No More Learning

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 _City Arms_ 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.

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. _Faugh a
Ballagh! _ 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?

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.

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: _Evening Telegraph, stop
press edition! Result of the Gold Cup race! _ 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.

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. _Buenas noches, senorita. El hombre ama la muchacha
hermosa_. Why me? Because you were so foreign from the others.

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
_Leah, Lily of Killarney. _ 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.

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.

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.
Will I?

Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a
message for her. Might remain. What?

I.

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.