
vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her
belly
swollen
out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's
head
too
big: forceps. Doubled
up
inside
her trying
to
butt
its
way
out
blindly, groping
for
the
way
out. Kill
me
that
would. Lucky
Molly
got
over
hers lightly.
They
ought
to
invent
something
to
stop that.
Life
with
hard
labour.
Twilight
sleep
idea:
queen
Victoria
was
given
that.
Nine
she
had.
A
good
layer.
Old
woman
that
lived
in
a
shoe
she
had
so
many
children.
Suppose
he
was
consumptive.
Time
someone
thought
about
it
instead
of
gassing
about
the
what
was
it
the
pensive
bosom
of
the
silver
effulgence. Flapdoodle
to
feed fools on.
They
could
easily
have
big
establishments
whole
thing
quite
painless
out
of
all the taxes
give
every
child
born
five
quid
at
compound
interest
up
to
twentyone
five
per
cent
is
a
hundred
shillings
and
five
tiresome pounds
multiply
by
twenty
decimal
system
encourage
people
to
put
by
money
save
hundred
and
ten
and
a
bit
twentyone years
want
to
work
it
out
on
paper
come
to
a
tidy
sum
more
than
you
think. Not stillborn
of
course.
They
are
not
even
registered.
Trouble
for
nothing. Funny sight
two
of
them
together,
their
bellies out.
Molly
and
Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting.
Phthisis
retires
for
the
time
being,
then
returns.
How
flat
they
look
all
of
a
sudden
after. Peaceful eyes.
Weight
off
their
mind.
Old
Mrs Thornton
was
a
jolly
old
soul. All my babies,
she
said. The spoon
of
pap
in
her
mouth
before
she
fed them. O, that's nyumnyum. Got her
hand
crushed
by
old
Tom Wall's son.
His
first
bow
to
the public.
Head
like
a
prize
pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren.
People
knocking
them
up
at
all hours.
For
God' sake, doctor.
Wife
in
her throes.
Then
keep
them
waiting months
for
their
fee.
To
attendance
on
your wife. No
gratitude
in
people. Humane doctors,
most
of
them. Before the
huge
high
door
of
the Irish
house
of
parliament
a
flock
of
pigeons flew.
Their
little
frolic
after
meals.
Who
will
we
do
it
on? I
pick
the
fellow
in
black. Here goes. Here's
good
luck.
Must
be
thrilling
from
the air. Apjohn,
myself
and
Owen Goldberg
up
in
the trees
near
Goose
green
playing the monkeys.
Mackerel
they
called me.
A
squad
of
constables debouched
from
College
street, marching
in
Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting
their
truncheons.
After
their
feed
with
a
good
load
of
fat
soup
under
their
belts. Policeman's
lot
is
oft
a
happy
one.
They
split
up
in
groups
and
scattered, saluting,
towards
their
beats.
Let
out
to
graze.
Best
moment
to
attack
one
in
pudding
time.
A
punch
in
his
dinner.
A
squad
of
others, marching irregularly, rounded
Trinity
railings making
for
the station. Bound
for
their
troughs.
Prepare
to
receive
cavalry.
Prepare
to
receive
soup.
He
gazed
after
the
last
broad
tunic.
Nasty
customers
to
tackle.
Jack
Power
could
a
tale
unfold: father
a
G man.
If
a
fellow
gave
them
trouble
being lagged
they
let
him
have
it
hot
and
heavy
in
the bridewell. Can't
blame
them
after
all
with
the job
they
have
especially the
young
hornies.
That
horsepoliceman the
day
Joe
Chamberlain
was
given
his
degree
in
Trinity
he
got
a
run
for
his
money. My
word
he
did!
His
horse's hoofs clattering
after
us
down
Abbey
street. Lucky I had the
presence
of
mind
to
dive
into
Manning's
or
I
was
souped.
He
did
come
a
wallop,
by
George.
Must
have
cracked
his
skull
on
the cobblestones. I oughtn't
to
have
got
myself
swept
along
with
those
medicals.
And
the
Trinity
jibs
in
their
mortarboards. Looking
for
trouble.
Still
I got
to
know
that
young
Dixon
who
dressed
that
sting
for
me
in
the Mater
and
now
he's
in
Holles
street
where
Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels.
Police
whistle
in
my ears still. All skedaddled.
Why
he
fixed
on
me.
Give
me
in
charge.
Right
here
it
began. —Up the Boers! —Three cheers
for
De
Wet! —We'll
hang
Joe
Chamberlain
on
a
sourapple tree.
Silly
billies: mob
of
young
cubs yelling
their
guts out.
Vinegar
hill. The
Butter
exchange
band.
Few
years'
time
half
of
them
magistrates
and
civil
servants.
War
comes on:
into
the
army
helterskelter:
same
fellows used to.
Whether
on
the
scaffold
high.
Never
know
who
you're talking to.
Corny
Kelleher
he
has Harvey Duff
in
his
eye.
Like
that
Peter
or
Denis
or
James Carey
that
blew the
gaff
on
the invincibles.
Member
of
the
corporation
too. Egging
raw
youths
on
to
get
in
the
know
all the
time
drawing
secret
service
pay
from
the castle.
Drop
him
like
a
hot
potato.
Why
those
plainclothes men
are
always
courting slaveys. Easily
twig
a
man
used
to
uniform. Squarepushing
up
against
a
backdoor.
Maul
her
a
bit.
Then
the
next
thing
on
the menu.
And
who
is
the gentleman does
be
visiting there?
Was
the
young
master
saying
anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded
young
student
fooling round her
fat
arms ironing. —Are
those
yours, Mary? —I don't wear
such
things... Stop
or
I'll
tell
the missus
on
you.
Out
half the night. —There
are
great
times coming, Mary.
Wait
till
you
see. —Ah, gelong
with
your
great
times coming. Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls. James Stephens'
idea
was
the best.
He
knew them. Circles
of
ten
so
that
a
fellow
couldn't round
on
more
than
his
own
ring. Sinn Fein.
Back
out
you
get
the knife.
Hidden
hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's
daughter
got
him
out
of
Richmond,
off
from
Lusk. Putting
up
in
the Buckingham
Palace
hotel
under
their
very
noses. Garibaldi.
You
must
have
a
certain
fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith
is
a
squareheaded
fellow
but
he
has no
go
in
him
for
the mob.
Or
gas
about
our
lovely
land.
Gammon
and
spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Debating societies.
That
republicanism
is
the
best
form
of
government.
That
the
language
question
should
take
precedence
of
the
economic
question.
Have
your daughters inveigling
them
to
your house.
Stuff
them
up
with
meat
and
drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's
a
good
lump
of
thyme
seasoning under the
apron
for
you.
Have
another
quart
of
goosegrease before
it
gets
too
cold. Halffed enthusiasts.
Penny
roll
and
a
walk
with
the band. No
grace
for
the carver. The
thought
that
the
other
chap pays
best
sauce
in
the world.
Make
themselves
thoroughly
at
home.
Show
us
over
those
apricots, meaning peaches. The not
far
distant
day. Homerule
sun
rising
up
in
the northwest.
His
smile
faded
as
he
walked,
a
heavy
cloud
hiding
the
sun
slowly, shadowing Trinity's
surly
front. Trams passed
one
another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things
go
on
same,
day
after
day: squads
of
police
marching out, back: trams in, out.
Those
two
loonies mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy
swollen
belly
on
a
bed
groaning
to
have
a
child
tugged
out
of
her.
One
born
every
second
somewhere.
Other
dying
every
second.
Since
I fed the birds
five
minutes.
Three
hundred
kicked the bucket.
Other
three
hundred
born,
washing
the blood off, all
are
washed
in
the blood
of
the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. Cityful passing away,
other
cityful coming, passing
away
too:
other
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines
of
houses, streets, miles
of
pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands.
This
owner, that. Landlord
never
dies
they
say.
Other
steps
into
his
shoes
when
he
gets
his
notice
to
quit.
They
buy
the
place
up
with
gold
and
still
they
have
all the gold. Swindle
in
it
somewhere. Piled
up
in
cities,
worn
away
age
after
age. Pyramids
in
sand. Built
on
bread
and
onions. Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon.
Big
stones left. Round towers.
Rest
rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's mushroom houses built
of
breeze. Shelter,
for
the night. No-one
is
anything.
This
is
the
very
worst
hour
of
the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy:
hate
this
hour. Feel
as
if
I had been eaten
and
spewed. Provost's house. The
reverend
Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.
Well
tinned
in
there.
Like
a
mortuary
chapel. Wouldn't
live
in
it
if
they
paid me.
Hope
they
have
liver
and
bacon
today.
Nature
abhors
a
vacuum. The
sun
freed
itself
slowly
and
lit
glints
of
light
among
the silverware
opposite
in
Walter Sexton's
window
by
which
John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing. There
he
is: the brother.
Image
of
him. Haunting face.
Now
that's
a
coincidence.
Course
hundreds
of
times
you
think
of
a
person
and
don't meet him.
Like
a
man
walking
in
his
sleep. No-one knows him.
Must
be
a
corporation
meeting
today.
They
say
he
never
put
on
the
city
marshal's uniform
since
he
got the job. Charley Kavanagh used
to
come
out
on
his
high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered
and
shaved.
Look
at
the
woebegone
walk
of
him. Eaten
a
bad
egg. Poached eyes
on
ghost. I
have
a
pain.
Great
man's brother:
his
brother's brother. He'd
look
nice
on
the
city
charger.
Drop
into
the D.B.C. probably
for
his
coffee,
play
chess
there.
His
brother
used men
as
pawns.
Let
them
all
go
to
pot.
Afraid
to
pass
a
remark
on
him. Freeze
them
up
with
that
eye
of
his. That's the fascination: the name. All
a
bit
touched.
Mad
Fanny
and
his
other
sister
Mrs Dickinson driving
about
with
scarlet
harness.
Bolt
upright
lik
surgeon
M'Ardle.
Still
David Sheehy
beat
him
for
south
Meath.
Apply
for
the Chiltern Hundreds
and
retire
into
public life. The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels
in
the park. Simon Dedalus said
when
they
put
him
in
parliament
that
Parnell would
come
back
from
the
grave
and
lead
him
out
of
the
house
of
commons
by
the arm. —Of the twoheaded octopus,
one
of
whose
heads
is
the
head
upon
which
the ends
of
the
world
have
forgotten
to
come
while
the
other
speaks
with
a
Scotch accent. The tentacles...
They
passed
from
behind
Mr
Bloom
along
the curbstone.
Beard
and
bicycle.
Young
woman.
And
there
he
is
too.
Now
that's really
a
coincidence:
second
time. Coming events cast
their
shadows before.
With
the
approval
of
the
eminent
poet, Mr Geo. Russell.
That
might
be
Lizzie Twigg
with
him. A. E.:
what
does
that
mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed
El
Esquire.
What
was
he
saying? The ends
of
the
world
with
a
Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus.
Something
occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking
it
all in. Not
saying
a
word.
To
aid
gentleman
in
literary
work.
His
eyes followed the high
figure
in
homespun,
beard
and
bicycle,
a
listening
woman
at
his
side. Coming
from
the vegetarian.
Only
weggebobbles
and
fruit. Don't
eat
a
beefsteak.
If
you
do
the eyes
of
that
cow
will
pursue
you
through all eternity.
They
say
it's healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it.
Keep
you
on
the
run
all day.
Bad
as
a
bloater. Dreams all night.
Why
do
they
call
that
thing
they
gave
me
nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians.
To
give
you
the
idea
you
are
eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too.
They
cook
in
soda.
Keep
you
sitting
by
the
tap
all night. Her stockings
are
loose
over
her ankles. I
detest
that:
so
tasteless.
Those
literary
etherial
people
they
are
all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes
they
are. I wouldn't
be
surprised
if
it
was
that
kind
of
food
you
see
produces the
like
waves
of
the
brain
the poetical.
For
example
one
of
those
policemen sweating Irish
stew
into
their
shirts
you
couldn't squeeze
a
line
of
poetry
out
of
him. Don't
know
what
poetry
is
even.
Must
be
in
a
certain
mood.
He
crossed
at
Nassau
street
corner
and
stood before the
window
of
Yeates
and
Son, pricing the fieldglasses.
Or
will
I
drop
into
old
Harris's
and
have
a
chat
with
young
Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably
at
his
lunch.
Must
get
those
old
glasses
of
mine
set
right. Goerz lenses
six
guineas. Germans making
their
way
everywhere.
Sell
on
easy
terms
to
capture trade. Undercutting.
Might
chance
on
a
pair
in
the railway lost
property
office. Astonishing the things
people
leave
behind
them
in
trains
and
cloakrooms.
What
do
they
be
thinking about? Women too. Incredible.
Last
year
travelling
to
Ennis had
to
pick
up
that
farmer's daughter's ba
and
hand
it
to
her
at
Limerick
junction. Unclaimed
money
too. There's
a
little
watch
up
there
on
the
roof
of
the
bank
to
test
those
glasses by.
His
lids came
down
on
the
lower
rims
of
his
irides. Can't
see
it.
If
you
imagine
it's there
you
can
almost
see
it. Can't
see
it.
He
faced
about
and, standing
between
the awnings, held
out
his
right
hand
at
arm's
length
towards
the sun. Wanted
to
try
that
often. Yes: completely. The tip
of
his
little
finger
blotted
out
the sun's disk.
Must
be
the focus
where
the rays cross.
If
I had
black
glasses. Interesting. There
was
a
lot
of
talk
about
those
sunspots
when
we
were
in
Lombard
street
west. Looking
up
from
the
back
garden.
Terrific
explosions
they
are. There
will
be
a
total
eclipse
this
year:
autumn
some
time.
Now
that
I
come
to
think
of
it
that
ball
falls
at
Greenwich time. It's the clock
is
worked
by
an
electric
wire
from
Dunsink.
Must
go
out
there
some
first Saturday
of
the month.
If
I
could
get
an
introduction
to
professor
Joly
or
learn
up
something
about
his
family.
That
would
do
to:
man
always
feels complimented.
Flattery
where
least
expected. Nobleman
proud
to
be
descended
from
some
king's mistress.
His
foremother.
Lay
it
on
with
a
trowel.
Cap
in
hand
goes through the land. Not
go
in
and
blurt
out
what
you
know
you're not to: what's parallax?
Show
this
gentleman the door. Ah.
His
hand
fell
to
his
side
again.
Never
know
anything
about
it.
Waste
of
time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing
each
other, passing.
Same
old
dingdong always. Gas:
then
solid:
then
world:
then
cold:
then
dead
shell drifting around, frozen rock,
like
that
pineapple
rock. The moon.
Must
be
a
new
moon out,
she
said. I
believe
there is.
He
went
on
by
la maison Claire. Wait. The
full
moon
was
the
night
we
were
Sunday
fortnight
exactly there
is
a
new
moon. Walking
down
by
the Tolka. Not
bad
for
a
Fairview moon.
She
was
humming. The
young
May
moon she's beaming, love.
He
other
side
of
her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp
is
gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes. Stop. Stop.
If
it
was
it
was. Must. Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. Yes.
Thought
so. Sloping
into
the Empire. Gone.
Plain
soda
would
do
him
good.
Where
Pat Kinsella had
his
Harp
theatre
before Whitbred ran the Queen's.
Broth
of
a
boy. Dion Boucicault
business
with
his
harvestmoon face
in
a
poky bonnet.
Three
Purty Maids
from
School.
How
time
flies, eh? Showing
long
red
pantaloons
under
his
skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering,
their
drink
against
their
breath.
More
power, Pat.
Coarse
red:
fun
for
drunkards: guffaw
and
smoke.
Take
off
that
white
hat.
His
parboiled eyes.
Where
is
he
now? Beggar somewhere. The
harp
that
once
did
starve
us
all. I
was
happier then.
Or
was
that
I?
Or
am
I
now
I? Twentyeight I was.
She
twentythree.
When
we
left
Lombard
street
west
something
changed.
Could
never
like
it
again
after
Rudy. Can't
bring
back
time.
Like
holding
water
in
your hand. Would
you
go
back
to
then?
Just
beginning
then. Would you?
Are
you
not
happy
in
your
home
you
poor
little
naughty
boy? Wants
to
sew
on
buttons
for
me. I
must
answer.
Write
it
in
the library. Grafton
street
gay
with
housed awnings lured
his
senses.
Muslin
prints, silkdames
and
dowagers, jingle
of
harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing
in
the baking causeway.
Thick
feet
that
woman
has
in
the
white
stockings.
Hope
the
rain
mucks
them
up
on
her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the
beef
to
the heels
were
in.
Always
gives
a
woman
clumsy
feet.
Molly
looks
out
of
plumb. Pincushions. I'm
a
long
time
threatening
to
buy
one. Sticking
them
all
over
the place. Needles
in
window
curtains.
He
bared slightly
his
left
forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not
today
anyhow.
Must
go
back
for
that
lotion.
For
her
birthday
perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly
three
months off.
Then
she
mightn't
like
it. Women won't
pick
up
pins.
Say
it
cuts lo. Gleaming silks, petticoats
on
slim
brass
rails, rays
of
flat
silk
stockings. Useless
to
go
back. Had
to
be.
Tell
me
all. High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All
for
a
woman,
home
and
houses, silkwebs, silver,
rich
fruits spicy
from
Jaffa. Agendath Netaim.
Wealth
of
the world.
A
warm
human
plumpness settled
down
on
his
brain.
His
brain
yielded.
Perfume
of
embraces all
him
assailed.
With
hungered flesh obscurely,
he
mutely craved
to
adore.
Duke
street. Here
we
are.
Must
eat. The Burton. Feel
better
then.
He
turned Combridge's corner,
still
pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded:
in
deep
summer
fields, tangled pressed grass,
in
trickling hallways
of
tenements,
along
sofas, creaking beds. —Jack, love! —Darling! —Kiss me, Reggy! —My boy! —Love!
His
heart
astir
he
pushed
in
the
door
of
the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped
his
trembling breath:
pungent
meatjuice, slush
of
greens.
See
the animals feed. Men, men, men. Perched
on
high stools
by
the bar, hats shoved back,
at
the tables calling
for
more
bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls
of
sloppy food,
their
eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches.
A
pallid
suetfaced
young
man
polished
his
tumbler
knife fork
and
spoon
with
his
napkin.
New
set
of
microbes.
A
man
with
an infant's saucestained
napkin
tucked round
him
shovelled gurgling
soup
down
his
gullet.
A
man
spitting
back
on
his
plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth
to
chewchewchew it.
Chump
chop
from
the grill. Bolting
to
get
it
over.
Sad
booser's eyes. Bitten
off
more
than
he
can
chew.
Am
I
like
that?
See
ourselves
as
others
see
us. Hungry
man
is
an
angry
man. Working
tooth
and
jaw. Don't! O!
A
bone!
That
last
pagan
king
of
Ireland Cormac
in
the schoolpoem choked
himself
at
Sletty
southward
of
the Boyne.
Wonder
what
he
was
eating.
Something
galoptious. Saint Patrick converted
him
to
Christianity. Couldn't
swallow
it
all however. —Roast
beef
and
cabbage. —One stew. Smells
of
men.
His
gorge
rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish
cigarette
smoke,
reek
of
plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale
of
ferment. Couldn't
eat
a
morsel
here.
Fellow
sharpening knife
and
fork
to
eat
all before him,
old
chap picking
his
tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before
and
after.
Grace
after
meals.
Look
on
this
picture
then
on
that. Scoffing
up
stewgravy
with
sopping sippets
of
bread. Lick
it
off
the plate, man!
Get
out
of
this.
He
gazed round the stooled
and
tabled eaters, tightening the wings
of
his
nose. —Two stouts here. —One corned
and
cabbage.
That
fellow
ramming
a
knifeful
of
cabbage
down
as
if
his
life
depended
on
it.
Good
stroke.
Give
me
the fidgets
to
look. Safer
to
eat
from
his
three
hands.
Tear
it
limb
from
limb.
Second
nature
to
him. Born
with
a
silver
knife
in
his
mouth. That's witty, I think.
Or
no.
Silver
means
born rich. Born
with
a
knife. But
then
the
allusion
is
lost. An illgirt server gathered
sticky
clattering plates. Rock, the
head
bailiff, standing
at
the
bar
blew the
foamy
crown
from
his
tankard.
Well
up:
it
splashed
yellow
near
his
boot.
A
diner, knife
and
fork upright, elbows
on
table,
ready
for
a
second
helping stared
towards
the foodlift
across
his
stained
square
of
newspaper.
Other
chap telling
him
something
with
his
mouth
full.
Sympathetic
listener. Table talk. I munched
hum
un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha?
Did
you, faith? Mr
Bloom
raised
two
fingers doubtfully
to
his
lips.
His
eyes said: —Not here. Don't
see
him. Out. I
hate
dirty eaters.
He
backed
towards
the door.
Get
a
light
snack
in
Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.
Keep
me
going. Had
a
good
breakfast. —Roast
and
mashed here. —Pint
of
stout.
Every
fellow
for
his
own,
tooth
and
nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.
He
came
out
into
clearer air
and
turned
back
towards
Grafton street.
Eat
or
be
eaten. Kill! Kill!
After
all there's
a
lot
in
that
vegetarian
fine
flavour
of
things
from
the
earth
garlic
of
course
it
stinks
after
Italian organgrinders crisp
of
onions mushrooms truffles.
Pain
to
the animal too. Pluck
and
draw
fowl. Wretched brutes there
at
the cattlemarket waiting
for
the poleaxe
to
split
their
skulls open. Moo.
Poor
trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob.
Bubble
and
squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights.
Give
us
that
brisket
off
the hook. Plup. Rawhead
and
bloody
bones. Flayed glasseyed
sheep
hung
from
their
haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam
on
sawdust.
Top
and
lashers going out. Don't
maul
them
pieces,
young
one.
Hot
fresh
blood
they
prescribe
for
decline. Blood
always
needed. Insidious. Lick
it
up
smokinghot,
thick
sugary. Famished ghosts. Ah, I'm hungry.
He
entered Davy Byrne's.
Moral
pub.
He
doesn't chat. Stands
a
drink
now
and
then. But
in
leapyear
once
in
four. Cashed
a
cheque
for
me
once.
What
will
I
take
now?
He
drew
his
watch.
Let
me
see
now. Shandygaff? —Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said
from
his
nook. —Hello, Flynn. —How's things? —Tiptop...
Let
me
see. I'll
take
a
glass
of
burgundy and...
let
me
see. —Have
you
a
cheese sandwich? —Yes, sir.
Like
a
few
olives
too
if
they
had them. Italian I prefer.
Good
glass
of
burgundy
take
away
that. Lubricate.
A
nice
salad, cool
as
a
cucumber, Tom Kernan
can
dress. Puts
gusto
into
it.
Pure
olive
oil. Milly served
me
that
cutlet
with
a
sprig
of
parsley.
Take
one
Spanish onion.
God
made
food, the
devil
the cooks. Devilled crab. —Wife well? —Quite well, thanks...
A
cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola,
have
you? —Yes, sir. Nosey Flynn sipped
his
grog. —Doing
any
singing
those
times?
Look
at
his
mouth.
Could
whistle
in
his
own
ear. Flap ears
to
match. Music. Knows
as
much
about
it
as
my coachman.
Still
better
tell
him. Does no harm.
Free
ad. —She's engaged
for
a
big
tour
end
of
this
month.
You
may
have
heard perhaps. —No. O, that's the style. Who's getting
it
up? The
curate
served. —How
much
is
that? —Seven d., sir...
Thank
you, sir. —Mustard, sir? —Thank you. —Getting
it
up?
he
said. Well, it's
like
a
company
idea,
you
see.
Part
shares
and
part
profits. —Ay,
now
I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting
his
hand
in
his
pocket
to
scratch
his
groin.
Who
is
this
was
telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed
up
in
it?
A
warm
shock
of
air
heat
of
mustard
hanched
on
Mr Bloom's heart.
He
raised
his
eyes
and
met the stare
of
a
bilious
clock. Two. Pub clock
five
minutes
fast.
Time
going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.
His
midriff
yearned
then
upward, sank within him, yearned
more
longly, longingly. Wine.
He
smellsipped the
cordial
juice and, bidding
his
throat
strongly
to
speed
it,
set
his
wineglass delicately down. —Yes,
he
said. He's the
organiser
in
point
of
fact. No fear: no brains. Nosey Flynn snuffled
and
scratched.
Flea
having
a
good
square
meal. —He had
a
good
slice
of
luck,
Jack
Mooney
was
telling me,
over
that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won
again
that
soldier
in
the Portobello barracks.
By
God,
he
had the
little
kipper
down
in
the
county
Carlow
he
was
telling me...
Hope
that
dewdrop doesn't
come
down
into
his
glass. No, snuffled
it
up. —For
near
a
month, man, before
it
came off. Sucking
duck
eggs
by
God
till
further
orders.
Keep
him
off
the boose, see? O,
by
God, Blazes
is
a
hairy chap. Davy Byrne came forward
from
the hindbar
in
tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning
his
lips
with
two
wipes
of
his
napkin. Herring's blush.
Whose
smile
upon
each
feature plays
with
such
and
such
replete.
Too
much
fat
on
the parsnips. —And here's
himself
and
pepper
on
him, Nosey Flynn said.
Can
you
give
us
a
good
one
for
the
Gold
cup? —I'm
off
that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I
never
put
anything
on
a
horse. —You're
right
there, Nosey Flynn said. Mr
Bloom
ate
his
strips
of
sandwich,
fresh
clean bread,
with
relish
of
disgust
pungent
mustard, the feety savour
of
green
cheese. Sips
of
his
wine soothed
his
palate. Not logwood that. Tastes
fuller
this
weather
with
the chill off.
Nice
quiet
bar.
Nice
piece
of
wood
in
that
counter. Nicely planed.
Like
the
way
it
curves there. —I wouldn't
do
anything
at
all
in
that
line, Davy Byrne said.
It
ruined
many
a
man, the
same
horses. Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed
for
the
sale
of
beer, wine
and
spirits
for
consumption
on
the premises. Heads I
win
tails
you
lose. —True
for
you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're
in
the know. There's no straight
sport
going now. Lenehan gets
some
good
ones. He's giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard
de
Walden's, won
at
Epsom. Morny
Cannon
is
riding him. I
could
have
got
seven
to
one
against Saint Amant
a
fortnight
before. —That so? Davy Byrne said...
He
went
towards
the
window
and, taking
up
the pettycash book, scanned its pages. —I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling.
That
was
a
rare
bit
of
horseflesh. Saint Frusquin
was
her sire.
She
won
in
a
thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly,
with
wadding
in
her ears. Blue
jacket
and
yellow
cap.
Bad
luck
to
big
Ben
Dollard
and
his
John O'Gaunt.
He
put
me
off
it. Ay.
He
drank resignedly
from
his
tumbler, running
his
fingers
down
the flutes. —Ay,
he
said, sighing. Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked
upon
his
sigh. Nosey numbskull.
Will
I
tell
him
that
horse
Lenehan?
He
knows already.
Better
let
him
forget.
Go
and
lose
more. Fool
and
his
money. Dewdrop coming
down
again. Cold
nose
he'd
have
kissing
a
woman.
Still
they
might
like. Prickly beards
they
like. Dogs' cold noses.
Old
Mrs Riordan
with
the rumbling stomach's Skye
terrier
in
the
City
Arms hotel.
Molly
fondling
him
in
her lap. O, the
big
doggybowwowsywowsy! Wine soaked
and
softened rolled
pith
of
bread
mustard
a
moment
mawkish
cheese.
Nice
wine
it
is.
Taste
it
better
because
I'm not thirsty.
Bath
of
course
does that.
Just
a
bite
or
two.
Then
about
six
o'clock
I can. Six. Six.
Time
will
be
gone then. She... Stuck
on
the
pane
two
flies buzzed, stuck. Glowing wine
on
his
palate
lingered swallowed. Crushing
in
the winepress grapes
of
Burgundy. Sun's
heat
it
is. Seems
to
a
secret
touch
telling
me
memory. Touched
his
sense moistened remembered.
Hidden
under wild ferns
on
Howth
below
us
bay
sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The
bay
purple
by
the Lion's head.
Green
by
Drumleck. Yellowgreen
towards
Sutton. Fields
of
undersea, the lines faint brown
in
grass, buried cities. Pillowed
on
my coat
she
had her hair, earwigs
in
the
heather
scrub my
hand
under her nape, you'll toss
me
all. O wonder! Coolsoft
with
ointments her
hand
touched me, caressed: her eyes
upon
me
did
not
turn
away. Ravished
over
her I lay,
full
lips
full
open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly
she
gave
me
in
my
mouth
the seedcake
warm
and
chewed.
Mawkish
pulp her
mouth
had mumbled sweetsour
of
her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy.
Young
life, her lips
that
gave
me
pouting.
Soft
warm
sticky
gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were,
take
me,
willing
eyes. Pebbles fell.
She
lay
still.
A
goat. No-one. High
on
Ben
Howth rhododendrons
a
nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns
she
laughed warmfolded. Wildly I
lay
on
her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched
neck
beating, woman's breasts
full
in
her
blouse
of
nun's veiling,
fat
nipples upright.
Hot
I tongued her.
She
kissed me. I
was
kissed. All yielding
she
tossed my hair. Kissed,
she
kissed me. Me.
And
me
now. Stuck, the flies buzzed.
His
downcast eyes followed the
silent
veining
of
the oaken slab. Beauty:
it
curves: curves
are
beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the
world
admires.
Can
see
them
library
museum
standing
in
the round hall,
naked
goddesses. Aids
to
digestion.
They
don't
care
what
man
looks. All
to
see.
Never
speaking. I
mean
to
say
to
fellows
like
Flynn.
Suppose
she
did
Pygmalion
and
Galatea
what
would
she
say
first? Mortal!
Put
you
in
your
proper
place. Quaffing
nectar
at
mess
with
gods
golden
dishes, all ambrosial. Not
like
a
tanner
lunch
we
have, boiled mutton, carrots
and
turnips, bottle
of
Allsop.
Nectar
imagine
it
drinking electricity: gods' food.
Lovely
forms
of
women sculped Junonian.
Immortal
lovely.
And
we
stuffing
food
in
one
hole
and
out
behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food:
have
to
feed
it
like
stoking an engine.
They
have
no.
Never
looked. I'll
look
today. Keeper won't see.
Bend
down
let
something
drop
see
if
she. Dribbling
a
quiet
message
from
his
bladder
came
to
go
to
do
not
to
do
there
to
do.
A
man
and
ready
he
drained
his
glass
to
the
lees
and
walked,
to
men
too
they
gave themselves,
manly
conscious,
lay
with
men lovers,
a
youth
enjoyed her,
to
the yard.
When
the
sound
of
his
boots had ceased Davy Byrne said
from
his
book: —What
is
this
he
is? Isn't
he
in
the insurance line? —I
know
him
well
to
see, Davy Byrne said.
Is
he
in
trouble? —Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not
that
I heard of. Why? —I noticed
he
was
in
mourning. —Was he? Nosey Flynn said.
So
he
was, faith. I asked
him
how
was
all
at
home. You're right,
by
God.
So
he
was. —I
never
broach
the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely,
if
I
see
a
gentleman
is
in
trouble
that
way.
It
only
brings
it
up
fresh
in
their
minds. —It's not the
wife
anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met
him
the
day
before yesterday
and
he
coming
out
of
that
Irish
farm
dairy
John Wyse Nolan's
wife
has
in
Henry
street
with
a
jar
of
cream
in
his
hand
taking
it
home
to
his
better
half. She's
well
nourished, I
tell
you. Plovers
on
toast. Nosey Flynn pursed
his
lips. —-He doesn't
buy
cream
on
the ads
he
picks up.
You
can
make
bacon
of
that. —How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming
from
his
book. Nosey Flynn
made
swift passes
in
the air
with
juggling fingers.
He
winked. —He's
in
the craft,
he
said. —-Do
you
tell
me
so? Davy Byrne said. —Very
much
so, Nosey Flynn said.
Ancient
free
and
accepted order. He's an
excellent
brother. Light,
life
and
love,
by
God.
They
give
him
a
leg
up. I
was
told
that
by
a—well, I won't
say
who. —Is
that
a
fact? —O, it's
a
fine
order, Nosey Flynn said.
They
stick
to
you
when
you're down. I
know
a
fellow
was
trying
to
get
into
it. But they're
as
close
as
damn
it.
By
God
they
did
right
to
keep
the women
out
of
it. Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all
in
one: —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! —There
was
one
woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself
in
a
clock
to
find
out
what
they
do
be
doing. But
be
damned but
they
smelt
her
out
and
swore her
in
on
the
spot
a
master
mason.
That
was
one
of
the saint Legers
of
Doneraile. Davy Byrne, sated
after
his
yawn, said
with
tearwashed eyes: —And
is
that
a
fact?
Decent
quiet
man
he
is. I
often
saw
him
in
here
and
I
never
once
saw
him—you know,
over
the line. —God
Almighty
couldn't
make
him
drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips
off
when
the
fun
gets
too
hot. Didn't
you
see
him
look
at
his
watch? Ah,
you
weren't there.
If
you
ask
him
to
have
a
drink
first
thing
he
does
he
outs
with
the
watch
to
see
what
he
ought
to
imbibe.
Declare
to
God
he
does. —There
are
some
like
that, Davy Byrne said. He's
a
safe
man, I'd say. —He's not
too
bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling
it
up. He's been known
to
put
his
hand
down
too
to
help
a
fellow.
Give
the
devil
his
due. O,
Bloom
has
his
good
points. But there's
one
thing
he'll
never
do.
His
hand
scrawled
a
dry
pen
signature
beside
his
grog. —I know, Davy Byrne said. —Nothing
in
black
and
white, Nosey Flynn said. Paddy Leonard
and
Bantam
Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning,
a
plaining
hand
on
his
claret
waistcoat. —Day, Mr Byrne. —Day, gentlemen.
They
paused
at
the counter. —Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked. —I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered. —Well, what'll
it
be? Paddy Leonard asked. —I'll
take
a
stone
ginger,
Bantam
Lyons said. —How much? Paddy Leonard cried.
Since
when,
for
God' sake? What's yours, Tom? —How
is
the
main
drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
For
answer
Tom Rochford pressed
his
hand
to
his
breastbone
and
hiccupped. —Would I
trouble
you
for
a
glass
of
fresh
water, Mr Byrne?
he
said. —Certainly, sir. Paddy Leonard eyed
his
alemates. —Lord
love
a
duck,
he
said.
Look
at
what
I'm standing drinks to! Cold
water
and
gingerpop!
Two
fellows
that
would
suck
whisky
off
a
sore
leg.
He
has
some
bloody
horse
up
his
sleeve
for
the
Gold
cup.
A
dead
snip. —Zinfandel
is
it? Nosey Flynn asked. Tom Rochford spilt
powder
from
a
twisted paper
into
the
water
set
before him. —That cursed dyspepsia,
he
said before drinking. —Breadsoda
is
very
good, Davy Byrne said. Tom Rochford nodded
and
drank. —Is
it
Zinfandel? —Say nothing!
Bantam
Lyons winked. I'm going
to
plunge
five
bob
on
my own. —Tell
us
if
you're
worth
your
salt
and
be
damned
to
you, Paddy Leonard said.
Who
gave
it
to
you? Mr
Bloom
on
his
way
out
raised
three
fingers
in
greeting. —So long! Nosey Flynn said. The others turned. —That's the
man
now
that
gave
it
to
me,
Bantam
Lyons whispered. —Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said
with
scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll
take
two
of
your small Jamesons
after
that
and
a... —Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly. —Ay, Paddy Leonard said.
A
suckingbottle
for
the baby. Mr
Bloom
walked
towards
Dawson street,
his
tongue brushing
his
teeth smooth.
Something
green
it
would
have
to
be: spinach, say.
Then
with
those
Rontgen rays searchlight
you
could.
At
Duke
lane
a
ravenous
terrier
choked
up
a
sick
knuckly
cud
on
the cobblestones
and
lapped
it
with
new
zest. Surfeit. Returned
with
thanks
having
fully
digested the contents. First
sweet
then
savoury. Mr
Bloom
coasted warily. Ruminants.
His
second
course.
Their
upper
jaw
they
move.
Wonder
if
Tom Rochford
will
do
anything
with
that
invention
of
his? Wasting
time
explaining
it
to
Flynn's mouth.
Lean
people
long
mouths.
Ought
to
be
a
hall
or
a
place
where
inventors
could
go
in
and
invent
free.
Course
then
you'd
have
all the cranks pestering.
He
hummed, prolonging
in
solemn
echo
the closes
of
the bars:
Bare
clean closestools waiting
in
the
window
of
William Miller, plumber, turned
back
his
thoughts.
They
could:
and
watch
it
all the
way
down,
swallow
a
pin
sometimes
come
out
of
the ribs years after, tour round the
body
changing
biliary
duct
spleen
squirting
liver
gastric
juice coils
of
intestines
like
pipes. But the
poor
buffer would
have
to
stand
all the
time
with
his
insides
entrails
on
show. Science. Doesn't
go
properly. Keyes:
two
months
if
I
get
Nannetti to. That'll
be
two
pounds ten
about
two
pounds eight.
Three
Hynes owes me.
Two
eleven. Prescott's dyeworks van
over
there.
If
I
get
Billy
Prescott's ad:
two
fifteen.
Five
guineas about.
On
the pig's back.
Could
buy
one
of
those
silk
petticoats
for
Molly, colour
of
her
new
garters. Today. Today. Not think. Tour the
south
then.
What
about
English wateringplaces? Brighton, Margate. Piers
by
moonlight. Her voice floating out.
Those
lovely
seaside
girls. Against John Long's
a
drowsing
loafer
lounged
in
heavy thought, gnawing
a
crusted knuckle. Handy
man
wants job. Small wages.
Will
eat
anything.
A
blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone
with
his
slender
cane. No
tram
in
sight. Wants
to
cross. —Do
you
want
to
cross? Mr
Bloom
asked. The blind stripling
did
not answer.
His
wallface frowned weakly.
He
moved
his
head
uncertainly. —You're
in
Dawson street, Mr
Bloom
said. Molesworth
street
is
opposite.
Do
you
want
to
cross? There's
nothing
in
the way. The
cane
moved
out
trembling
to
the left. Mr Bloom's
eye
followed its line
and
saw
again
the dyeworks' van drawn
up
before Drago's.
Where
I
saw
his
brillantined
hair
just
when
I was.
Horse
drooping. Driver
in
John Long's. Slaking
his
drouth. —There's
a
van there, Mr
Bloom
said, but it's not moving. I'll
see
you
across.
Do
you
want
to
go
to
Molesworth street? —Yes, the stripling answered.
South
Frederick street. —Come, Mr
Bloom
said.
He
touched the
thin
elbow gently:
then
took the limp
seeing
hand
to
guide
it
forward.
Say
something
to
him.
Better
not
do
the condescending.
They
mistrust
what
you
tell
them. Pass
a
common
remark. —The
rain
kept off. No answer. Stains
on
his
coat. Slobbers
his
food, I suppose. Tastes all
different
for
him.
Have
to
be
spoonfed first.
Like
a
child's hand,
his
hand.
Like
Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing
me
up
I daresay
from
my hand.
Wonder
if
he
has
a
name. Van.
Keep
his
cane
clear
of
the horse's legs: tired
drudge
get
his
doze. That's right. Clear.
Behind
a
bull:
in
front
of
a
horse. —Thanks, sir. Knows I'm
a
man. Voice. —Right now? First
turn
to
the left. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone
and
went
on
his
way, drawing
his
cane
back, feeling again. Mr
Bloom
walked
behind
the eyeless feet,
a
flatcut suit
of
herringbone tweed.
Poor
young
fellow!
How
on
earth
did
he
know
that
van
was
there?
Must
have
felt it.
See
things
in
their
forehead
perhaps:
kind
of
sense
of
volume.
Weight
or
size
of
it,
something
blacker
than
the dark.
Wonder
would
he
feel
it
if
something
was
removed. Feel
a
gap. Queer
idea
of
Dublin
he
must
have, tapping
his
way
round
by
the stones.
Could
he
walk
in
a
beeline
if
he
hadn't
that
cane?
Bloodless
pious
face
like
a
fellow
going
in
to
be
a
priest. Penrose!
That
was
that
chap's name.
Look
at
all the things
they
can
learn
to
do. Read
with
their
fingers. Tune pianos.
Or
we
are
surprised
they
have
any
brains.
Why
we
think
a
deformed
person
or
a
hunchback
clever
if
he
says
something
we
might
say.
Of
course
the
other
senses
are
more. Embroider.
Plait
baskets.
People
ought
to
help. Workbasket I
could
buy
for
Molly's birthday. Hates sewing.
Might
take
an objection. Dark men
they
call
them. Sense
of
smell
must
be
stronger too. Smells
on
all sides, bunched together.
Each
street
different
smell.
Each
person
too.
Then
the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes?
They
say
you
can't
taste
wines
with
your eyes
shut
or
a
cold
in
the head.
Also
smoke
in
the dark
they
say
get
no pleasure.
And
with
a
woman,
for
instance.
More
shameless
not seeing.
That
girl
passing the Stewart institution,
head
in
the air.
Look
at
me. I
have
them
all on.
Must
be
strange
not
to
see
her.
Kind
of
a
form
in
his
mind's eye. The voice, temperatures:
when
he
touches her
with
his
fingers
must
almost
see
the lines, the curves.
His
hands
on
her hair,
for
instance.
Say
it
was
black,
for
instance. Good.
We
call
it
black.
Then
passing
over
her
white
skin.
Different
feel perhaps. Feeling
of
white. Postoffice.
Must
answer. Fag today.
Send
her
a
postal
order
two
shillings, half
a
crown.
Accept
my
little
present. Stationer's
just
here too. Wait.
Think
over
it.
With
a
gentle
finger
he
felt
ever
so
slowly
the
hair
combed
back
above
his
ears. Again. Fibres
of
fine
fine
straw.
Then
gently
his
finger
felt the skin
of
his
right
cheek. Downy
hair
there too. Not
smooth
enough. The
belly
is
the smoothest. No-one about. There
he
goes
into
Frederick street.
Perhaps
to
Levenston's dancing
academy
piano.
Might
be
settling my braces. Walking
by
Doran's publichouse
he
slid
his
hand
between
his
waistcoat
and
trousers
and, pulling
aside
his
shirt
gently, felt
a
slack
fold
of
his
belly. But I
know
it's whitey yellow.
Want
to
try
in
the dark
to
see.
He
withdrew
his
hand
and
pulled
his
dress to.
Poor
fellow!
Quite
a
boy. Terrible. Really terrible.
What
dreams would
he
have, not seeing?
Life
a
dream
for
him.
Where
is
the
justice
being born
that
way? All
those
women
and
children
excursion
beanfeast burned
and
drowned
in
New
York. Holocaust.
Karma
they
call
that
transmigration
for
sins
you
did
in
a
past
life
the reincarnation met
him
pike
hoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity,
of
course: but somehow
you
can't
cotton
on
to
them
someway. Sir Frederick Falkiner going
into
the freemasons' hall.
Solemn
as
Troy.
After
his
good
lunch
in
Earlsfort terrace.
Old
legal
cronies cracking
a
magnum. Tales
of
the
bench
and
assizes
and
annals
of
the bluecoat school. I sentenced
him
to
ten years. I
suppose
he'd
turn
up
his
nose
at
that
stuff
I drank.
Vintage
wine
for
them, the
year
marked
on
a
dusty bottle. Has
his
own
ideas
of
justice
in
the recorder's court. Wellmeaning
old
man.
Police
chargesheets crammed
with
cases
get
their
percentage manufacturing crime. Sends
them
to
the rightabout. The
devil
on
moneylenders. Gave Reuben J.
a
great
strawcalling.
Now
he's really
what
they
call
a
dirty jew. Power
those
judges have. Crusty
old
topers
in
wigs.
Bear
with
a
sore
paw.
And
may
the Lord
have
mercy
on
your soul. Mr
Bloom
came
to
Kildare street. First I must. Library.
Straw
hat
in
sunlight.
Tan
shoes. Turnedup trousers.
It
is.
It
is.
His
heart
quopped softly.
To
the right. Museum. Goddesses.
He
swerved
to
the right.
Is
it?
Almost
certain. Won't look. Wine
in
my face.
Why
did
I?
Too
heady. Yes,
it
is. The walk. Not see.
Get
on. Making
for
the
museum
gate
with
long
windy
steps
he
lifted
his
eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not
following
me? Didn't
see
me
perhaps.
Light
in
his
eyes. The
flutter
of
his
breath
came
forth
in
short
sighs. Quick. Cold statues:
quiet
there.
Safe
in
a
minute. No. Didn't
see
me.
After
two.
Just
at
the gate. My heart!
His
eyes beating looked steadfastly
at
cream curves
of
stone. Sir Thomas Deane
was
the Greek architecture.
Look
for
something
I.
His
hasty
hand
went
quick
into
a
pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim.
Where
did
I?
Busy
looking.
He
thrust
back
quick
Agendath.
Afternoon
she
said. Hurry. Walk quietly.
Moment
more. My heart.
His
hand
looking
for
the
where
did
I
put
found
in
his
hip
pocket
soap
lotion
have
to
call
tepid
paper stuck. Ah
soap
there I yes. Gate. Safe!