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Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the
cattlemarket, cocks, hens don’t crow, snakes hissss. There’s
music everywhere. Ruttledge’s door: ee creaking. No,
that’s noise. Minuet of Don Giovanni he’s playing now.
Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers
dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces
eating dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look,
look, look: you look at us.
That’s joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why?
My joy is other joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be.
Mere fact of music shows you are. Often thought she was
in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then know.
M’Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat.
Like tearing silk. Tongue when she talks like the clapper
of a bellows. They can’t manage men’s intervals. Gap in
their voices too. Fill me. I’m warm, dark, open. Molly in
quis est homo: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear.
Want a woman who can deliver the goods.
Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy
Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth.
O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind
of pun on that. It is a kind of music I often thought when
she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Empty vessels make most
noise. Because the acoustics, the resonance changes
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according as the weight of the water is equal to the law of
falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt’s, Hungarian,
gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle
ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did
he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud knocker with a
cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock.
Tap.
—Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley.
—No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. The Croppy Boy.
Our native Doric.
—Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.
—Do, do, they begged in one.
I’ll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he
did not stay. To me. How much?
—What key? Six sharps?
—F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.
Bob Cowley’s outstretched talons griped the black
deepsounding chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie
said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere. He’s on for a
razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears lipspeech. One
and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence
tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family
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waiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf
wait while they wait.
But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious.
Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Lumpmusic.
The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth’s fatigue made
grave approach and painful, come from afar, from hoary
mountains, called on good men and true. The priest he
sought. With him would he speak a word.
Tap.
Ben Dollard’s voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level
best to say it. Croak of vast manless moonless womoonless
marsh. Other comedown. Big ships’ chandler’s business he
did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships’ lanterns. Failed
to the tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh
home. Cubicle number so and so. Number one Bass did
that for him.
The priest’s at home. A false priest’s servant bade him
welcome. Step in. The holy father. With bows a traitor
servant. Curlycues of chords.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them
cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog.
Little dog, die.
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The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the
youth had entered a lonely hall, told them how solemn fell
his footsteps there, told them the gloomy chamber, the
vested priest sitting to shrive.
Decent soul. Bit addled now. Thinks he’ll win in
Answers, poets’ picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five
pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last
minstrel he thought it was. See blank tee what domestic
animal? Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. Good voice
he has still. No eunuch yet with all his belongings.
Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And
by the door deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The
chords harped slower.
The voice of penance and of grief came slow,
embellished, tremulous. Ben’s contrite beard confessed. in
nomine Domini, in God’s name he knelt. He beat his hand
upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa.
Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with
the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the
mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Wonder where
that rat is by now. Scrape.
Tap.
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They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George
Lidwell, eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan.
Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since Easter
he had cursed three times. You bitch’s bast. And once at
masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he
had passed and for his mother’s rest he had not prayed. A
boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening, by the beerpull gazed far away.
Soulfully. Doesn’t half know I’m. Molly great dab at
seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best
side of her face? They always know. Knock at the door.
Last tip to titivate.
Cockcarracarra.
What do they think when they hear music? Way to
catch rattlesnakes. Night Michael Gunn gave us the box.
Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that best. Remind him of
home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Custom
his country perhaps. That’s music too. Not as bad as it
sounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks.
Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds
mooing cows. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws.
Woodwind like Goodwin’s name.
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She looked fine. Her crocus dress she wore lowcut,
belongings on show. Clove her breath was always in
theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told her what
Spinoza says in that book of poor papa’s. Hypnotised,
listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in dresscircle
staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was
worth. Beauty of music you must hear twice. Nature
woman half a look. God made the country man the tune.
Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks!
All gone. All fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at
Gorey all his brothers fell. To Wexford, we are the boys of
Wexford, he would. Last of his name and race.
I too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my
fault perhaps. No son. Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If
not? If still?
He bore no hate.
Hate. Love. Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old.
Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice Richie Goulding
said, a flush struggling in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But
when was young?
Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She
listens. Who fears to speak of nineteen four? Time to be
shoving. Looked enough.
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—Bless me, father, Dollard the croppy cried. Bless me
and let me go.
Tap.
Bloom looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on
eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell out the dibs. Want to
keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By
the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl’s romance. Letters read out
for breach of promise. From Chickabiddy’s owny
Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never signed it.
The lovely name you.
Low sank the music, air and words. Then hastened.
The false priest rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman
captain. They know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for.
Yeoman cap.
Tap. Tap.
Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear.
Blank face. Virgin should say: or fingered only. Write
something on it: page. If not what becomes of them?
Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire
themselves. See. Play on her. Lip blow. Body of white
woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three holes, all
women. Goddess I didn’t see. They want it. Not too
much polite. That’s why he gets them. Gold in your
pocket, brass in your face. Say something. Make her hear.
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With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that
hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was
sick. Or because so like the Spanish. Understand animals
too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom.
What?
Will? You? I. Want. You. To.
With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in
apoplectic bitch’s bastard. A good thought, boy, to come.
One hour’s your time to live, your last.
Tap. Tap.
Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for
martyrs that want to, dying to, die. For all things dying,
for all things born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she’s over.
Because their wombs.
A liquid of womb of woman eyeball gazed under a
fence of lashes, calmly, hearing. See real beauty of the eye
when she not speaks. On yonder river. At each slow satiny
heaving bosom’s wave (her heaving embon) red rose rose
slowly sank red rose. Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is
life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair.
But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The
morn. Ha. Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like
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that? See her from here though. Popped corks, splashes of
beerfroth, stacks of empties.
On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly,
plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy.
Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob (she knows his
eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in
pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so
smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton
protruding through their sliding ring.
With a cock with a carra.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury. Traitors
swing.
The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be.
Get out before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly.
Where’s my hat. Pass by her. Can leave that Freeman.
Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk, walk,
walk. Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice
Tisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup.
O’er ryehigh blue. Ow. Bloom stood up. Soap feeling
rather sticky behind. Must have sweated: music. That
lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card inside.
Yes.
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By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.
At Geneva barrack that young man died. At Passage
was his body laid. Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the
mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer.
By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand, by
slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in going, past
eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in
deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I feel so lonely
Bloom.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pray for him, prayed the bass of Dollard. You who hear
in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good
people. He was the croppy boy.
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom
in the Ormond hallway heard the growls and roars of
bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not
the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill to wash it
down. Glad I avoided.
—Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God,
you’re as good as ever you were.
—Better, said Tomgin Kernan. Most trenchant
rendition of that ballad, upon my soul and honour It is.
—Lablache, said Father Cowley.
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