No More Learning

Molly, lieutenant Mulvey that kissed her under the
Moorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she told me. But her breasts
were developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree dinner that was when we
drove home. Featherbed mountain. Gnashing her teeth in sleep. Lord mayor
had his eye on her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic.

There she is with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up
like a rocket, down like a stick. And the children, twins they must
be, waiting for something to happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in
mother's clothes. Time enough, understand all the ways of the world. And
the dark one with the mop head and the nigger mouth. I knew she could
whistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly. Why that highclass whore in
Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose. Would you mind, please, telling
me the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a dark lane.
Say prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips.
Caressing the little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course
they understand birds, animals, babies. In their line.

Didn't look back when she was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that
satisfaction. Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls. Fine
eyes she had, clear. It's the white of the eye brings that out not so
much the pupil. Did she know what I? Course. Like a cat sitting beyond
a dog's jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins in the high school
drawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show. Call that
innocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never see
them sit on a bench marked _Wet Paint_. Eyes all over them. Look under
the bed for what's not there. Longing to get the fright of their lives.
Sharp as needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner of
Cuffe street was goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he
had a false arm. Had, too. Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger
Greene's stairs two at a time to show her understandings. Handed down
from father to, mother to daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Milly for
example drying her handkerchief on the mirror to save the ironing. Best
place for an ad to catch a woman's eye on a mirror. And when I sent
her for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by the way that ad I must,
carrying home the change in her stocking! Clever little minx. I never
told her. Neat way she carries parcels too. Attract men, small thing
like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow back
when it was red. Who did you learn that from? Nobody. Something the
nurse taught me. O, don't they know! Three years old she was in front of
Molly's dressingtable, just before we left Lombard street west. Me have
a nice pace. Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student.
Straight on her pins anyway not like the other. Still she was game.
Lord, I am wet. Devil you are. Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings,
stretched to breaking point. Not like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled
stockings. Or the one in Grafton street. White. Wow! Beef to the heel.

A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in darting crackles. Zrads and
zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky ran out to see and
Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve of the rocks.
Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion. Darling,
I saw, your. I saw all.

Lord!

Did me good all the same. Off colour after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For
this relief much thanks. In _Hamlet,_ that is. Lord! It was all things
combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an ache at the butt
of my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might have made a
worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing. Then
I will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It
couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like
my name and the address Dolphin's barn a blind.

_Her maiden name was Jemina Brown And she lived with her mother in
Irishtown. _

Place made me think of that I suppose. All tarred with the same brush
Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if
it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw
anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however
because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping
and papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby
when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps
them out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam.
Children's hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even
closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't
to have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind.
Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan
there still. She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the
Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat.
And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst
of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in
drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in
the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk
last night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come home
to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women's fault
also. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the blood of the
south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent.
Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton
in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some
kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a
fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling
in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the
dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls,
height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them
he matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought
makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May
and repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the
foreskin is not back. Better detach.

Ow!

Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and
the short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.
Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic
influence between the person because that was about the time he. Yes, I
suppose, at once. Cat's away, the mice will play. I remember looking
in Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of everything magnetism.
Earth for instance pulling this and being pulled. That causes movement.
And time, well that's the time the movement takes. Then if one thing
stopped the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's all
arranged. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the
stars. Little piece of steel iron. When you hold out the fork. Come.
Come. Tip. Woman and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up
and look and suggest and let you see and see more and defy you if you're
a man to see that and, like a sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you
have any guts in you. Tip. Have to let fly.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 else.

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. _The Mystery Man on the Beach_, 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.

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.

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.