1993 lines
81 KiB
HTML
1993 lines
81 KiB
HTML
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<p class="newchapter">
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Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
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shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school
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treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His
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Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red
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jujubes white.
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</p>
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<p>
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A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of
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Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
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</p>
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<p>
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Heart to heart talks.
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</p>
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<p>
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Bloo... Me? No.
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</p>
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<p>
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Blood of the Lamb.
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</p>
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<p>
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His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are
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washed in the blood of the lamb. <a id="010041killergod3" class="box-images" href="notes/010041killergod.htm">God wants blood victim.</a> Birth, hymen,
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martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,
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<span id="ed1932pg133"> </span>druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of
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the church in Zion is coming.
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</p>
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<p class="lyrics">
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<i>Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!! <br />
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All heartily welcome.</i>
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</p>
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Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper
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on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.
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Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,
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hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.
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</p>
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<p>
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Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
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instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
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pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush
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out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain.
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Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good
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for the brain.
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</p>
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<p>
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From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.
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<span id="ed1922pg144"> </span> Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be
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selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father.
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Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother
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goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their
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theology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the
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absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat
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you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the
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<a id="030019kidneysofwheat2" class="box-images" href="notes/030019kidneysofwheat.htm">fat of the land</a>. Their butteries <span id="ed1961pg151"> </span>and larders. I'd like to see them do
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the black fast <span id="ed1986pg124"> </span>Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear
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he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you
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could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting <a id="010019money2" class="box-images" href="notes/010019money.htm">L.s.d.</a>
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out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching
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his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence mum's the
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word.
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<p>
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Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks
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too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it.
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Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
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</p>
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<p>
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As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from
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the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it,
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I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the
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brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in
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too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on
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the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking
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that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1932pg134"> </span><p>
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Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
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quaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben
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J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of <a id="030039sewage4" class="box-images" href="notes/030039sewage.htm">that sewage</a>. One and
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eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the
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things. Knows how to tell a story too.
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</p>
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<p>
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They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.
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</p>
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<p>
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He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
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per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of
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swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the
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day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the
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wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
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</p>
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<p class="lyrics"> <i>The hungry famished gull. <br />
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Flaps o'er the waters dull.</i>
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</p>
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<span id="ed1922pg145"> </span>
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<p>
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That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has
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no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.
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Solemn.
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</p>
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<p class="lyrics"> <i>Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit <br />
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Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth.</i>
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</p>
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<span id="ed1961pg152"> </span><p>
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— Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
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</p>
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<p>
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His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians
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they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag
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or a handkerchief.
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</p>
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<p>
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Wait. Those poor birds.
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</p>
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<p>
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He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for
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a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into
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the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from
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their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
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Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
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hands. They never expected <span id="ed1986pg125"> </span>that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they
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have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down
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here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder
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what kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.
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</p>
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<p>
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They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny
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quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread <a id="020054footandmouth6" class="box-images" href="notes/020054footandmouth.htm">foot and
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mouth disease</a> too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes
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like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are
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not salty? How is that?
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</p>
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<span id="ed1932pg135"> </span><p>
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His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
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on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.
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</p>
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<p>
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<i>Kino's.</i>
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</p>
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<p>
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<i>11/-.</i>
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</p>
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<p>
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<i>Trousers.</i>
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</p>
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<p>
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Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you
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own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which
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in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of
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places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck
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up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr
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Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self
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advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for
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that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight.
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Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose
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burning him.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1922pg146"> </span><p>
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If he...?
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</p>
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<p>
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O!
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</p>
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<p>
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Eh?
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</p>
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<p>
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No... No.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1961pg153"> </span><p>
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No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?
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</p>
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<p>
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No, no.
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</p>
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<p>
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Mr Bloom moved forward raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about
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that. After one. <a id="080007ballastoffice1" class="box-images" href="notes/080007ballastoffice.htm">Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time.</a>
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Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never
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exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek:
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parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her
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about the transmigration. O rocks!
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</p>
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<p>
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Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballast office. She's right
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after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.
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She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking.
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Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone
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voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a
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barrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not half as
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witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get
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outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number
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one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1986pg126"> </span>
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<p>
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A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him
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along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like
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that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He
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read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S.
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Wisdom <span id="ed1932pg136"> </span>Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his
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foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our
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staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after
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street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are
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not Boyl: no, M Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either.
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I suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls
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sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I
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bet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the
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eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of
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them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women
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too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of course because he
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didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a
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false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted
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under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What?
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Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson,
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I am hastening to purchase <span id="ed1961pg154"> </span>the only reliable inkeraser
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<span id="ed1922pg147"> </span><i>Kansell,</i> sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a
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job it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent.
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That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small
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head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes.
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Very hard to bargain with that sort of woman. I disturbed her at her
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devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world.
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Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name
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too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by the way she. If she had
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married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of
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money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for
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them. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves
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in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the
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pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.
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</p>
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<p>
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He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover
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cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil
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Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait: was in Thom's.
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Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago:
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ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big fire at <a id="080001arnotts" class="box-images" href="notes/080001arnotts.htm">Arnott's</a>. Val Dillon
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was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying
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the port into his soup before the flag fell. Bobbob lapping it for the
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inner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have
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already received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly
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had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with
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selfcovered buttons. She didn't like it <span id="ed1932pg137"> </span>because I sprained my ankle
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first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old
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Goodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic
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too. Never put a dress on her back like <span id="ed1986pg127"> </span>it. Fitted her like a glove,
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shoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit pie we
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had that day. People looking after her.
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</p>
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<p>
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Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper.
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Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American
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soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she
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looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's
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daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.
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</p>
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<p>
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He walked along the curbstone.
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</p>
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<p>
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Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking <span id="ed1961pg155"> </span>chap was <a id="170008precedingseries17" class="box-images" href="notes/170008precedingseries.htm">always
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squinting in when he passed</a>? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint
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Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen
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...? of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he
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couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1922pg148"> </span><p>
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Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home
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after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her
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that song <i>Winds that blow from the south</i>.
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</p>
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<p>
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Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on
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about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or
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oakroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew
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out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it didn't.
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Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. <a id="170008precedingseries19" class="box-images" href="notes/170008precedingseries.htm">Professor Goodwin
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linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot.</a> His farewell
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concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and
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may be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar
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up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her
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skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed
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in the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up
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those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she
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liked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth
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unclamping the busk of her stays. White.
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</p>
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<p>
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Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her.
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Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two
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taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy.
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That was the night...
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</p>
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<p>
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— O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?
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</p>
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<span id="ed1932pg138"> </span><p>
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— O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?
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</p>
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<p>
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— No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for
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ages.
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</p>
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<p>
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— In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a position down in
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Mullingar, you know.
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</p>
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<p>
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— Go away! Isn't that grand for her?
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</p>
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<p>
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— Yes. In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How
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are all your charges?
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</p>
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<p>
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— All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.
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</p>
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<p>
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How many has she? No other in sight.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1986pg128"> </span><p>
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— You're in black, I see. You have no...
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</p>
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<span id="ed1961pg156"> </span><p>
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— No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.
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</p>
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<p>
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Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he
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die of? Turn up like a bad penny.
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</p>
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<p>
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— O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relation.
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</p>
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<p>
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May as well get her sympathy.
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</p>
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<p>
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— Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly,
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poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.
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</p>
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<span id="ed1922pg149"> </span><p class="lyrics">
|
||
|
<i>Your funeral's tomorrow <br />
|
||
|
While you're coming through the rye. <br />
|
||
|
Diddlediddle dumdum <br />
|
||
|
Diddlediddle...</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Now that's quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— And your lord and master?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg139"> </span>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?...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you
|
||
|
know what he did last night?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in
|
||
|
alarm, yet smiling.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg157"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— What? Mr Bloom asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Indiges.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
She took a folded postcard from her handbag.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Read that, she said. He got it this morning.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg129"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg150"> </span>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great
|
||
|
shame for them whoever he is.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
She took back the card, sighing.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an
|
||
|
action for ten thousand pounds, he says.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Change the subject.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Mina Purefoy? she said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham often thinks of
|
||
|
the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg140"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Yes.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in <span id="ed1961pg158"> </span><a id="140035holles2" class="box-images" href="notes/140035holles.htm">the
|
||
|
lying-in hospital in Holles street</a>. Dr <a id="140038drhorne3" class="box-images" href="notes/140038drhorne.htm">Horne</a> got her in. She's three
|
||
|
days bad now.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff
|
||
|
birth, the nurse told me.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— O, Mr Bloom said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in
|
||
|
compassion. Dth! Dth!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's
|
||
|
terrible for her.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mrs Breen nodded.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— She was taken bad on the Tuesday...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Mind! Let this man pass.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg151"> </span>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts.
|
||
|
Watch!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg130"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr
|
||
|
Bloom said smiling. Watch!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these
|
||
|
days.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
She broke off suddenly.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to
|
||
|
Molly, won't you?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I will, Mr Bloom said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Meshuggah. Off his chump.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the
|
||
|
tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg141"> </span>days. Watch him! Out he goes again. <span id="ed1961pg159"> </span>One way of getting on in the world.
|
||
|
And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have
|
||
|
with him.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He passed the <i>Irish Times</i>. There might be other answers Iying 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 fortyfour 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
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg152"> </span>
|
||
|
poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No
|
||
|
time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 per cent 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 <i>Irish Field</i>
|
||
|
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. <span id="ed1986pg131"> </span>That one at the Grosvenor this
|
||
|
morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. 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 <span id="ed1961pg160"> </span>the park
|
||
|
ranger got me in with Whelan of the <i>Express.</i> Scavenging what <span id="ed1932pg142"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg153"> </span><p>
|
||
|
He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot
|
||
|
to tap Tom Kernan.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for
|
||
|
nothing.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg161"> </span>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs
|
||
|
Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then
|
||
|
returns. <span id="ed1986pg132"> </span>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,
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg143"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 into groups and
|
||
|
scattered, saluting towards
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg154"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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. <i>There is not in this
|
||
|
wide world a vallee</i>. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to
|
||
|
the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1961pg162"> </span>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 <a id="010068themater3" class="box-images-med" href="notes/010068themater.htm">the Mater</a> 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg144"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Up the Boers!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Three cheers for De Wet!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg133"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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: <a id="010058bloodyswindle6" class="box-images" href="notes/010058bloodyswindle.htm">into the army</a> helterskelter: same fellows
|
||
|
used to whether on the scaffold high.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg155"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Are those yours, Mary?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I don't wear such things... Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. Out
|
||
|
half the night.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Ah, get along with your great times coming.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Barmaids too. Tobacco shopgirls.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
You must have a certain fascination: Parnell. <a id="030037griffith5" class="box-images" href="notes/030037griffith.htm">Arthur Griffith</a> <span id="ed1961pg163"> </span>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 <span id="ed1932pg145"> </span>home. Show us
|
||
|
over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. <a id="040006homerulesun3" class="box-images" href="notes/040006homerulesun.htm">Home Rule
|
||
|
sun rising up in the northwest.</a>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg134"> </span>Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the
|
||
|
blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other
|
||
|
coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of
|
||
|
pavements,
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg156"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
No one is anything.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
|
||
|
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg164"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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. <span id="ed1932pg146"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle.
|
||
|
Young woman.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg157"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1986pg135"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1961pg165"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p class="lyrics"> <i>The dreamy cloudy gull <br />
|
||
|
Waves o'er the waters dull.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg147"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg158"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg136"> </span><span id="ed1961pg166"> </span><p>
|
||
|
Now that I come to think of it, <a id="080007ballastoffice2" class="box-images" href="notes/080007ballastoffice.htm">that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's
|
||
|
the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink.</a> 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Ah.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His hand fell again to his side.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He went on by la maison Claire.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1932pg148"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom, quick breathing, slowlier walking, passed Adam court.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <i>cherchez la
|
||
|
femme</i>. Up in <a id="050014thecoombe3" class="box-images" href="notes/050014thecoombe.htm">the Coombe</a> with chummies and streetwalkers and then the
|
||
|
rest of the year as sober as a judge.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg159"> </span>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? <span id="ed1961pg167"> </span>Beggar somewhere. The harp
|
||
|
that once did starve us all.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints,
|
||
|
silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing <span id="ed1986pg137"> </span>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 <a id="040004beefheels2" class="box-images" href="notes/040004beefheels.htm">beef to
|
||
|
the heels</a> were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of
|
||
|
plumb.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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. <i>La causa è santa</i>! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tara. Must
|
||
|
be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Stick them all
|
||
|
over the place. Needles in window curtains.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg149"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
|
||
|
stockings.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg160"> </span><p>
|
||
|
Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds.
|
||
|
Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in <span id="ed1961pg168"> </span>deep summer fields,
|
||
|
tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas,
|
||
|
creaking beds.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Jack, love!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Darling!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Kiss me, Reggy!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— My boy!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Love!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
|
||
|
gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See
|
||
|
the animals feed.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Men, men, men.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump
|
||
|
chop <span id="ed1986pg138"> </span>from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten
|
||
|
off more than he can chew. Am I like that? <a id="010052otherssee" class="box-images" href="notes/010052otherssee.htm">See ourselves as others see
|
||
|
us.</a> 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Roast beef and cabbage.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg150"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— One stew.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of
|
||
|
his nose.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg161"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Two stouts here.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— One corned and cabbage.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg169"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the 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?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Not here. Don't see him.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Out. I hate dirty eaters.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.
|
||
|
Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Roast and mashed here.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Pint of stout.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat
|
||
|
or be eaten. Kill! Kill!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down
|
||
|
with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg139"> </span>street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every
|
||
|
mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women
|
||
|
and children cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. From
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg151"> </span>Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union,
|
||
|
lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My
|
||
|
plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like <a id="060022sirphilip2" class="box-images" href="notes/060022sirphilip.htm">sir
|
||
|
Philip Crampton's fountain</a>. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief.
|
||
|
Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make
|
||
|
hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children
|
||
|
fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the
|
||
|
Phoenix park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate
|
||
|
people all round you. <a id="020066cityarms4" class="box-images" href="notes/020066cityarms.htm">City Arms hotel</a> <i>table d'hôte</i> <span id="ed1961pg170"> </span>she called it.
|
||
|
Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then
|
||
|
who'd wash up
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg162"> </span>
|
||
|
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids
|
||
|
that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from
|
||
|
the earth garlic of course it stinks 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 wobble 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed.
|
||
|
Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Ah, I'm hungry.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Hello, Flynn.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— How's things?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me
|
||
|
see.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham
|
||
|
and his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is home
|
||
|
without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the
|
||
|
obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's potted meat.
|
||
|
<a id="080006toosalty1a" class="box-images" href="notes/080006toosalty.htm">Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White</a> <span id="ed1932pg152"> </span><a id="080006toosalty1b" class="box-images" href="notes/080006toosalty.htm">missionary too salty. Like
|
||
|
pickled pork.</a> Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be
|
||
|
tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. <i>There was
|
||
|
a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the
|
||
|
reverend Mr MacTrigger</i>. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what
|
||
|
concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg140"> </span>find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. <span id="ed1961pg171"> </span>Hygiene that was what
|
||
|
they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and
|
||
|
war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and
|
||
|
geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry. Then casual wards
|
||
|
full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Have you a cheese sandwich?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg163"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Yes, sir.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Wife well?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Yes, sir.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Doing any singing those times?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard
|
||
|
perhaps.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
The curate served.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— How much is that?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. <i>Mr MacTrigger</i>. Easier
|
||
|
than the dreamy creamy stuff. <i>His five hundred wives. Had the time of
|
||
|
their lives.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Mustard, sir?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Thank you.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. <i>Their lives</i>. I have
|
||
|
it. <i>It grew bigger and bigger and bigger</i>.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg153"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part
|
||
|
shares and part profits.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
A warm shock of air heat of mustard hauched on Mr <span id="ed1961pg172"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly,
|
||
|
longingly.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Wine.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg141"> </span><span id="ed1922pg164"> </span><p>
|
||
|
He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to
|
||
|
speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
No fear: no brains.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give
|
||
|
us a good one for the Gold cup?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a
|
||
|
horse.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like
|
||
|
the way it curves there.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg154"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined
|
||
|
many a man the same horses.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits
|
||
|
for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the <span id="ed1961pg173"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— That so? Davy Byrne said...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg165"> </span><p>
|
||
|
He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned
|
||
|
its pages.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg142"> </span><p>
|
||
|
He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the
|
||
|
flutes.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Ay, he said, sighing.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <a id="020066cityarms5" class="box-images" href="notes/020066cityarms.htm">City Arms hotel</a>. Molly fondling him in her
|
||
|
lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so
|
||
|
off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy
|
||
|
lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of
|
||
|
shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the
|
||
|
French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing
|
||
|
in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your
|
||
|
mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good.
|
||
|
Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it
|
||
|
on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. <span id="ed1932pg155"> </span>Tempting fruit.
|
||
|
Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial
|
||
|
irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like
|
||
|
a clot of phlegm. Filthy <span id="ed1961pg174"> </span>shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them
|
||
|
out? Garbage, <a id="030039sewage3" class="box-images" href="notes/030039sewage.htm">sewage they feed on</a>. Fizz and <a id="060020redbank6" class="box-images" href="notes/060020redbank.htm">Red bank oysters. Effect
|
||
|
on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank</a> this morning. Was he
|
||
|
oyster old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has
|
||
|
no ar no oysters. But there are people like tainted game.
|
||
|
Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old,
|
||
|
blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might
|
||
|
mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no
|
||
|
yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs?
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg166"> </span>Or who was it used to eat the
|
||
|
scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats,
|
||
|
then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour.
|
||
|
Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in
|
||
|
the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the
|
||
|
grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom
|
||
|
pearls. The <i>élite. Crème de la crème</i>. They want special dishes to
|
||
|
pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings
|
||
|
of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff,
|
||
|
Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send
|
||
|
him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the
|
||
|
Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted <i>chef</i> like a rabbi. Combustible duck.
|
||
|
Curly cabbage <i>à la duchesse de Parme</i>. Just as well to write it on the
|
||
|
bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too <span id="ed1986pg143"> </span>many drugs spoil the
|
||
|
broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese
|
||
|
stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan.
|
||
|
Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress,
|
||
|
halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole,
|
||
|
miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect
|
||
|
that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. <i>Du, de, la,</i> French.
|
||
|
Still it's the same fish perhaps old <a id="080003moorestreet1" class="box-images" href="notes/080003moorestreet.htm">Micky Hanlon of Moore street</a> ripped
|
||
|
the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills
|
||
|
can't write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape
|
||
|
with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as <a id="020076brogues2" class="box-images" href="notes/020076brogues.htm">a kish of
|
||
|
brogues</a>, worth fifty thousand pounds.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1961pg175"> </span>remembered. <span id="ed1932pg156"> </span>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 sweet and sour with 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.
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg167"> </span><a id="030038pebbles2" class="box-images" href="notes/030038pebbles.htm">Pebbles fell.</a> 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Me. And me now.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Stuck, the flies buzzed.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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. <a id="080005venus11" class="box-images" href="notes/080005venus.htm">Can see them library museum standing in the round hall,
|
||
|
naked goddesses.</a> 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 id="010019money29" class="box-images" href="notes/010019money.htm">a tanner lunch</a> we have, boiled mutton, carrots and
|
||
|
turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods'
|
||
|
food. Lovely forms of woman sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we
|
||
|
stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung,
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg144"> </span>earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. <a id="080005venus12" class="box-images" href="notes/080005venus.htm">They have no.</a> Never
|
||
|
looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something fall
|
||
|
see if she.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1961pg176"> </span>conscious, lay with men
|
||
|
lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg157"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for
|
||
|
the <i>Freeman.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I noticed he was in mourning.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg168"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— And is he doing for the <i>Freeman?</i> Davy Byrne said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of
|
||
|
that.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He
|
||
|
winked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— He's in the craft, he said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg
|
||
|
up. I was told that by a— well, I won't say who.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Is that a fact?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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 <span id="ed1961pg177"> </span>mason. That was one of the saint
|
||
|
Legers of Doneraile.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg145"> </span><p>
|
||
|
Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg158"> </span><p><p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He has 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I know, Davy Byrne said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg169"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed,
|
||
|
a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Day, Mr Byrne.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Day, gentlemen.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
They paused at the counter.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's
|
||
|
yours, Tom?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— How is <a id="030039sewage6" class="box-images" href="notes/030039sewage.htm">the main drainage</a>? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and
|
||
|
hiccupped.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Certainly, sir.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg178"> </span><p>
|
||
|
Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before
|
||
|
him.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Tom Rochford nodded and drank.
|
||
|
</p><span id="ed1932pg159"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Is it Zinfandel?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Say nothing, Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my
|
||
|
own.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard
|
||
|
said. Who gave it to you?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg146"> </span><p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— So long! Nosey Flynn said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
The others turned.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg170"> </span><p>
|
||
|
— Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two
|
||
|
of your small Jamesons after that and a...
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p class="lyrics">
|
||
|
<i>Don Giovanni, a cenar teco <br />
|
||
|
M'invitasti.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap
|
||
|
in the blues. Dutch courage. That <i>Kilkenny People</i> in the national
|
||
|
library now I must.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller, plumber,
|
||
|
turned back his thoughts. They could: and <span id="ed1961pg179"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— <i>A cenar teco.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
What does that <i>teco</i> mean? Tonight perhaps.
|
||
|
</p><span id="ed1932pg160"> </span><p class="lyrics"> <i>Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited <br />
|
||
|
To come to supper tonight, <br />
|
||
|
The rum the rumdum.</i>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Doesn't go properly.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg171"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new
|
||
|
garters.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Today. Today. Not think.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg147"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and
|
||
|
passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. <i>Why I left the church
|
||
|
of Rome? Birds' Nest.</i> Women run him. They say they used to give pauper
|
||
|
children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight.
|
||
|
Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same
|
||
|
bait. Why we left the church of Rome.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No
|
||
|
tram in sight. Wants to cross.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He
|
||
|
moved his head uncertainly.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite.
|
||
|
Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 <span id="ed1961pg180"> </span>was. Horse drooping. Driver in
|
||
|
John Long's. Slaking his drouth.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— 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?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Come, Mr Bloom said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to
|
||
|
guide it forward.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They <span id="ed1932pg161"> </span>mistrust
|
||
|
what you tell them. Pass a common remark.
|
||
|
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— The rain kept off.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
No answer.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg172"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Thanks, sir.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Knows I'm a man. Voice.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
— Right now? First turn to the left.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing
|
||
|
his cane back, feeling again.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 foreheads perhaps: kind of sense
|
||
|
of <span id="ed1986pg148"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Penrose! That was that chap's name.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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 Molly's birthday. Hates
|
||
|
sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg181"> </span>eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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, temperature 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg162"> </span>shillings, half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here
|
||
|
too. Wait. Think over it.
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg173"> </span><p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand between 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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
<a id="080002sirfrederick2" class="box-images" href="notes/080002sirfrederick.htm">Sir Frederick Falkiner</a> going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy.
|
||
|
After his good lunch in <a id="080002sirfrederick1" class="box-images" href="notes/080002sirfrederick.htm">Earlsfort terrace</a>. Old legal cronies cracking
|
||
|
a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat
|
||
|
school. I <span id="ed1986pg149"> </span>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 <span id="ed1961pg182"> </span>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.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant.
|
||
|
Sixteenth. Today it is. <a id="080004themessiah" class="box-images" href="notes/080004themessiah.htm">In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. <i>The
|
||
|
Messiah</i> was first given for that.</a> Yes. Handel. What about going out
|
||
|
there: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a
|
||
|
leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to
|
||
|
the right.
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg163"> </span>Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too
|
||
|
heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Not see. Get on.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg174"> </span>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Making for the museum gate with long windy strides he lifted his eyes.
|
||
|
<a id="010144nationallibrary2" class="box-images" href="notes/010144nationallibrary.htm">Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed.</a> Not following me?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold
|
||
|
statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
No. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
My heart!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His eyes beating looked steadfastly at <a id="010144nationallibrary3" class="box-images" href="notes/010144nationallibrary.htm">cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas
|
||
|
Deane was the Greek architecture.</a>
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Look for something I.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded
|
||
|
Agendath Netaim. Where did I?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Busy looking for.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
He thrust back quickly Agendath.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Afternoon she said.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. <i>Freeman.</i>
|
||
|
Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Purse. Potato. Where did I?
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
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! Yes. Gate.
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<p>
|
||
|
Safe!
|
||
|
</p>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1932pg164"> </span>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1961pg183"> </span>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1922pg175"> </span>
|
||
|
<span id="ed1986pg150"> </span>
|