<p>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.</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 � santa</i>! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must be
washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.</p>
<p>Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all
over the place. Needles in window curtains.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
<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>
<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 deep summer fields, tangled
pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking
<p>—Kiss me, Reggy!</p>
<p>His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink
gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See the
<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: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from
the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than
he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. 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
<p>—Roast beef and cabbage.</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
<p>—Two stouts here.</p>
<p>—One corned and cabbage.</p>
<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 head
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 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 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 sir Philip Crampton's fountain.
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. City Arms hotel <i>table
d'h�te</i> she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts
you're chewing. Then who'd wash up 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 after 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 wobbly 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>—Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me
<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.
Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like
pickled pork. 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 find
the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. 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. Mity cheese.</p>
<p>—Have you a cheese sandwich?</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>—Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have
<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
<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>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>
<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 hanched on Mr 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,
<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
<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
<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
<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>
<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 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>
<p>He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its
<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>
<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 City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big
<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. 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 shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out?
Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the
sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old
fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters.
But there are people like things high. 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? 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>�lite.
Cr�me de la cr�me</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>� 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 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 Micky Hanlon
of Moore street 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
kish of brogues, 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 remembered. 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 sweetsour of her 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. Pebbles fell. 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. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall,
naked goddesses. 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 tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and
turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods'
food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we
stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth,
food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked.
I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop see if
<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 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>
<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
<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
<p>—It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day
before 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
<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
<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.
He's an excellent brother. 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>—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 mason. That was one of the saint Legers
<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>
<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
<p>—There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd
<p>—He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's 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>
<p>—Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.</p>
<p>Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a
plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.</p>
<p>—Day, Mr Byrne.</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
<p>—How is the main drainage? 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>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>
<p>Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before
<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>
<p>—Is it Zinfandel?</p>
<p>—Say nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on
<p>—Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy
Leonard said. Who gave it to you?</p>
<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>
<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><i>Don Giovanni, a cenar teco 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 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>
<p><i>Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited<br/>
To come to supper tonight,<br/>
The rum the rumdum.</i><br/></p>
<p>Doesn't go properly.</p>
<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
<p>Today. Today. Not think.</p>
<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 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
<p>Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what
you tell them. Pass a common remark.</p>
<p>—The rain kept off.</p>
<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>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 forehead perhaps: kind of sense of
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 for 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 eyes
shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no
<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, temperatures: 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 shillings,
half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here too. Wait.
Think over it.</p>
<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 his 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
<p>Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy.
After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a
magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school.
I 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 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. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. <i>The
Messiah</i> was first given for that. 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
<p>Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady.
Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.</p>
<p>Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes.
Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. 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>His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas
Deane was the Greek architecture.</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>He thrust back quick 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. Potato. Purse. Where?</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 I yes. Gate.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />