Ulysses: Chapter 8 Lestrygonians

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• Author: James Joyce

　

  

    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, druid's altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander

Dowie, restorer of the church in Zion, is coming.

Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!!


All heartily welcome.


Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper on

that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix? Our Saviour. Wake up

in the dead of night and see him on the wall, hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran

in.


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 quay walls, 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 bridge

piers. 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.

The hungry famished gull


Flaps o'er the waters dull.


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.


Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit


Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth.


-- Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!


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 fishy flesh they have to, all sea birds, 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 chestnut meal 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.

Kino's

11/-

Trousers.

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 kind 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. Fly by night. 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 ballast office 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 pikehoses she called it till I told her about

the transmigration. O rocks!

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballast office. 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 storing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? it all

works out.

A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet

sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have

sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E.

L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard,

crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple food. Three bob a day,

walking along the gutters, street after street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread

and skilly. They are not Boyl: no: M'Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I

suggested to him about a transparent show cart with two smart girls sitting inside writing

letters, copybooks, envelopes, blotting paper. I bet that would have caught on. Smart

girls writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing.

Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too.

Curiosity. Pillar of salt, Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it

himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain of black celluloid. His

ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't

lick 'em. What? Our envelopes. Hello! Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I

am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame

Street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those

convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited

her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard

to bargain with that sort of woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But

glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of

Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by the way she. If she

had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried

everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart's broke eating

dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up.

Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed

wire.

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

self-covered 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,

shoulder and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit pie 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.

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home after practice.

Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the

south.

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 supper room 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 herself 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?

-- Oh, 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.

Your funeral's tomorrow


While you're coming through the rye.


Diddlediddle dumdum


Diddlediddle...


-- 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.

Pastile 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 heavy stringed 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 shop-fronts. 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 stick, umbrella, dustcoat. 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.

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there. Like to answer

them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses

there doesn't know me. O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through

forty-four of them. Wanted smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called

you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the

meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the world. The way

they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts

have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo

Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc

cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp girl (R. C.) wishes to

hear of post in fruit or pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half percent

dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca'canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the

toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. Lady

Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union

staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear

injects juices make it tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man.

Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet

and in at the death. Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Swagger around

livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the

Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishwish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put

her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Who is this she was like?

O yes? Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the

Shelbourne hotel. Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of her my handling

them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park

ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express. Scavenging what the quality left. High tea.

Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled

for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her,

thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and

soda lunch in the educational dairy. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the

minute. 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. Twilightsleep 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 after all

of a sudden! Peaceful eyes. Weight off their minds. 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

nyumyum. 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. Goose

step. 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 into 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 crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a

urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops.

Settle my hat straight. There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia

Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's wasn't she?

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 horse policeman 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. Luck 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 mortar-boards. 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 plain clothes men are

always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Square-pushing 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, get along with your great times coming. Barmaids too. Tobacco shopgirls.

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. Want to 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. Shove us over those apricots,

meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Home Rule 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. 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 silver ware in Walter

Sexton's window opposite 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 Boulger 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 like 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. Wind and watery 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.

The dreamy cloudy gull


Waves o'er the waters dull.


He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing

the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair?

Well-mannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right.

Grz 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 cloak rooms. What do they be

thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that

farmer's daughter's bag 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. 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 art 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 again to his side.

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, 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, quick breathing, slowlier walking, passed Adam court.

With a keep quiet relief, his eyes took note: this is street here middle of the day Bob

Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M'Coy said. They drink in order to say or do

something or cherchez la femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then

the rest of the year as sober as a judge.

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? Twenty-eight 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, silk, dames 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. Country bred

chawbacon. All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly

looks out of plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons.

Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin:

lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa

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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 7 Aeolus
14. Ulysses: Chapter 4 Calypso
15. Ulysses: Chapter 11 Sirens
16. Ulysses: Chapter 10 Wandering Rocks