one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words.
Things go on same, day after day: squads of police
marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies
mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy
swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out
of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying
every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three
hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born,
washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the
lamb, bawling maaaaaa.
Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing
away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of
houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones.
Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies
they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his
notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still
they have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up
in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built
on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon. Big
stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs,
jerrybuilt. Kerwan’s mushroom houses built of breeze.
Shelter, for the night.
No-one is anything.
This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull,
gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and
Provost’s house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned
salmon. Well tinned in there. Like a mortuary chapel.
Wouldn’t live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver
and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.
The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among
the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton’s window by
which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.
There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face.
Now that’s a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you
think of a person and don’t meet him. Like a man walking
in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a corporation
meeting today. They say he never put on the city
marshal’s uniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh
used to come out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed,
powdered and shaved. Look at the woebegone walk of
him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a
pain. Great man’s brother: his brother’s brother. He’d look
nice on the city charger. Drop into the D.B.C. probably
for his coffee, play chess there. His brother used men as
pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on
him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That’s the
fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and
his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet
harness. Bolt upright lik surgeon M’Ardle. Still David
Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern
Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot’s banquet.
Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when
they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back
from the grave and lead him out of the house of commons
by the arm.
—Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is
the head upon which the ends of the world have forgotten
to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The
They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the
curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.
And there he is too. Now that’s really a coincidence:
second time. Coming events cast their shadows before.
With the approval of the eminent poet, Mr Geo. Russell.
That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what does
that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur
Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he
saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent.
Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism.
Holding forth. She’s taking it all in. Not saying a word.
To aid gentleman in literary work.
His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard
and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from
the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don’t eat a
beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you
through all eternity. They say it’s healthier.
Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all
day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call
that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians.
To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd.
Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap
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.
Waves o’er the waters dull.
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
His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides.
Can’t see it. If you imagine it’s there you can almost see it.
Can’t see it.
He faced about and, standing between the awnings,
held out his right hand at arm’s length towards the sun.
Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his
little finger blotted out the sun’s disk. Must be the focus
where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting.
There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we
were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back
garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total
eclipse this year: autumn some time.
Now that I come to think of it that ball falls at
Greenwich time. It’s the clock is worked by an electric
wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday
of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor
Joly or learn up something about his family. That would
do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least
expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some
king’s mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel.
Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt
out what you know you’re not to: what’s parallax? Show
this gentleman the door.
His hand fell to his side again.
Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs
spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old
dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold:
then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that
pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she
said. I believe there is.
He went on by la maison Claire.
Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday
fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by
the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was
humming. The young May moon she’s beaming, love. He
other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm’s la-amp is
gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.
Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.
Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed
With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the
street here middle of the day of Bob Doran’s bottle
shoulders. On his annual bend, M Coy said. They drink in
order to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Up in
the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then
the rest of the year sober as a judge.
Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain
soda would do him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his
Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen’s. Broth of a
boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face
in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How
time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his
skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink
against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for
drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His
parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The
harp that once did starve us all.
I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I?
Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we left
Lombard street west something changed. Could never like
it again after Rudy. Can’t bring back time. Like holding
water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just
beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your
home you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on
buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.
Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his
senses. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of
harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway.
Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope
the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon.
All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman
clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb.
He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas,
silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A
tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued
poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here.
La causa è santa! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara.
Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom
Pincushions. I’m a long time threatening to buy one.
Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window
He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone.
Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her
birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly
three months off. Then she mightn’t like it. Women
won’t pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.
Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat
Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.
High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a
woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy
from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world.
A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain.
His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed.
With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.
Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel
He turned Combridge’s corner, still pursued. Jingling,
hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed,
yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in
trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.
Documents you may be interested
Documents you may be interested