<p>Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before third
person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw
stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and spurs at the
horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street west. Fine voice
that fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did. Like flowers. It
was too. Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the paint. Make
their own use of everything. Same time doing it scraped her slipper on the
floor so they wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick the beam, I
think. Keep that thing up for hours. Kind of a general all round over me
and half down my back.</p>
<p>Wait. Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave you
this to think of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it?
Heliotrope? No. Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that
kind. Sweet and cheap: soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her,
with a little jessamine mixed. Her high notes and her low notes. At the
dance night she met him, dance of the hours. Heat brought it out. She was
wearing her black and it had the perfume of the time before. Good
conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's some connection. For
instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark. Mysterious thing too.
Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming like herself, slow
but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains blown across.
Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this morning, smell
them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine fine veil or web
they have all over the skin, fine like what do you call it gossamer, and
they're always spinning it out of them, fine as anything, like rainbow
colours without knowing it. Clings to everything she takes off. Vamp of
her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking them off.
Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her shift on the bed.
Know her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too. Reminds me of strawberries
and cream. Wonder where it is really. There or the armpits or under the
neck. Because you get it out of all holes and corners. Hyacinth perfume
made of oil of ether or something. Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One
grain pour off odour for years. Dogs at each other behind. Good evening.
Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm. Very well, thank you. Animals go by
that. Yes now, look at it that way. We're the same. Some women, instance,
warn you off when they have their period. Come near. Then get a hogo you
could hang your hat on. Like what? Potted herrings gone stale or. Boof!
Please keep off the grass.</p>
<p>Perhaps they get a man smell off us. What though? Cigary gloves long John
had on his desk the other day. Breath? What you eat and drink gives that.
No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be connected with that because priests that are
supposed to be are different. Women buzz round it like flies round
treacle. Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost. The tree of
forbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be the first to. That
diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of life. And it's
extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me.</p>
<p>Mr Bloom inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat.
Almonds or. No. Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap.</p>
<p>O by the by that lotion. I knew there was something on my mind. Never went
back and the soap not paid. Dislike carrying bottles like that hag this
morning. Hynes might have paid me that three shillings. I could mention
Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he works that paragraph. Two and
nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call tomorrow. How much do I owe you?
Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might stop him giving credit
another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do. Fellows run up a bill
on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere
<p>Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the bay. Just went as
far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks mangled out: had a
good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After supper walk a
mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit. Walk
after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still you
learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't
mock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now.
<i>The Mystery Man on the Beach</i>, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold
Bloom. Payment at the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today
at the graveside in the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however.
Healthy perhaps absorb all the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some
somewhere. Salt in the Ormond damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old
Betty's joints are on the rack. Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about
ships around they fly in the twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal
reader. And distant hills seem coming nigh.</p>
<p>Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to change or
they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid of the
dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash
better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you.
Better now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the
small guts for nothing. Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl
or smile. Pardon! Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in the shade
after the sun. Some light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv Vance
taught us: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A star I see.
Venus? Can't tell yet. Two. When three it's night. Were those nightclouds
there all the time? Looks like a phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they?
An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of the setting sun this. Homerule sun
setting in the southeast. My native land, goodnight.</p>
<p>Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on white
fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his way
up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, sore on
the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position. Like
to be that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you
looked. I begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all that
offer. Suppose it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the library
today: those girl graduates. Happy chairs under them. But it's the evening
influence. They feel all that. Open like flowers, know their hours,
sunflowers, Jerusalem artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under
the lamps. Nightstock in Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder.
Wish I had a full length oilpainting of her then. June that was too I
wooed. The year returns. History repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I'm
with you once again. Life, love, voyage round your own little world. And
now? Sad about her lame of course but must be on your guard not to feel
too much pity. They take advantage.</p>
<p>All quiet on Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The
rhododendrons. I am a fool perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the
plumstones. Where I come in. All that old hill has seen. Names change:
that's all. Lovers: yum yum.</p>
<p>Tired I feel now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of
me, little wretch. She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it
comes. Or hers. Take the train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the same.
Like kids your second visit to a house. The new I want. Nothing new under
the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's Barn. Are you not happy in your? Naughty
darling. At Dolphin's barn charades in Luke Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and
his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty, Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly too.
Eightyseven that was. Year before we. And the old major, partial to his
drop of spirits. Curious she an only child, I an only child. So it
returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is
the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus horse walking in a
ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's overcoat. Van:
breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I did Rip van
Winkle coming back. She leaned on the sideboard watching. Moorish eyes.
Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed. Forgotten. The young
are old. His gun rusty from the dew.</p>
<p>Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree,
so blind. Have birds no smell? Metempsychosis. They believed you could be
changed into a tree from grief. Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes. Funny
little beggar. Wonder where he lives. Belfry up there. Very likely.
Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity. Bell scared him out, I
suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at it. Pray for us.
And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition. Same thing
with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in the
priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the mistake in the
valuation when I was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have.
Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out at
night like mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What
frightens them, light or noise? Better sit still. All instinct like the
bird in drouth got water out of the end of a jar by throwing in pebbles.
Like a little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost
see them shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours depend on the light
you see. Stare the sun for example like the eagle then look at a shoe see
a blotch blob yellowish. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything.
Instance, that cat this morning on the staircase. Colour of brown turf.
Say you never see them with three colours. Not true. That half tabbywhite
tortoiseshell in the <i>City Arms</i> with the letter em on her forehead.
Body fifty different colours. Howth a while ago amethyst. Glass flashing.
That's how that wise man what's his name with the burning glass. Then the
heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists' matches. What? Perhaps the
sticks dry rub together in the wind and light. Or broken bottles in the
furze act as a burning glass in the sun. Archimedes. I have it! My
memory's not so bad.</p>
<p>Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for. Insects? That bee last week
got into the room playing with his shadow on the ceiling. Might be the one
bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out. Or what they say.
Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they have to fly over
the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph wires.
Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing steamers
floundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. <i>Faugh a
Ballagh!</i> Out of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of a
handkerchief sail, pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy
winds do blow. Married too. Sometimes away for years at the ends of the
earth somewhere. No ends really because it's round. Wife in every port
they say. She has a good job if she minds it till Johnny comes marching
home again. If ever he does. Smelling the tail end of ports. How can they
like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's weighed. Off he sails with a
scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well. And the tephilim no what's this
they call it poor papa's father had on his door to touch. That brought us
out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage. Something in all
those superstitions because when you go out never know what dangers.
Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life, lifebelt round
him, gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs till the sharks
catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick?</p>
<p>Then you have a beautiful calm without a cloud, smooth sea, placid, crew
and cargo in smithereens, Davy Jones' locker, moon looking down so
peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum.</p>
<p>A last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of
funds for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of
violet but one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The shepherd's
hour: the hour of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his
everwelcome double knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the glowworm's
lamp at his belt gleaming here and there through the laurel hedges. And
among the five young trees a hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy's
terrace. By screens of lighted windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice
went crying, wailing: <i>Evening Telegraph, stop press edition! Result of
the Gold Cup race!</i> and from the door of Dignam's house a boy ran out
and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew there. Far out over the
sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for slumber, tired of
long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt gladly the night
breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a red eye
unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far on
Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom.</p>
<p>Life those chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish Lights
board. Penance for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy
and lifeboat. Day we went out for the pleasure cruise in the Erin's King,
throwing them the sack of old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy trip.
Drunkards out to shake up their livers. Puking overboard to feed the
herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of God in their faces. Milly, no
sign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing. Don't know what death is at
that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being lost they fear. When we
hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to. Mamma! Mamma! Babes in
the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing them up in the air to
catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or children playing
battle. Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each other. Sometimes
they go off. Poor kids! Only troubles wildfire and nettlerash. Calomel
purge I got her for that. After getting better asleep with Molly. Very
same teeth she has. What do they love? Another themselves? But the morning
she chased her with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her
pulse. Ticking. Little hand it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that the
hand says when you touch. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first
stays I remember. Made me laugh to see. Little paps to begin with. Left
one is more sensitive, I think. Mine too. Nearer the heart? Padding
themselves out if fat is in fashion. Her growing pains at night, calling,
wakening me. Frightened she was when her nature came on her first. Poor
child! Strange moment for the mother too. Brings back her girlhood.
Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista. O'Hara's tower. The seabirds
screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his family. Sundown, gunfire
for the men to cross the lines. Looking out over the sea she told me.
Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I always thought I'd marry a lord
or a rich gentleman coming with a private yacht. <i>Buenas noches,
se�orita. El hombre ama la muchacha hermosa</i>. Why me? Because you were
so foreign from the others.</p>
<p>Better not stick here all night like a limpet. This weather makes you
dull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too late for <i>Leah,
Lily of Killarney.</i> No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital to see.
Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral, house of
Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that bawler in
Barney Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters what I said about
his God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought to go home and
laugh at themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be
alone like a child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look at it other way round.
Not so bad then. Perhaps not to hurt he meant. Three cheers for Israel.
Three cheers for the sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her
mouth. Same style of beauty. Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea.
The sister of the wife of the wild man of Borneo has just come to town.
Imagine that in the early morning at close range. Everyone to his taste as
Morris said when he kissed the cow. But Dignam's put the boots on it.
Houses of mourning so depressing because you never know. Anyhow she wants
the money. Must call to those Scottish Widows as I promised. Strange name.
Takes it for granted we're going to pop off first. That widow on Monday
was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Buried the poor husband but
progressing favourably on the premium. Her widow's mite. Well? What do you
expect her to do? Must wheedle her way along. Widower I hate to see. Looks
so forlorn. Poor man O'Connor wife and five children poisoned by mussels
here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good matronly woman in a porkpie hat to
mother him. Take him in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies' grey
flannelette bloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain
and loved, loved for ever, they say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love,
lie and be handsome for tomorrow we die. See him sometimes walking about
trying to find out who played the trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not
me. Also a shop often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night?
Wait. Something confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the
breeches. Suppose she does? Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to
answer. Nannetti's gone. Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad
of Keyes's. Work Hynes and Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has
something to put in them. What's that? Might be money.</p>
<p>Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the strand. He
brought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can't read. Better go.
Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and
pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with story
of a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always
want to throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's
this? Bit of stick.</p>
<p>O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here
tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do.
<p>Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a
message for her. Might remain. What?</p>
<p>Some flatfoot tramp on it in the morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide comes
here. Saw a pool near her foot. Bend, see my face there, dark mirror,
breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks with lines and scars and letters. O,
those transparent! Besides they don't know. What is the meaning of that
other world. I called you naughty boy because I do not like.</p>
<p>No room. Let it go.</p>
<p>Mr Bloom effaced the letters with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand.
Nothing grows in it. All fades. No fear of big vessels coming up here.
Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish in eighty days. Done half by
<p>He flung his wooden pen away. The stick fell in silted sand, stuck. Now if
you were trying to do that for a week on end you couldn't. Chance. We'll
never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye, dear. Thanks. Made me feel
<p>Short snooze now if I had. Must be near nine. Liverpool boat long gone..
Not even the smoke. And she can do the other. Did too. And Belfast. I
won't go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him. Just close my eyes a
moment. Won't sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes the same. Bat
again. No harm in him. Just a few.</p>
<p>O sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do
love sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met him
pike hoses frillies for Raoul de perfume your wife black hair heave under
embon <i>se�orita</i> young eyes Mulvey plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red
slippers she rusty sleep wander years of dreams return tail end Agendath
swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return next in her next
<p>A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom
with open mouth, his left boot sanded sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for
<p>The clock on the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon
O'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were taking
tea and sodabread and butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and
<p>Because it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house to
tell the time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because
she was as quick as anything about a thing like that, was Gerty MacDowell,
and she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was sitting on
the rocks looking was</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />