ly； more； till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold； a limp lid。 Looked shut。 All right till I e back anyhow。
He crossed to the bright side； avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive。 The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church。 Be a warm day I fancy。 Specially in these black clothes feel it more。 Black conducts； reflects （refracts is it？）； the heat。 But I couldn't go in that light suit。 Make a picnic of it。 His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth。 Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot。 Makes you feel young。 Somewhere in the east： early morning： set off at dawn； travel round in front of the sun； steal a day's march on him。 Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically。 Walk along a strand； strange land； e to a city gate； sentry there； old ranker too； old Tweedy's big moustaches leaning on a long kind of a spear。 Wander through awned streets。 Turbaned faces going by。 Dark caves of carpet shops； big man； Turko the terrible； seated crosslegged smoking a coiled pipe。 Cries of sellers in the streets。 Drink water scented with fennel； sherbet。 Wander along all day。 Might meet a robber or two。 Well； meet him。 Getting on to sundown。 The shadows of the mosques along the pillars： priest with a scroll rolled up。 A shiver of the trees； signal； the evening wind。 I pass on。 Fading gold sky。 A mother watches from her doorway。 She calls her children home in their dark language。 High wall： beyond strings twanged。 Night sky moon； violet； colour of Molly's new garters。 Strings。 Listen。 A girl playing one of these instruments what do you call them： dulcimers。 I pass。
Probably not a bit like it really。 Kind of stuff you read： in the track of the sun。 Sunburst on the titlepage。 He smiled； pleasing himself。 What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader： a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland。 He prolonged his pleased smile。 Ikey touch that： homerule sun rising up in the northwest。
He approached Larry O'Rourke's。 From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter。 Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger； teadust； biscuitmush。 Good house； however： just the end of the city traffic。 For instance M'Auley's down there： n。 g。 as position。 Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattle market to the quays value would go up like a shot。
Bald head over the blind。 Cute old codger。 No use canvassing him for an ad。 Still he knows his own business best。 There he Is； sure enough； my bold Larry； leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket。 Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up。 Do you know what I'm going to tell you？ What's that； Mr O'Rourke？ Do you know what？ The Russians； they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese。
Stop and say a word： about the funeral perhaps。 Sad thing about poor Dignam； Mr O'Rourke。
Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway：
Good day； Mr O'Rourke。
Good day to you。
Lovely weather； sir。
'Tis all that。
Where do they get the money？ ing up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim； rinsing empties and old man in the cellar。 Then； lo and behold； they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons。 Then think of the petition。 General thirst。 Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub。 Save it they can't。 Off the drunks perhaps。 Put down three and carry five。 What is that？ A bob here and there； dribs and drabs。 On the wholesale orders perhaps。 Doing a double shuffle with the town travellers。 Square it with the boss and we'll split the job； see？
How much would that tot to off the porter in the month？ Say ten barrels of stuff。 Say he got ten per cent off。 O more。 Ten。 Fifteen。 He passed Saint Joseph's； National school。 Brats' clamour。 Windows open。 Fresh air helps memory。 Or a lilt。 Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee double you。 Boys are they？ Yes。 Inishturk。 Inishark。 Inishboffin。 At their joggerfry。 Mine。 Slieve Bloom。
He halted before Dlugacz's window； staring at the hanks of sausages； polonies； black and white。 Fifty multiplied by。 The figures whitened in his mind unsolved： displeased； he let them fade。 The shiny links packed with forcemeat fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pig's blood。
A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish： the last。 He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter。 Would she buy it too； calling the items from a slip in her hand。 Chapped： washing soda。 And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages。 His eyes rested on her vigorous hips。 Woods his name is。 Wonder what he does。 Wife is oldfish。 New blood。 No followers allowed。 Strong pair of arms。 Whacking a carpet on the clothesline。 She does whack it； by George。 The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack。
The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers； sausagepink。 Sound meat there like a stallfed heifer。
He took up a page from the pile of cut sheets。 The model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias。 Can bee ideal winter sanatorium。 Moses Montefiore。 I thought he was。 Farmhouse； wall round it； blurred cattle cropping。 He held the page from him： interesting： read it nearer； the blurred cropping cattle； the page rustling。 A young white heifer。 Those mornings in the cattlemarket the beasts lowing in their pens； branded sheep； flop and fall of dung； the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter； slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter； there's a prime one； unpeeled switches in their hands。 He held the page aslant patiently； bending his senses and his will； his soft subject gaze at rest。 The crooked skirt swinging whack by whack by whack。
The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile； wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace。
Now； my miss； he said。
She tendered a coin； smiling boldly； holding her thick wrist out。
Thank you； my miss。 And one shilling threepence change。 For you； please？
Mr Bloom pointed quickly。 To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly； behind her moving hams。 Pleasant to see first thing in the morning。 Hurry up； damn it。 Make hay while the sun shines。 She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right。 He sighed down his nose： they never understand。 Sodachapped hands。 Crusted toenails too。 Brown scapulars in tatters； defending her both ways。 The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast。 For another a constable off duty cuddled her in Eccles Lane。 They like them sizeable。 Prime sausage。 O please； Mr Policeman； I'm lost in the wood。
Threepence； please。
His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket。 Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles。 They lay； were read quickly and quickly slid； disc by disc； into the till。
Thank you； sir。 Another time。
A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him。 He withdrew his gaze after an instant。 No： better not： another time。
Good morning； he said； moving away。
Good morning； sir。
No sign。 Gone。 What matter？
He walked back along Dorset street； reading gravely。 Agendath Netaim： planter's pany。 To purchase vast sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees。 Excellent for shade； fuel and construction。 Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa。 You pay eight marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives； oranges； almonds or citrons。 Olives cheaper： oranges need artificial irrigation。 Every year you get a sending of the crop。 Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union。 Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments。 Bleibtreustrasse 34； Berlin； W。 15。
Nothing doing。 Still an idea behind it。
He looked at the cattle； blurred in silver heat。 Silvered powdered olivetrees。 Quiet long days： pruning ripening。 Olives are packed in jars； eh？ I have a few left from Andrews。 Molly spitting them out。 Knows the taste of them now。 Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates。 Citrons too。 Wonder is poor Citron still alive in Saint Kevin's parade。 And Mastiansky with the old cither。 Pleasant evenings we had then。 Molly in Citron's basketchair。 Nice to hold； cool waxen fruit； hold in the hand； lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume。 Like that； heavy； sweet； wild perfume。 Always the same； year after year。 They fetched high prices too Moisel told me。 Arbutus place： Pleasants street： pleasant old times。 Must be without a flaw； he said。 ing all that way： Spain； Gibraltar； Mediterranean； the Levant。 Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa； chap ticking them off in a book； navvies handling them in soiled dungarees。 There's whatdoyoucallhim out of。 How do you？ Doesn't see。 Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore。 His back is like that Norwegian captain's。 Wonder if I'll meet him today。 Watering cart。 To provoke the rain。 On earth as it is in heaven。
A cloud began to cover the sun wholly slowly wholly。 Grey。 Far。
No； not like that。 A barren land； bare waste。 Vulcanic lake； the dead sea： no fish； weedless； sunk deep in the earth。 No wind would lift those waves； grey metal； poisonous foggy waters。 Brimstone they called it raining down： the cities of the plain： Sodom； Gomorrah； Edom。 All dead names。 A dead sea in a dead land； grey and old。 Old now。 It bore the oldest； the first race。 A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's clutching a noggin bottle by the neck。 The oldest people。 Wandered far away over all the earth； captivity to captivity； multiplying； dying； being born everywhere。 It lay there now。 Now it could bear no more。 Dead： an old woman's： the grey sunken cunt of the world。
Desolation。
Grey horror seared his flesh。 Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles Street； hurrying homeward。 Cold oils slid along his veins； chilling his blood： age crusting him with a salt cloak。 Well； I am here now。 Morning mouth bad images。 Got up wrong side of the bed。 Must begin again those Sandow's exercises。 On the hands down。 Blotchy brown brick houses。 Number eighty s