--I see, the
professor
said.
James Joyce - Ulysses
Where are those blasted keys?
He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.
--Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go in. Where are
they? That's all right.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office. LET US HOPE
J. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:
--I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
--Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It
has the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium! _ The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms
of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:
--Racing special!
Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
--I have a vision too, Stephen said.
--Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will
follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:
--Racing special!
DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN
Dubliners.
--Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty
and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.
--Where is that? the professor asked.
--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker,
darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
--They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar.
They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They
shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies
with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven
in coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their
umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.
--Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.
LIFE ON THE RAW
--They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at
the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,
proprietress. . . They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl
at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They
give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin
to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each
other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the
brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down,
peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that
high.
Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got
a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen
and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
--Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What's keeping our friend?
He turned.
A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them
Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet
face, talking with J. J. O'Molloy.
--Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. RETURN OF BLOOM
--Yes, he said. I see them.
Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the _Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal_, called:
--Mr Crawford! A moment!
--_Telegraph_! Racing special!
--What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.
A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face:
--Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!
INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR
--Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes
just now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll
see. But he wants a par to call attention in the _Telegraph_ too,
the Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it's not too late I told
councillor Nannetti from the _Kilkenny People_. I can have access to
it in the national library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is
Keyes. It's a play on the name. But he practically promised he'd give
the renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr
Crawford? K. M. A.
--Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.
A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.
Lenehan's yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is
that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him
today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in
muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
--Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I
suppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad, I think. I'll tell him
. . . K. M. R. I. A.
--He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his
shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.
While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on
jerkily.
RAISING THE WIND
--_Nulla bona_, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to
here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to
back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take
the will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind
anyhow.
J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up
on the others and walked abreast.
--When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty
fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the
railings.
--Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old
Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar.
SOME COLUMN! --THAT'S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID
--That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the waxies
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?
--But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see
the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines'
blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them
giddy to look so they pull up their skirts. . .
THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES
--Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. We're in the
archdiocese here.
--And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue
of the onehandled adulterer.
--Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the
idea. I see what you mean.
DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF
--It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between
them and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping off with
their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and
spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.
He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.
--Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.
SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH
MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP.
--You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of
Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were
bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble
and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of
beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.
Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They made ready to cross O'Connell street.
HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!
At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless
trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines,
Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend
and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines,
all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery
waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with
rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.
WHAT? --AND LIKEWISE--WHERE?
--But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the
plums?
VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES.
--Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to
reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: _deus nobis haec otia fecit. _
--No, Stephen said. I call it _A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the
Parable of The Plums. _
--I see, the professor said.
He laughed richly.
--I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.
HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY
J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held
his peace.
--I see, the professor said.
He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile.
DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES,
FLO WANGLES--YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?
--Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must
say.
--Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's
truth was known.
Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school
treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His
Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red
jujubes white.
A sombre Y. M. C. A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of
Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
Heart to heart talks.
Bloo. . . Me? No.
Blood of the Lamb.
His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are
washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen,
martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,
druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of
the church in Zion is coming.
_Is coming! Is coming! ! Is coming! ! ! All heartily welcome. _ Paying game.
Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper
on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.
Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,
hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.
Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush
out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain.
Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good
for the brain.
From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.
Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be
selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father.
Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother
goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their
theology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the
absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat
you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the
fat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do
the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear
he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you
could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting l. s. d.
out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching
his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the
word.
Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it.
Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from
the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it,
I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the
brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in
too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on
the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking
that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.
Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
quaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben
J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and
eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the
things. Knows how to tell a story too.
They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.
He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of
swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the
day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the
wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
_The hungry famished gull
Flaps o'er the waters dull. _
That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has
no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.
Solemn.
_Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth. _
--Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians
they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag
or a handkerchief.
Wait. Those poor birds.
He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for
a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into
the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from
their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they
have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down
here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder
what kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.
They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny
quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and
mouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes
like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are
not salty? How is that?
His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.
_Kino's_ 11/- _Trousers_
Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you
own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which
in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of
places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck
up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr
Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self
advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for
that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight.
Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose
burning him.
If he. . . ?
O!
Eh?
No. . . No.
No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?
He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.
--Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go in. Where are
they? That's all right.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office. LET US HOPE
J. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:
--I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
--Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It
has the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium! _ The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms
of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:
--Racing special!
Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
--I have a vision too, Stephen said.
--Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will
follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:
--Racing special!
DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN
Dubliners.
--Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty
and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.
--Where is that? the professor asked.
--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker,
darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
--They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's pillar.
They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They
shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies
with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven
in coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their
umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.
--Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.
LIFE ON THE RAW
--They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at
the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,
proprietress. . . They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl
at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They
give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin
to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each
other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the
brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down,
peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that
high.
Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got
a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen
and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
--Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What's keeping our friend?
He turned.
A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them
Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet
face, talking with J. J. O'Molloy.
--Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
He set off again to walk by Stephen's side. RETURN OF BLOOM
--Yes, he said. I see them.
Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the _Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal_, called:
--Mr Crawford! A moment!
--_Telegraph_! Racing special!
--What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.
A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face:
--Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!
INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR
--Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes
just now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll
see. But he wants a par to call attention in the _Telegraph_ too,
the Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it's not too late I told
councillor Nannetti from the _Kilkenny People_. I can have access to
it in the national library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is
Keyes. It's a play on the name. But he practically promised he'd give
the renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr
Crawford? K. M. A.
--Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.
A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.
Lenehan's yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is
that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him
today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in
muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
--Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I
suppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad, I think. I'll tell him
. . . K. M. R. I. A.
--He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his
shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.
While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on
jerkily.
RAISING THE WIND
--_Nulla bona_, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to
here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to
back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take
the will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind
anyhow.
J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up
on the others and walked abreast.
--When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty
fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the
railings.
--Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old
Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar.
SOME COLUMN! --THAT'S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID
--That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the waxies
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?
--But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see
the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines'
blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them
giddy to look so they pull up their skirts. . .
THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES
--Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic licence. We're in the
archdiocese here.
--And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue
of the onehandled adulterer.
--Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the
idea. I see what you mean.
DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF
--It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between
them and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping off with
their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and
spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.
He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.
--Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.
SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH
MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP.
--You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of
Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were
bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble
and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of
beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.
Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They made ready to cross O'Connell street.
HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!
At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless
trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines,
Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend
and Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines,
all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery
waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with
rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.
WHAT? --AND LIKEWISE--WHERE?
--But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the
plums?
VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES.
--Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to
reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: _deus nobis haec otia fecit. _
--No, Stephen said. I call it _A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the
Parable of The Plums. _
--I see, the professor said.
He laughed richly.
--I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.
HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY
J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held
his peace.
--I see, the professor said.
He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile.
DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES,
FLO WANGLES--YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?
--Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must
say.
--Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's
truth was known.
Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school
treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His
Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red
jujubes white.
A sombre Y. M. C. A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of
Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
Heart to heart talks.
Bloo. . . Me? No.
Blood of the Lamb.
His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are
washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen,
martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,
druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of
the church in Zion is coming.
_Is coming! Is coming! ! Is coming! ! ! All heartily welcome. _ Paying game.
Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper
on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix.
Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,
hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.
Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush
out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain.
Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good
for the brain.
From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.
Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be
selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father.
Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother
goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their
theology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the
absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat
you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the
fat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do
the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear
he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you
could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting l. s. d.
out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching
his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the
word.
Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it.
Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from
the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it,
I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the
brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in
too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on
the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking
that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.
Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt
quaywalls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben
J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and
eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the
things. Knows how to tell a story too.
They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.
He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of
swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the
day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the
wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
_The hungry famished gull
Flaps o'er the waters dull. _
That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has
no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.
Solemn.
_Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth. _
--Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians
they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag
or a handkerchief.
Wait. Those poor birds.
He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for
a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into
the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from
their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they
have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down
here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder
what kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.
They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny
quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and
mouth disease too. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes
like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are
not salty? How is that?
His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.
_Kino's_ 11/- _Trousers_
Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you
own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which
in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of
places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck
up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr
Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self
advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for
that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight.
Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose
burning him.
If he. . . ?
O!
Eh?
No. . . No.
No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?
