Ulysses

two fellows the one time, Kildbride the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant. Stephen Triumphaliter. Salvi facti i sunt. He flourishes his ashplant shivering the lamp image, shattering light over the world. A liver and white spaniel on the prowl slinks after him, growling. Lynch scares it with a kick. Lynch So that? Stephen Looks behind. So that gesture, not music not odours, would be a universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm. Lynch Pornosophical philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburg street! Stephen We have shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even the allwisest stagyrite was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love. Lynch Ba! Stephen Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug! This movement illustrates the loaf and jug of bread and wine in Omar. Hold my stick. Lynch Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going? Stephen Lecherous lynx, to la belle dame sans merci, Georgina Johnson, ad deam qui laetificat juventutem meam. Stephen thrusts the ashplant on him and slowly holds out his hands, his head going back till both hands are a span from his breast, down turned in planes intersecting, the fingers about to part, the left being higher. Lynch Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse. Illustrate thou. Here take your crutch and walk.

They pass. Tommy Caffrey scrambles to a gaslamp and, clasping, climbs in spasms. From the top spur he slides down. Jacky Caffrey clasps to climb. The navvy lurches against the lamp. The twins scuttle off in the dark. The navvy, swaying, presses a forefinger against a wing of his nose and ejects from the farther nostril a long liquid jet of snot. Shouldering the lamp he staggers away through the crowd with his flaring cresset.

Snakes of river fog creep slowly. From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens arise on all sides stagnant fumes. A glow leaps in the south beyond the seaward reaches of the river. The navvy staggering forward cleaves the crowd and lurches towards the tramsiding. On the farther side under the railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a side pocket. From Gillen’s hairdresser’s window a composite portrait shows him gallant Nelson’s image. A concave mirror at the side presents to him lovelorn longlost lugubru Booloohoom. Grave Gladstone sees him level, Bloom for Bloom. He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.

At Antonio Rabaiotti’s door Bloom halts, sweated under the bright arclamps. He disappears. In a moment he reappears and hurries on.

Bloom Fish and taters. N. g. Ah! He disappears into Olhousen’s, the pork butcher’s, under the downcoming rollshutter. A few moments later he emerges from under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig’s crubeen, the other a cold sheep’s trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. Then bending to one side he presses a parcel against his rib and groans. Bloom Stitch in my side. Why did I run? He takes breath with care and goes forward slowly towards the lampset siding. The glow leaps again. Bloom What is that? A flasher? Searchlight. He stands at Cormack’s corner, watching. Bloom Aurora borealis or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar’s bush. We’re safe. He hums cheerfully. London’s burning, London’s burning! On fire, on fire! He catches sight of the navvy lurching through the crowd at the farther side of Talbot street. I’ll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here. He darts to cross the road. Urchins shout. The Urchins Mind out, mister! Two cyclists, with lighted paper lanterns aswing, swim by him, grazing him, their bells rattling. The Bells Haltyaltyaltyall. Bloom Halts erect stung by a spasm. Ow. He looks round, darts forward suddenly. Through rising fog a dragon sandstrewer, travelling at caution, slews heavily down upon him, its huge red headlight winking, its trolley hissing on the wire. The motorman bangs his footgong. The Gong Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. The brake cracks violently. Bloom, raising a policeman’s whitegloved hand, blunders stifflegged, out of the track. The motorman thrown forward, pugnosed, on the guidewheel, yells as he slides past over chains and keys. The Motorman Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hattrick? Bloom Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand. No thoroughfare. Close shave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandow’s exerciser again. On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The Providential. He feels his trouser pocket. Poor mamma’s panacea. Heel easily catch in tracks or bootlace in a cog. Day, the wheel of the black Maria, peeled off my shoe at Leonard’s corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick. Insolent driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous. Might be the fellow balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same style of beauty. Quick of him all he same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of luck. Why? Probably lost cattle. Mark of the beast. He closes his eyes an instant. Bit light in the head. Monthly or effect of the other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too much for me now. Ow! A sinister figure leans on plaited legs against O’Beirne’s wall, a visage unknown, injected with dark mercury. From under a wideleaved sombrero the figure regards him with evil eye. Bloom Bueñas noches, señorita Blanca, que calle es esta? The Figure Impassive, raises a signal arm. Password. Sraid Mabbot. Bloom Haha. Merci. Esperanto. Slan leath. He mutters. Gaelic league spy,