Ulysses: Chapter 7 Aeolus

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• Author: James Joyce

　

In the Heart of the Hibernian Metropolis


BEFORE NELSON'S PILLAR TRAILS SLOWED, SHUNTED, CHANGED TROLLEY, started for Blackrock,

Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston park and upper Rathmines,

Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse

Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:


-- Rathgar and Terenure!

-- Come on, Sandymount Green!

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck moved from

their railheads, swerved to the down line, glided parallel.

-- Start, Palmerston park!

The Wearer of the Crown


Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and polished. Parked in North

Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal

initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels,

insured and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.


Gentlemen of the Press


Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up

on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by

grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.


-- There it is Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.

-- Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph

office.

The-door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large

capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under

his cape, a king's courier.

Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean

strokes. Scissors and paste.

-- I'll go through the printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square.

-- Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we

can do him one.

-- Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in. We.

William Brayden, Esquire, of Oaklands, Sandymount


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:


-- Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure

entered between the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the Freeman's

Journal and National Press. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed stately up the

staircase steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended

each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of

flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.

-- Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build one door opposite

another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk Mary, Martha. Steered by an

umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.

-- Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.

-- Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our Saviour.

Jesus Mario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his heart. In Martha.

Co-ome thou lost one,


Co-ome thou dear one.


The Crozier and the Pen


-- His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.


They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.

A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off

posthaste with a word.

-- Freeman!

Mr Bloom said slowly:

-- Well, he is one of our saviours also.

A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed in through the

sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards.

But will he save the circulation? Thumping, thumping.

He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.

Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.

With Unfeigned Regret it is we announce the of a most respected Dublin Burgess


Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping thump. This morning the remains

of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule

the world today. His machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand:

fermenting. Working away, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.


How a Great Daily Organ is turned out


Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy crown.


Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for College green. He

boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was worth. It's the ads ad side features sell

a weekly not the stale news in the official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by

authority in the year one thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis,

barony of Tinnachinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing

return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil

Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle' Toby's page for tiny tots. Country bumpkin's

queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a

lot teaching others. The personal note M.A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on

golden strand. World's biggest balloon. Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two

bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the

Irish.

The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thurap. Now if he got paralysed

there and no one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on the same, print it over and

over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the whole thing. Want a cool head.

-- Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.

Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him they say.

The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet and made a

sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the dirty glass screen.

-- Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off.

Mr Bloom stood in his way.

-- If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward

with his thumb.

-- Did you? Hynes asked.

-- Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.

-- Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll tap him too.

He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman's Journal.

Three bob I lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint.

We see the Canvasser at work


Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.


-- Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember.

Mr Nannetti considered the cutting a while and nodded.

-- He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.

He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.

The foreman moved his pencil towards it.

-- But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at

the top.

Hell of a racket they make. Maybe he understands what I.

The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to scratch

slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.

-- Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.

Let him take that in first.

Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's sallow

face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs

of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up

meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and one things.

Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew swiftly on the

scarred-woodwork.

House of Key(e)s


-- Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name Alexander Keyes,

tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.


Better not teach him his own business.

-- You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top in leaded: the

house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea?

The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly.

-- The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor, the Manx

parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the isle of Man. Catches the

eye, you see. Can you do that?

I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But then if he didn't know

only make it awkward for him. Better not.

-- We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?

-- I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there too.

I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little par calling

attention. You know the usual. High class licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.

The foreman thought for an instant.

-- We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months' renewal.

A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it silently. Mr Bloom

stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their

cases.

Orthographical


Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his

spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled embarra

two ars is it? double ess ment of a harassed pedlar while gauging au the symmetry of a

peeled pear under a cemetery wall. Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account

of the symmetry.


I could have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to have said something

about an old hat or something. No, I could have said. Looks as good as new now. See his

phizthen.

Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forwards its flyboard with slit

the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human the way it sllt to call

attention. Doing its level best to speak. That door too slit creaking, asking to be shut.

Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt.

Noted Churchman an Occasional Contributor


The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:


-- Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the Telegraph. Where's

what's his name?

He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.

-- Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.

-- Ay. Where's Monks?

-- Monks!

Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.

-- Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a good place I

know.

-- Monks!

-- Yes, sir.

Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in

August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show.

A Dayfather


He walked on through the caseroom, passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old

Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time:

obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of

his tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savings-bank I'd say. Wife a good cook

and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.


And it was the Feast of the Passover


He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards

first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD. kcirtaP. Poor papa

with his hagadah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in

Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of

Egypt and into the house of bondage alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that's the

other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog

and the stick and the water and the butcher and then the angel of death kills the butcher

and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look

into it well. Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life

is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his

fingers.


Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now

am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps? Better phone him up

first. Number? Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.

Only once more that soap


He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over these walls with

matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those

works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there.


He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose

it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out the soap and stowed it

away, buttoned into the hip pocket of his trousers.

What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something I forgot. Just

to see before dressing. No. Here. No.

A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening Telegraph office. Know who that is.

What's up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.

He entered softly.

Erin, Green Gem of the Silver Sea


-- The ghost walks, professor Macllugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty

windowpane.


Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it

sourly:

-- Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?

Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on:

-- Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way, fanned

by gentlest zephyrs tho' quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling waters of

Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight or 'neath the

shadows cast o'er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the

forest. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for

high?

-- Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.

Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:

-- The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys!

-- And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on the fireplace

and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.

-- That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want to hear any more

of the stuff.

He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready

to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.

High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Rather upsets a

man's day a funeral does. He has influence they say. Old Chatterton, the vice-chancellor,

is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his

death written this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself.

Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he

writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.

-- Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.

-- What is it? Mr Bloom asked.

-- A recently discovered fragment of Cicero's, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of

tone. Our lovely land.

Short but to the Point


-- Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.


-- Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an accent on the

whose.

-- Dan Dawson's land, Mr Dedalus said.

-- Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.

Ned Lambert nodded.

-- But listen to this, he said.

The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was pushed in.

-- Excuse me, J.J. O'Molloy said, entering.

Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.

-- I beg yours, he said.

-- Good day, Jack.

-- Come in. Come in.

-- Good day.

-- How are you, Dedalus?

-- Well. And yourself?

J.J. O'Molloy shook his head.

Sad


Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline poor chap. That hectic flush

spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.


-- Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.

-- You're looking extra.

-- Is the editor to be seen? J.J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the inner door.

-- Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in his sanctum with

Lenehan.

J.J. O'Molloy strolled Jo the sloping desk and began to turn back the pink pages of the

file.

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping

the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show

their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does

some literary work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford

began on the Independent. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind

of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to

believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the

papers and then all blows over. Hailfellow well met the next moment.

-- Ah, listen to this for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we but climb the

serried mountain peaks...

-- Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag!

-- Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were...

-- Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything

for it?

-- As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their

wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and

undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent

translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight...

His Native Doric


-- The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.


-- That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shines

forth to irradiate her silver effulgence.

-- O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan, shite and onions! That'll do,

Ned. Life is too short.

He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed

his hair with raking fingers.

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a

hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven black-spectacled face.

-- Doughy Daw! he cried.

What Wetherup said


All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff.

He was in the bakery line too wasn't he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest

well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland revenue office with the motor.

Hooked that nicely. Entertainments open house. Big blow out. Wetherup always said that.

Get a grip of them by the stomach.


The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of

feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them and the harsh voice

asked:

-- What is it?

-- And here comes the sham squire himself, professor MacHugh said grandly.

-- Getououthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition.

-- Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that.

-- Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.

-- Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.

Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes roved towards Mr Bloom's

face, shadowed by a smile.

-- Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.

Memorable Battles Recalled


-- North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We won every time!

North Cork and Spanish officers!


-- Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at his toecaps.

-- In Ohio! the editor shouted.

-- So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.

Passing out, he whispered to J.J. O'Molloy:

-- Incipient jigs. Sad case.

-- Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio!

-- A Perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.

O, Harp Eolian


He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece,

twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth.


-- Bingbang, bangbang.

Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.

-- Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad.

He went in.

-- What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor

and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

-- That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret. Hello, Jack.

That's all right.

-- Good day, Myles. J.J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on

the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?

The telephone whirred inside.

-- Twenty eight... No, twenty... Double four . Yes.

Spot the Winner


Lenehan came out of the inner office with Sports tissues.


-- Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up.

He tossed the tissues on to the table.

Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open.

-- Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.

Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar

as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled up in the

draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to earth.

-- It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.

-- Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane blowing.

Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.

-- Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrel shoved me,

sir.

He pointed to two faces peering in round the door-frame.

-- Him, sir.

-- Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.

He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.

J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking:

-- Continued on page six, column four.

-- Yes... Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss...

? Yes, Telegraph... To where?... Aha! Which auction rooms?... Aha! I see... Right. I'll

catch him.

A Collision ensues


The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan who

was struggling up with the second tissue.


-- Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace.

-- My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a hurry.

-- Knee, Lenehan said.

He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee.

-- The accumulation of the anno Domini.

-- Sorry, Mr Bloom said.

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages

over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the

newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:

We are the boys of Wexford


Who fought with heart and hand.


Exit Bloom


-- I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes's.

Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.


He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who, leaning against the

mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand suddenly stretched forth an arm amply.

-- Begone! he said. The world is before you.

-- Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.

J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing them apart

gently, without comment.

-- He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his blackrimmed

spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him.

-- Show! Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.

A Street Cortege


Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's wake, the

last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots.


-- Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and you'll kick. O,

my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks.

He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding feet past the

fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands.

-- What's that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other two gone?

-- Who? the professor said, turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy

Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.

-- Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where's my hat?

He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket, jingling his

keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the air and against the wood as he locked

his desk drawer.

-- He's pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voIce.

-- Seems to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarette case in murmuring

meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the most matches?

The Calumet of Peace


He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a

match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and

offered it.


-- Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself.

The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in

song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:

'Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,


'Twas empire charmed thy heart.


The professor grinned, locking his long lips.


-- Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.

He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with quick grace,

said:

-- Silence for my brandnew riddle!

-- Imperium romanum, J.J. O'Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than British or

Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.

Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.

-- That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire. We haven't

got the chance of a snowball in hell.

The Grandeur that was Rome


-- Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We mustn't be led away

by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome, imperial, imperious, imperative.


He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing:

-- What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow: but vile. Cloac

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1. Ebooks list page : 86
2. Ulysses: Chapter 6 Hades
3. Ulysses: Chapter 15 Circe
4. Ulysses: Chapter 13 Nausicca
5. Ulysses: Chapter 12 Cyclops
6. Ulysses: Chapter 14 Oxen of the Sun
7. Ulysses: Chapter 18 Penelope
8. Ulysses: Chapter 17 Ithaca
9. Ulysses: Chapter 1 Telemachus
10. Ulysses: Chapter 3 Proteus
11. Ulysses: Chapter 16 Eumaeus
12. Ulysses: Chapter 2 Nestor
13. Ulysses: Chapter 8 Lestrygonians
14. Ulysses: Chapter 4 Calypso
15. Ulysses: Chapter 11 Sirens
16. Ulysses: Chapter 10 Wandering Rocks