Chapter8 Lestrygonians

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, druid's 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 quay walls, 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 bridge piers. 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.

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.

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 fishy flesh they have to, all sea birds, 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 chestnut meal 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 kind 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. Fly by night. 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?

No, no.

Mr Bloom moved forward raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about that. After one. Timeball on the ballast office is down. Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Met him pikehoses she called it till I told her about the transmigration. O rocks!

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballast office. She's right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking. Still I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a barrel. Now, isn't that wit? They used to call him big Ben. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at storing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? it all works out.

A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl: no: M'Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a transparent show cart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blotting paper. I bet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt, Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What? Our envelopes. Hello! Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame Street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait, was in Thom's. Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died, yes that's right, the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his soup before the flag fell, Bobbob lapping it for the inner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have already received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with self-covered buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic too. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulder and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit pie we had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper, Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.

He walked along the curbstone.

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen... ? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the south.

Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supper room or oakroom of the mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew out of my hand against the high school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewell concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust? Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays. White.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her. Always liked to let herself out. Sitting there after till near two, taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That was the night.

-- O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?

-- Oh, how do you do, Mrs Breen?

-- No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for ages.

-- In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily, Milly has a position down in Mullingar, you know.

-- Go away! Isn't that grand for her?

-- Yes, in a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your charges?

-- All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.

How many has she? No other in sight.

-- You're in black I see. You have no...

-- No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny.

-- o dear me, Mrs Breen said, I hope it wasn't any near relation.

May as well get her sympathy.

-- Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.

Your funeral's tomorrow

While you're coming through the rye.

Diddlediddle dumdum

Diddlediddle...

-- Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.

Now that's quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.

-- And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.

-- O, don't be talking, she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I show you.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the table.

Opening her handbag, chipped leather, hatpin: ought to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you feeding your little brother's family? Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Pastile that was fell. What is she?...

-- There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him wide in alarm, yet smiling.

-- What? Mr Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

-- Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.

Indiges.

-- Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.

-- The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

-- Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

-- What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?

-- U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great shame for them whoever he is.

-- Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.

-- And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque, three old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up.

Change the subject.

-- Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy, Mr Bloom asked.

-- Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.

-- Yes.

-- I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's three days bad now.

-- O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.

-- Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff birth, the nurse told me.

-- O, Mr Bloom said.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in compassion. Dth! Dth!

-- I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's terrible for her.

Mrs Breen nodded.

-- She was taken bad on the Tuesday...

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her.

-- Mind! Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river, staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavy stringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

-- Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!

-- Who is he if it's a fair question, Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

-- His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said, smiling. Watch!

-- He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days.

She broke off suddenly.

-- There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you?

-- I will, Mr Bloom said.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shop-fronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

Meshuggah. Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stick, umbrella, dustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him.

U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house, I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there. Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through forty-four of them. Wanted smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp girl (R. C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half percent dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca'canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and in at the death. Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishwish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes? Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of her my handling them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express. Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. Still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in the manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval a sixpenny at Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way.

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan.

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out! Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilightsleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the what was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed fools on. They could easily have big establishments. Whole thing quite painless out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone, five per cent is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds, multiply by twenty decimal system, encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum, more than you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing.

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns. How flat they look after all of a sudden! Peaceful eyes. Weight off their minds. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, that's nyumyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up at all hours. For God'sake doctor. Wife In her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Goose step. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up into groups and scattered, saluting towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings, making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's wasn't she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies. That horse policeman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Luck I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their mortar-boards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began.

-- Up the Boers!

-- Three cheers for De Wet!

-- We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to whether on the scaffold high.

Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in the know. All the time drawing secret service pay from the castle. Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plain clothes men are always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Square-pushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student fooling round her fat arms ironing.

-- Are those yours, Mary?

-- I don't wear such things... Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. Out half the night.

-- There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see.

-- Ah, get along with your great times coming.

Barmaids too. Tobacco shopgirls.

James Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that a fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back out you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in, the firing squad. Turnkey's daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.

You must have a certain fascination: Parnell, Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Want to gas about our lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government. That the language question should take precedence of the economic question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Shove us over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Home Rule sun rising up in the northwest.

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same; day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves. Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt, Kerwan's mushroom houses, built of breeze. Shelter for the night.

No one is anything.

This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

Provost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in there. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silver ware in Walter Sexton's window opposite by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.

There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that's a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's uniform since he got the job. Charley Boulger used to come out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a pain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the city charger. Drop into the D. B. C. probably for his coffee, play chess there. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright like surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life. The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and lead him out of the House of Commons by the arm.

Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which the ends of the world have forgotten to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The tentacles...

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.

And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second-time. Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent poet Mr Geo Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman in literary work.

His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier. Wind and watery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night.

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless, Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts; you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Well-mannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Grz lenses, six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloak rooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's bag and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.

His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.

He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.

Now that I come to think of it, that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get art introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door.

Ah.

His hand fell again to his side.

Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas, then solid, then world, then cold, then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon, she said. I believe there is.

He went on by la Maison Claire.

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming: The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.

Mr Bloom, quick breathing, slowlier walking, passed Adam court.

With a keep quiet relief, his eyes took note: this is street here middle of the day Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M'Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year as sober as a judge.

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twenty-eight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints, silk, dames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Country bred chawbacon. All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa è santa! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tara. Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.

Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Stick them all over the place. Needles in window curtains.

He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silk webs, silver, rich fruits, spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: In deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

-- Jack, love!

-- Darling!

-- Kiss me, Reggy!

-- My boy!

-- Love!

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See the animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however.

-- Roast beef and cabbage.

-- One stew.

Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork, to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! Get out of this.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his nose.

-- Two stouts here.

-- One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said.

-- Not here. Don't see him.

Out. I hate dirty eaters.

He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

-- Roast and mashed here.

-- Pint of stout.

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.

He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children, cabmen, priests, parsons, fieldmarshals, archbishops. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord ma in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a soup pot as big as the Phoenix Park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'h?te she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic, of course, it stinks Italian organgrinders crisp of onions, mushrooms truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobble lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

Ah, I'm hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

-- Hellow, Bloom! Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

-- Hello, Flynn.

-- How's things?

-- Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.

-- Have you a cheese sandwich?

-- Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy; take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber. Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

-- Wife well?

-- Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

-- Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

-- Doing any singing those times?

Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match. Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no harm. Free ad.

-- She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard perhaps.

-- No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?

The curate served.

-- How much is that?

-- Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrier. Easier than the dreamy creamy stuff. His five hundred wives. Had the time of their lives.

-- Mustard, sir?

-- Thank you.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

-- Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits.

-- Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hauched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly.

Wine.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.

-- Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.

No fear. No brains.

Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.

-- He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxing match Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me...

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

-- For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the parsnips.

-- And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup?

-- I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse.

-- You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there.

-- I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man the same horses.

Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.

-- True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

-- That so? Davy Byrne said...

He went towards the window and, taking up the petty cash book, scanned its pages.

-- I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.

-- Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly beards they like. Dog's cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O the big doggy-bowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six, six. Time will be gone then. She...

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins, sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters? Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red bank this morning. Was he oyster old fish at table. Perhaps he young flesh in bed. No. June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it? No. Yes, or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course, aristocrats. Then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap. No one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de la crème. They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon. High sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive: Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney I remember. Du, de la, French. Still it's the same fish, perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money, hand over fist, finger in fishes' gills, can't write his name on a cheque, think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs In the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman s breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All to see. Never speaking, I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods, golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar, imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Lovely forms of woman sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something fall see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

-- What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

-- He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the Freeman.

-- I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

-- Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

-- I noticed he was in mourning.

-- Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by God. So he was.

-- I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.

-- It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

-- And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

-- He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of that.

-- How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked.

-- He's in the craft, he said.

-- Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

-- Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a, well, I won't say who.

-- Is that a fact?

-- O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it, but they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

-- Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

-- There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the Saint Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:

-- And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him, you know, over the line.

-- God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does.

-- There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.

-- He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He has been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

-- I know, Davy Byrne said.

-- Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came In. Tom Rochford followed, a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.

-- Day, Mr Byrne.

-- Day, gentlemen.

They paused at the counter.

-- Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

-- I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.

-- Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

-- I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

-- How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God's sake? What's yours, Tom?

-- How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.

-- Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

-- Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

-- Lord love a duck, he said, look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg. He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

-- Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him.

-- That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking.

-- Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said.

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

-- Is it Zinfandel?

-- Say nothing, Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my own.

-- Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said. Who gave it to you?

Mr Bloom on his way Out raised three fingers in greeting.

-- So long, Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

-- That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

-- Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of your small Jamesons after that and a...

-- Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

-- Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach say. Then with those R?ntgen rays searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the cobble stones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his. Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths. Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent free. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo, the closes of the bars:

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco

M'invitasti.

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library now I must.

Bare clean closestools, waiting, in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the body, changing biliary duct, spleen squirting liver, gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science.

-- A cenar teco.

What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.

Doesn't go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten, about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Presscott's ad. Two fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back.

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters.

Today. Today. Not think.

Tour the south then. What about English watering places? Brighton, Margate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Why I left the church of Rome? Bird's Nest. Women run him. They say they used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome?

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross.

-- Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wall face frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly.

-- You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brilliantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John Long's. Slaking his drouth.

-- There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

-- Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

-- Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward.

Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common remark:

-- The rain kept off.

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand his hand. Like Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a name, Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs tired drudge get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.

-- Thanks, sir.

Knows I'm a man. Voice.

-- Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their foreheads perhaps. Kind of sense of volume. Weight. Would he feel it if something was removed? Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap's name.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People ought to help. Work basket I could buy Molly's birthday. Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides bunched together. Each person too. Then the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes. They say you can't taste wines with your eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.

And with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his mind's eye. The voice temperature when he touches her with fingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black for instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.

Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order two shillings half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here too. Wait. Think over it.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt the skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough. The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces.

Walking by Doran's public house he slid his hand between waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of his belly. But I know it's whiteyellow. Want to try in the dark to see.

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams would he have, not seeing? Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way? All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike-hoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them someway.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up his nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder's court. Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling. Now he's really what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His excellency the lord lieutenant. Sixteenth today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. The Messiah was first given for that. Yes Handel. What about going out there. Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare Street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Not see. Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy strides he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No, didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking for.

He thrust back quickly Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman. Where did I ? Ah, yes. Trousers. Purse. Potato. Where did I ?

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck, Ah, soap there! Yes. Gate.

Safe!

-------------------------------------------

[1]基督教兄弟会是天主教在俗修士的组织，致力于实用通俗教育，学校的经费募自民间。

[2]"国王陛下御用"为英国广告习用语。

[3]这是十六世纪编成的英国国歌首句的前年句，全句是："上帝拯救我们正义的国王。"到了第十五章才点明，嘬糖者指爱德华七世(见该章注[882])。

[4]基督教青年会以通过团体活动来传教。一八四四年成立于伦敦，一八五一年传到北美。

[5]原文作Bloo。布卢姆，英文作Bloom，而"血"则为"blood"。布卢姆最初以为这里写的是他，及至看下去才知道是"血"。"羔羊的血"一语出自《启示录》第7章第14节："他们用羔羊的血把自己的衣服洗得干净洁白了。"

[6]德鲁伊特，见第一章注[47]。每逢有人病危或在战争中受重伤时， 德鲁伊特即为之献祭。办法是将活人装入人形的柳条笼里焚烧。一般使用罪犯，有时也使用无辜者。

[7]以利亚为活动于公元前九世纪的希伯来先知。基督教和伊斯兰教都奉他为先知。中国穆斯林称之为伊利亚斯。《旧约全书》的结尾(《玛拉基书》第4章第5－6节)作："在上主大而可畏的日子来到以前，我要派先知以利亚到你们那里。他要使父亲和子女重新和好，免得我来毁灭大地。"根据犹太教的信仰，以利亚的再度到来标志着弥赛亚(犹太人所期待的救世主)的来临，而根据基督教的信仰， 这也意味着基督再世。

[8]约翰・亚历山大。道维(1847－1907)，以信仰疗法传教的美国布道家。他通过个人摆脱病痛的经验提出灵性疗法，成立国际神圣疗法协会。一九0一年纠结约五千信徒在距芝加哥约四十英里处建锡安城。同年以再世的以利亚自居。一九0四年六月十一日至十八日，他来到欧洲。一九O六年因滥用资金并宣扬一夫多妻主义等丑闻而为信徒们所唾弃。

[9]指美国一批以托里和亚历山大为首的信仰复兴运动者。一九0三至一九0五年间，他们到英国进行活动，并于一九0四年三、四月间前往都柏林。鲁本・阿切尔・托里(1856－1928)宣讲怎样研究《圣经》。查尔斯・麦卡勒姆・亚历山大(1867－1928)是个牧师，负责教堂音乐事宜。

[10]指十九世纪七十年代英国人约翰・佩珀所想出的一套办法，他用灯光、黑帷幕和发磷光的服装等，以加强鬼戏的舞台效果。

[11]参看第五章注[67]。

[12]马拉加指西班牙安达卢西亚地区地中海沿岸省份，盛产葡萄，以用麝香葡萄为原料酿造的马拉加葡萄酒闻名于世。

[13]乔治・巴特勒所开的乐器制造厂在巴切勒步道口上，紧挨着立在奥康内尔桥头的奥康内尔纪念碑，所以人们称这座厂房作纪念碑房。

[14]指天主教禁止教徒节制生育。

[15]“生养并繁殖吧”一语出自《创世记》第1章第28节。

[16]这原是埃及王劝以色列人约瑟把全家父老兄弟接到埃及来定居时所说的话。全句是：“我要把埃及最好的土地赐给他们;他们可以在这里享受丰足的生活。”见《创世记》第45章第18节。

[17]赎罪日是犹太教最隆重的节日，在犹太教历提市黎月(公历9、10月间)初十。《圣经》称赎罪日为圣安息日。从赎罪日前夕至赎罪日全天，犹太教徒都要进行祈祷和默念，禁绝饮食和男女之事。

[18]十字面包是大斋期(耶稣复活节之前四十天，也叫四旬斋)吃的一种果仁甜面包，上面有一层十字架形的糖衣饰纹。

[19]这是一首俚谣的首句。下面是：“自带茶叶和白糖，/但你会赴婚礼的。/你会去的，是不是?”

[2O]“土豆和……和土豆”一语出自民间唱词，表示贫苦人民的怨艾。

[21]指吉尼斯啤酒公司，参看第七章注[8]。

[22]柯利狗是十八世纪在英国培育成的一种使役犬，分牧羊和看门用的两种。

[23]“像个基督教徒那样”在这里有“像个正派人那样”的含意。

[24]在第六章中，马丁・坎宁翰提及吕便・杰给了救他儿子一命的人两先令。西蒙・迪达勒斯挖苦道：“多给了一先令八便士。”意思是：只给两便士就够了。

[25]指他方才拿到的那张传单。

[26]爱琳王号是船名，参看第四章注[64]及有关正文。

[27]“哈姆……时期”一语出自《哈姆莱特》第1幕第5场。

[28]班伯里为英国牛津郡查韦尔区一城镇。数百年来以所产啤酒、奶酪和点心闻名。

[29]吗哪是希伯来文，为“是什么东西”的译音，系古以色列人漂泊荒野时天主所赐类似蜜饼的白色食物。见《出埃及记》第16章。

[30]安娜・利菲是利菲河(爱尔兰语：生命之河)的别称。通常是指流经都柏林市南部和西部景色幽美的上游。

[31]在中世纪的英国，天鹅肉是专供国王享用的美味。《鲁滨孙飘流记》(1719)中并未明说鲁滨孙吃过天鹅肉，只是提到当地“有不少种飞禽，肉很好吃。然而，除了那些叫作企鹅的以外，我一概不知道它们的名字”。

[32]这是伦敦的服装商J・C・吉诺在都柏林所开设的批发成衣的分号。第二行的11代表十一先令，指每条长裤的价钱。

[33]亨利・弗兰克斯大夫是个英籍犹太人，一八五二年出生于曼彻斯特，一九0三年来到都柏林。

[34]据艾尔曼的《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第365页)， 舞蹈教师丹尼斯・杰・马金尼当时是个中年人，以讲究穿戴著称。

[35]邓辛克位于都柏林市西北方约五英里处。这里有一座一七八五年由三一学院院长弗朗西斯・安德鲁斯博士捐赠的气象台，用气流操纵三一学院的钟。

[36]罗伯待・斯托尔・鲍尔爵士(1840－1913)，天文学家， 毕业于三一学院，在母校任天文学教授。一八九二年改任剑桥大学天文学和几何学教授。这里指他的《天空的故事》(1885)一书。

[37]英文里，除了“transmigration”，另有个源于希腊文的外来语“metempsychosis”，也作“轮回”解，与“met him pike hoses”(遇见了他尖头胶皮管)读音相似，故有此误会。

[38]原文作base barreltone，是文字游戏。base既可作“下贱”解， 又可作“男低音”解。Barreltone的意思是“桶音”，与“barytone”(男中音)谐音。这里还有双关之意。多拉德胖得像是巴思(Bass)酒厂的酒桶。

[39]原文作BigBen,指英国议会大厦上的大钟。

[40]神父身上的祭披背后写有l・H・S三个字母。本为拉下文“万人的教主耶稣”的首字。摩莉却按照英语把它理解为“我犯了罪”、“我受了苦”(参看第五章注[67])。这里，把“我”改成了“我们”。

[41]HELY(希利)是店老板的姓，后面加上“’S”，代表“的”，意思是“希利所开的店”。

[42]博伊指博伊兰。当时确有个叫默・格拉德的人，在都柏林市开一家广告公司。

[43]盐柱，指因好奇心而受到处罚。参看第四章注[36]。

[44]这是一八三三年由天主教的迦尔默罗会在拉思曼斯的特兰奎拉所创立的女修道院。

[45]迦密山是以色列西北部一道山岭。在《圣经》中，为先知以利亚与崇拜巴力神的众先知对证真伪之处。这里也是迦尔默罗会的发源地(约1156年)。

[46]这是文字游戏。迦密的原文作Carmel；而糖蜜的原文是caramel，这两个词发音相近。

[47]铁蒺藜实际上是由三个美国人(史密斯、亨特、凯利)不约而同地于一八六七至一八六八年间发明的。

[48]这是第五个挂广告牌的人，参看本章注[41]。

[49]指在三一学院(参看第五章注[99])举行的赛车会。

[50]第十七章中说明了菲尔・吉利根的死因。

[51]即亚历山大・汤姆印刷出版公司，参看第七章注[45]。

[52]这里，布卢姆想起他儿子鲁迪夭折于一八九四年的往事。

[53]维尔・狄龙实有其人，在一八九四至一八九五年间任都柏林市市长，死于一九0四年四月二日。

[54]这是为了给圣凯文感化院(后改名为格伦克里教养中心)募款而一年一度举行的午餐会。

[55]这里套用成语“喂内在的人”，意指吃精神食粮。

[56]“主呵，所赐万惠，我等”是天主教的《饭后祝文》。“我等”后面省略了“感激称颂”四字。

[57]糖锥山位于都柏林东南十四英里处。

[58]指坐落于斯蒂芬街上的托马斯・多克雷尔父子公司，经售窗玻璃并负责装修。

[59]据第十七章注[310]及有关正文，当年布卢姆的父亲还在匈牙利的塞斯白堡时，他的堂兄弟斯蒂芬・维拉格有过这样一间暗室。

[60]生命的长河，参看第五章注[104]。

[61]西特伦，参看第四章注[26]。

[62]此人最初见于第七章“排字房的老领班”一节。直到本章末尾(参看注[272])布卢姆才想起他姓彭罗斯。

[63]巴特尔・达西是个虚构的人物，曾出现在《都柏林人・死者》中。

[64]一八九三或一八九四年，布卢姆由于兜售匈牙利皇家特许彩票，差点儿被抓去坐牢。下文中的高中，指伊拉兹马斯・史密斯高中(创立于1870)。

[65]“也许……永远地”出自安妮・巴里・克劳福德作词、弗雷德里克・N・克劳奇配曲的《凯思琳・马沃宁》这首歌的第一段。

[66]布林太太是布卢姆的妻子摩莉的女友，原名乔西・鲍威尔。布卢姆曾和她逢场作戏。她后来嫁给了丹尼斯。

[67]“你的葬礼在明天”， 套用费利克斯・麦格伦农的《他的葬礼在明天》，将“他”改成了“你”。“当你穿过裸麦田”， 套用罗勃特・彭斯的诗句《穿过裸麦田》。

[68]圭亚那东部的德梅拉拉地区所产的蔗糖。

[69]每年冬季，都柏林基督教协会为贫民供应每顿仅一便士半的廉价午餐，每逢星期日免费供应早餐。就餐者站在柜台前吃，而餐具都用铁链锁住。

[70]算命的认为“黑桃么”是不祥(也许是死亡)的预兆。

[71]原文作U・p：up。关于此词，众说纷坛。狄更新的《奥列佛・特维斯特》(1838)第24章中，曾用来指一个老妪即将死亡。 这里根据这一解释并参照布林的具体情况而译。

[72]双关语:原文作the unfair sex。按the fair sex指女性，fair的意思是“美好”或“公正”。

[73]酥皮饼，原文作tart，也有荡妇之意。

[74]海豚仓，见第四章注[54]。哑剧字谜是一种室内游戏，分两组，一组用手势或动作表示一句话或一个词，由另一组来猜。

[75]在第四章末尾处，曾提到布卢姆读菲利普・博福伊的小说《马查姆的妙举》。“马查姆……妙举”是小说中的词句。

[76]当天早晨布卢姆是坐在恭桶上读那篇小说的，眼下他在回忆曾否抽水把马桶冲干净了。

[77]指安德鲁・J・霍恩，他曾任爱尔兰皇家医学院副院长，当时(1904)是坐落在霍利斯街的国立妇产医院两位名医之一。

[78]据艾尔曼的《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第365页)，不论前文中为哈利作活广告的那五个人还是这里的法雷尔这个人物，都是乔伊斯早年或以后回来作短期逗留时，在都柏林街头所见。

[79]原文为依地语，又称“意第绪语”或“犹太德语”。中欧和东欧大多数犹太人的主要口语。

[80]阿尔夫雷德・柏根实有其人，死于一九五一或一九五二年。一九0四年他担任都柏林行政司法副长官助理。苏格兰屋是都柏林的一家酒吧。

[81]《爱尔兰时报》是都柏林一家日报。布卢姆曾在这家报纸上刊登过征求女助手的小广告，从而和玛莎・克利佛德通起信来。

[82]“我曾……香水”引自玛莎来信，与原信略有出入。参看第五章注[36]。

[83]莉齐・特威格是拉塞尔的一个女弟子，一九0四年出版过诗集《歌与诗》，署名伊利斯・尼・克拉欧伊布欣。

[84]詹姆斯・卡莱尔是《爱尔兰时报》经理兼社长。

[85]《爱尔兰狞猎报「是供乡绅消遣的周报，每逢星期六出版。

[86]拉思奥斯是位于都柏林西北二十五英里处一村落。狞猎开始前，先将关在笼中的狐狸释放出来，供狞猎者追捕。

[87]套用王尔德的戏剧《无足轻重的女人》(1893)第1幕中伊林沃思爵士的话。他认为猎狐乃是拼命追逐那“不能食用者”。

[88]“乔可决不要!”一语出自十九世纪六十年代在都柏林流行的一首歌曲。

[89]指五至六英尺高、不易越过的障碍物。

[90]这里布卢姆回想起当天上午他正想隔着马路欣赏一个妇女抬腿上马车时，被一个狮子鼻司机开的电车挡住视线的事。见第五章注[14]及有关正文。

[91]在后文中，老鸨贝洛提到了米莉亚姆・丹德拉德太太，见第十五章[585]及有关正文。

[92]截至一九0一年，亨利・G・斯塔布斯一直在凤凰公园当护林人。

[93]《每日快报》的简称，参看第七章注[59]。

[94]也译作美以美会，是基督教的一个支派，一七三七年由约翰・卫斯理(1703－1791)创立。教徒组成小组，小组成员的绰号为“循道者”。

[95]“他……哲理”，这里套用《哈姆莱特》第2幕第2场中御前大臣波洛涅斯给予哈姆莱特王子的评语。

[96]指教育农场产品公司。该公司所开设的店铺供应“有益健康的食品”和“无酒精饮料”。

[97]都柏林堡建于十三世纪，参看第六章注[1]。

[98]暗指年年生孩子。

[99]这是《伊索寓言》里的故事。一只狗自己不吃草，却钻进饲料槽里，不让马吃草。

[100]这是酒商安德鲁・罗依所开的酒馆。

[101]指伯顿旅店。该店设有餐厅及弹子房。

[102]指威廉・博尔顿公司在韦斯特莫兰街所开设的店，经售食品杂货茶叶及酒类。

[108]维多利亚女王共生过四男五女。一八五三年生子时，她接受了昏睡分娩法――一种半麻醉的无痛分娩法。

[104]“老婆婆……娃娃”出自英国一首摇篮曲。后两句为：“只给汤喝没面包，狠抽一顿送上床。”下面的“他”指艾伯特。实际上他死于伤寒病。

[105]这里，布卢姆把丹・道森文中的两句话拼凑在一起。参看第七章的两节：“爱琳，银海上的绿宝石”和“他的家乡土话”。

[106]按五分利把五镑存上二十一年，连本带利可获十三镑十八先令。

[107]据路易斯・海曼所著《爱尔兰的犹太人;早期至一九一0年》(香农出版社，1972)第190页，莫依塞尔太太及其丈夫尼桑・莫依塞尔(1814－1909)住在西伦巴德街或附近一带。他们的儿子埃尔雅・沃尔夫・莫依塞尔(1856－1904)之妻巴瑟，与摩莉同在一八八九牛六月生女。

[108]维多利亚女王共生过四男五女。一八五三年生子时，她接受了昏睡分娩法――一种半麻醉的无痛分娩法。

[109]参看第六章注[176]。

[110]一八00年以后，这座大厦改为爱尔兰银行，但人们习惯于沿用旧称。

[111]珀西・阿普约翰是个虚构的人物，系布卢姆少年时代的伙伴。第十七章中提到他在南非战争(1899－1902)中阵亡。欧文・戈德堡是布卢姆在伊拉兹马斯・史密斯高中时的同学。系以往在该校附近一同名人为原型而塑造的。

[112]原文(mackerel)作为俚语，含有“男妓”或“拉皮条”之意。

[122]克里斯琴・鲁道夫・德威特(1854－1922)，南非布尔人的将军，政治家。

[123]“我们要把……树上!”套用《约翰・布朗的遗体》歌中的一句。约翰・布朗(1800－1859)是美国废奴主义领袖，因领导奴隶起义，被绞死。这是在南北战争中，联邦政府军所唱的纪念约翰・布朗的歌。原词是：‘我们要把杰夫・戴维斯吊死在酸苹果讨上!”杰夫(即杰裴逊)・戴维斯(1808－1889)是美国南方联盟(1861－1865)唯一的一任总统。

[124]醋山岗在韦克斯福德郡的恩尼斯科西。在一七九八年的民众起义中， 起义军的指挥部即设在这里。当年六月二十一日被英军击溃。爱尔兰民谣《韦克斯福德的男子汉》(参看第七章注[75])末段有“战败在醋山岗，我们准备再打一场仗……”之句。

[125]奶油交易所是个奶场场主的同业公会，在爱尔兰的几座城市中设有分会。都柏林分会拥有一支乐队。布卢姆正回忆的那次游行示威，该乐队也参加了。

[126]十九世纪末叶，爱尔兰各地区(都柏林除外)共有六十四名治安法庭长官。由于待遇好，被视为最理想的职业。

[127]语出自T・D・沙利文(1827－1914)所作《天主保佑爱尔兰》。最后三句是：“哪怕上高高的断头台，我们战死沙场也心甘，只要是为了亲爱的爱尔兰!”

[128]哈维・达夫是《少朗》(1874)中的一个乔装成农夫的密探。该剧作者为出生于爱尔兰的美国剧作家戴恩・鲍西考尔特(1822－1890)。

[129]詹姆斯・凯里，参看第五章注[69]。

[130]此处的汤姆是泛称，尤指下流的偷看者。

[131]此语系套用英国歌曲作者亨利・拉塞尔(1813－1900)的《好日子快要到来了》一歌。原词是：“好日子快要到来了，再稍微等一等吧。”

[132]詹姆斯・斯蒂芬斯(参看第二章注[54])所创立的芬尼社，组织严密，每十人分为一组，各有组长。组内也只有直线联系。

[133]指在“新芬”这一口号下从事爱尔兰民族独立运动的芬尼社(亦称爱尔兰共和兄弟会)。新芬党的创立者格里菲思即为芬尼社社员(参看第三章注[108])。

[134]《看不见的手》(1864)是英国戏剧家汤姆・泰勒(1817－1880)所写的情节剧。在戏中，一只“看不见的手”用砒霜将人们一个个毒死。

[135]拉斯科是都柏林以北十一英里处的港口，濒临爱尔兰海。 斯蒂芬及其支持者从这里乘煤船驶到苏格兰，上岸后改乘火车抵伦敦，在维多利亚车站附近的王官饭店住了一宵，次日乘船经法国转往美国。

[136]白金汉宫是英国君主在伦敦的王宫。这里，布卢姆为了渲染，故意把皇宫饭店说成是白金汉宫饭店。

[137]加里波第(1807－1882)，意大利民族英雄。一八六0年组织红衫党，解放西西里和那不勒斯。次年意大利王国宣告成立。他一生中最大的贡献是为意大利的复兴和统一而进行宣传和战斗。

[138]俚语中，转义指家常便饭，毫不稀奇。一首民歌有“肥胖的家禽，丝毫不稀奇”之句。

[139]参看第七章注[200]。

[140]意指对爱尔兰的独立事业而言，复兴爱尔兰语言比建立独立的爱尔兰经济还重要。

[141]米迦勒节是基督教节日。 西方教会定于每年九月二十九日纪念天使长米迦勒。爱尔兰人和英国人在此节日有食鹅肉的习俗，据说是为了保证来年生活富裕。

[142]凡是跟着救世军(成立于1865年)的乐队走街串巷， 表示自己悔改的，均能领到一个值一便士的面包卷。

[143]照基督教的说法，用羔羊的血可以赎罪。参看本章注[5]。

[144]面包洋葱被视为典型的奴隶伙食。

[145]迈克尔・柯万是都柏林的一个建筑承包人，他在凤凰公园东边为都柏林工匠住房公司盖了一批廉价房屋。

[146]乔治・萨蒙(1819－1904)曾任三一学院院长(1888－1902)。他的姓萨蒙(Salmon)与鲑鱼拼法相同。一九0四年，尼・特雷尔(1838－1914)继他之后被任命为院长。

[147]都柏林俚语，“装在罐子里”指富有。

[148]那一位指查理・斯图尔特・巴涅尔(参看第二章注[81])。他的弟弟约翰・霍华德・巴涅尔(1843－1923)自一八九五年起，任爱尔兰伦斯特省南米斯郡的下议院议员，一九0三年被希伊击败。这之后， 他改任都柏林市政典礼官兼典当商代理人。

[149]范妮(弗朗西斯的简称)・伊莎贝拉・巴涅尔(1849－1882) 曾协助其兄查理・斯图尔特・巴涅尔从事爱尔兰民族主义运动，组织能力很强，并擅长演说。后赴美，写了一批充满爱国主义情绪的诗。

[150]迪金森太太，原名埃术莉・巴涅尔(1841－1918)。查理・斯图尔特・巴涅尔死后，她写了一部关于她哥哥的传记《一个爱国主义者的错误》。(爱尔兰时报》评论说，此书应改题名为《一个爱国主义者的妹妹的错误》。

[151]约翰・S・马德尔是都柏林圣文森特医院的外科医生。

[152]大卫・希伊(1844－1932)，南米斯郡的下议院议员(1903－1918)。

[153]位于贝德福德与赫特福德之间的奇尔特恩山区(属白金汉郡)， 原是强盗窝。后设置了管理员在该分区巡逻，才消除了这一隐患。但这一空缺一直留给那些失去下议院议员席位的人们。布卢姆把约翰・霍华德・巴涅尔担任典礼官比作当管理员这一闲职。

[154]橙带党(Orange Order) 是一七九五年成立于北爱尔兰的一个秘密团体，旨在支持新教。爱尔兰民族主义者在凤凰公园聚会时，故意剥桔子(orange)吃，以表示爱尔兰一旦取得了统一与独立，橙带党必将被吞没。这里，原文作Eating orangepeels(吃桔皮)， 恰与爱尔兰警察制度的制定者罗伯特・奥林奇・皮尔的姓名在拼法上相同。所以这又是“吃掉警察制度制定者”的双关语。

[155]双头章鱼指英国。两个脑袋即英国的伦敦和苏格兰的爱丁堡。暗指它们正在扼杀爱尔兰的经济。

[156]胡子指诗人乔・拉塞尔(A・E・)。他留着胡子，总是骑着自行车到处活动，对农民发表演说，并组织他们参加合作社。

[157]“未来的事情有过前兆”一语出自托马斯・坎贝尔(1777－1844)所作歌谣《给洛奇尔下的预告》(1802)。

[158]A.E.看第三章注[109]。

[159]艾伯特・爱德华指爱德华七世。

[160]指亚瑟・埃德蒙・吉尼斯，参看第五章注[45]。

[161]阿方萨斯，见第十五章注[663]。埃比(Eb)是埃比尼泽(Ebenezer)的简称埃德(Ed)是埃德加(Edgar)或埃德华(Edward)的简称。埃利(El)是埃利阿斯(Elias)的简称。

[162]原文作Esquire，首字为E。

[163]拉塞尔一向穿手织布或手织呢衣服，以示他相信爱尔兰作为一个农业国家，其家庭手工艺大有潜力。

[164]拉塞尔是个素食主义者。

[165]气胀病是以食草料为主的牛羊常患的疾病。

[166]坚果排是将坚果磨成粉做成的，供素食主义者食用。

[167]十九世纪末素食主义者以为用苏打水煮菜可以保持原来的养分和色泽。一九一二年维生素被发现后，方知这样做足以破坏蔬菜所含的养分。

[168]这两句诗在后文中由宁芙引用，见第十五章注[655]。

[169]耶茨父子公司制造光学与数学仪器。

[170]据艾尔曼的《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第230页注)， 乔伊斯认识老哈里斯(约1823－1909)及其孙子们。据海曼的《爱尔兰的犹太人》(第148至149页)，威廉・辛克莱(1882－1938)是老哈里斯的孙子。在祖父的坚持下， 他是被当作一个犹太人培养大的。下文中的戈埃兹是一家德国光学仪器厂。

[171]恩尼斯是爱尔兰克莱尔郡首府，也是该郡的主要铁路和公路枢纽。 一八八六年布卢姆的父亲死在这里。利默里克是爱尔兰利默里克郡的郡级市、港口和首府。在都柏林西南一二三英里、恩尼斯西南四十八英里处。

[172]关于这块表的传说流传甚广，但它是否存在，迄未得到证实。

[173]据德鲁伊特(参看本章注[6])说，这样做能检验一个人有没有未卜先知的本领。

[174]查尔斯・贾斯帕・乔利(1864－1904)，三一学院天文学教授，邓辛克气象台台长。该台每月第一个星期六对外开放一天。

[175]爱尔兰谚语。意思是:谦恭的人远比傲慢的人吃得开。

[176]法国天文学家皮埃尔・西蒙(1749－1827)认为，地球也将像月球那样冷却下去，以致全部生命必然消灭殆尽。

[177]原文为法语，是一家专做大礼服的裁缝店。

[178]托尔卡是都柏林北边的一条小河，在费尔维尤(Fairview)注入都柏林湾。这一带经过填海拓地，有费尔维尤游s场之称。这是双关语。费尔维尤又作美景解。

[179]“五月的……宝贝”以及“萤光灯……宝贝”均出自托马斯・穆尔的《哦，英俊少年》一诗。

[180]原文must是双关语。既指“必须”， 又指(大象等在交尾期间的)狂暴状态。这里，布卢姆在回忆他们夫妇同去赏月时，博伊兰也在场。他当时已在怀疑妻子和博伊兰有暧昧关系，从而引起种种联想。

[181]鲍勃・多兰这个人物曾在《都柏林人・寄寓》中出现。

[182]原文为法语。

[183]哈普剧院是边就餐边欣赏歌舞表演的游艺场。后转让给詹姆斯・W・惠特布雷德，改为女王剧院。

[184]戴恩・鲍西考尔特(1822－1890)，为出生于都柏林的剧作家、演员。他凭看深刻的幽默感弥补了演技之不足。一八七二年移居美国。

[185]《三个俊俏姑娘放学了》是英国作曲家沙利文与吉尔伯特合作的轻歌剧《天皇》(1885)中的插曲。

[186]“摘下那顶白帽子”是穆尔与伯吉斯乐队所作滑稽演出中的一个噱头。

[187]“那把……挨饿”，套用托马斯・穆尔所作的《那把竖琴曾越过塔拉大厅》一歌。自古以来竖琴是爱尔兰的象征。

[188]据约翰・亨利・雷利所著《利奥波德与摩莉・布卢姆纪年：故事体的〈尤利西斯〉》(加州柏克利，1977)，布卢姆生于一八六六年二月至五月之间，摩莉生于一八七0年九月八日。他们是一八九四年从西伦巴德街搬走的， 参看本书第十七章。

[189]按这条街是用花岗岩铺的。

[190]“事业……的”、“嗒啦……嘣”，原文均为意大利语。 这里，布卢姆站在橱窗前忽然想起《胡格诺派教徒》(1836)中的这些台词。该歌剧系一八一六年起定居于意大利的德国歌剧作曲家贾埃科莫・梅耶贝尔(1791－1864) 用德文所写。但十九世纪末叶，歌剧一般都用意大利语演唱。布卢姆忽何看见橱窗里有“绸子得用雨水来洗”的说明，想到雨水不含矿物，水质软。

[191]民间有一种迷信，认为如果一个姑娘捡起一根针、就会断送与原来男友之间的爱情，必须另交男友。

[192]雅法与移民垦殖公司，参看第四章注[23]、[24]

[193]指出售版画并配制镜框的剑桥公司。

[194]“用别人……自己”，套用罗伯特・彭斯的《致虱子：在教堂里一个女人的帽子上所见》(1786)。

[195]博因河在爱尔兰基尔代尔郡。博因河谷附近有塔拉山。

[196]科麦克王(约254－约277在位)是爱尔兰的开国元勋， 建郡于塔拉山。他是最早皈依基督教的，以致惹怒了德鲁依特(参看本章注[6])， 故意让他吞食大马哈鱼刺因而被卡死。圣帕特里克是四三二或四三三年才到爱尔兰来传教的， 当时的爱尔兰国王莱格海尔在塔拉宫接见了他。国王本人并未改信基督教，却答应不阻挠圣帕特里克的传教活动，所以这里说是“未能全盘接受”。布卢姆的记忆与史实不相符。

[197]这里是借哈姆莱特王子对母后说的话来形容人们的吃相。王子叫母后把先王(她的前夫)的肖像跟现在的国王克劳狄斯(她的第二个丈夫)的肖像相比。见《哈姆莱特》第3幕第4场。

[198]当一个小孩用手抓饭菜时，大人常挖苦说：“你要是有三只手就好啦。”

[199]后文中，本・多拉德曾提及此人，见第十章注[170]及有关正文。

[200]指都柏林市芒斯特[与伦斯特]银行。

[20l]“每一个母亲的儿子”出自《仲夏夜之梦》第1幕第2场中众人回答波顿的话。

[202]菲利普“克兰普顿爵士(参看第六章注[27])的雕像下面有座喷泉，那里备用的杯子与都柏林市政府所发给的一样。

[203]前面的“别提……院长”和这里的“弗林……无知”均出自艾尔弗雷德・珀西瓦尔・格雷夫斯(1846－1879)的《奥弗林神父会揭露他们大家的愚昧无知》(1879)一书。

[204]凤凰公园在一九0四年被认为是世界上最大的城市公园。

[205]原文为法语。

[206]原文作bob，指未满月的小牛崽，照规定不许宰食，但仍避免不了被宰的命运。

[207]“刚砍……骨头”是爱尔兰民间故事里的妖魔鬼怪的形象。这两段使人联想到奥德修在阴府里遇见亡灵们的情景。他们得先喝坑里那乌黑的血，才能说话。见《奥德修纪》卷ll。

[208]大鼻子弗林是《都柏林人・无独有偶》里的一个人物。大鼻子是他的绰号，原文作Nosey，也含有好打听闲事之意。

[209]勃艮第葡萄酒产于法国中东部勃艮第地区，有红白二种，红的甘醇浓郁。

[210]这里套用C・C・勃姆鲍所编《文学沃野拾遗，供好奇者鉴赏》(费城・1890)中的一首滑稽诗。该诗有“哈姆一族在那里聚集并繁衍生息”之句，这里改为：哈姆和他的后代在那里聚集并繁衍生息。(Ham and his descendant smusterred and bred there)。哈姆(Ham旧译为含)是《创世记》中挪亚的第二个儿子，与火腿同音，而descendants既作后代解，也作派生物解，musterred(聚集)与muslard(芥末)、bred(繁衍生息)与bread(面包)读音都近似，全句语意双关。

[211]“倘若……不足”和“有它……窝”均参看第五章注[18]及有关正文。

[212]爬上了李子树含有被逼入绝境之意。

[213]据《马太福音》第2章:由于星相家预言基督长大后要作犹太人的王， 希律王为了杀害他，而“派人把伯利恒和附近地区两岁以内的男孩子都杀掉。”天主教把十二月二十八日定为屠杀无辜婴儿纪念日。

[214]“吃啊，喝唱，快活一场”一语出自《旧约・传道书》第8章第15节。

[215]制造奶酪时使用晒干的小牛皱胃的内膜，所以十六世纪以来就有人说制造奶酪乃是消化的过程。奶酪上寄生着微小的螨，凡是它爬过之外，都留下一层粉状褐色外皮。

[216]套用英国作家约翰・泰勒(1580－1653)语。原为:天主送来了食物，魔鬼送来了厨子。“(《约翰・泰勒全集》)

[217]这是文字游戏。原文里，魔鬼是devil，而辣子螃蟹则是devilledcrab;devil与devilled读音相近。

[218]戈尔贡佐拉是意大利伦巴第区一城镇，以产奶酪著称。

[219]杰克・穆尼是鲍勃・多兰的内弟，这个人物曾在《都柏林人・寄寓》中出现。

[220]《自由人报》(1904年4月28、29日)曾登出广告说，军民之间将于四月二十九和二十两天进行拳击比赛。在二十九日的比赛中，基奥击败了第六龙旗兵团的加里。这里，乔伊斯把日期改为五月二十二日，将加里改成英国炮队的军士长珀西

[221]卡洛郡属爱尔兰伦斯特省。位于都柏林西南五十英里处。

[222]这是从剧《玛丽塔娜》(参看第五章注[104])中唐乔斯的唱词。

[223]欧洲防风根抹黄油是一道佳肴。抹了过多的质量次于黄油的大油，有假情假义意。

[224]洋苏木是豆科乔木，原产中美和西印度群岛。木材硬重，能从树心里提取一种同名黑色染料。

[225]埃普瑟姆－尤厄尔的简称。这是英国萨里郡的一区，位于伦敦西侧。一七三0年起盛行赛马。每逢六月的第一个星期举行著名的埃普瑟姆赛马会。

[226]这是一句谚语的上半句。下半句为“相处不长”。

[227]赖尔登老太太，见第六章注[69]。

[228]斯凯i狗是苏格兰斯凯岛上产的一种i狗。

[229]原文为德语，意思是保持忠诚街。

[230]布卢姆想起当天早晨他曾瞧见博伊兰呆在红岸餐馆外面的事。

[231]指英语里，五、六、七、八这四个月没有“r”字。这期间牡蚜的味道不好，只宜在有“r”字的八个月中吃。

[232]巴伐利亚国王奥托一世(1848－1916)自一八七二年起发疯，于一八八六年即位，同年由大公爵利奥波德・封・巴耶恩(1821－1921)摄政。

[233]哈布斯堡王室是欧洲最大的王室之一，一O二O年建于今瑞士阿尔高州。其后裔奥地利皇帝弗朗西斯・约瑟夫一世(1830－1916)有个侄子名奥托。

[234]、[237]原文为法语。

[235]英王爱德华二世(1307-1327在位)曾宣布英国海域内的鲟鱼，概由王室享用。

[236]指安德鲁・马歇尔・波特爵士(1887－1919)，一八八三至一九O七年间任爱尔兰高等法院法官。

[234]、[237]原文为法语。

[238]这是法国名菜。把鸭子浸泡在白兰地里，点燃后端上餐桌。

[239]“帕……式”，原文为法语。将牛肉末、香草、面包屑填入包心菜卷，烤熟而食。

[240]关在笼子里填喂的鹅，其肝格外肥大，宜用来做肥鹅肝饼。

[241]雷鸟是生活在寒冷地带的一种松鸡类的鸟。

[242]据一八九四年二月二日的《自由人报》，杜比达特小姐曾在詹姆斯・W・惠特布雷德经营的女王皇家剧院演唱过《到基尔代尔去》。

[243]基利尼是都柏林以南的一个工业城市，濒临爱尔兰海。

[244]Du是dule(加在阴性名词前即为dela)的缩写，系法语的前置词(表示所属关系)，相当于英语的ofthe(“……的”、“属于……的”)。

[245]这里描述老人一面在嘴里拼音，一面写着自己的姓名迈克尔(Michael)的那副神态。米基是迈克尔的简称。

[246]西方形容笨蛋为脑子长在脚上。一大筐翻毛生皮鞋，喻不知更要愚蠢多少倍。

[247]“紧紧膘在一块儿”一语，在后文中又用来形容博伊兰和摩莉，见第十五章注[712]。下段中提到的霍斯，见第三章注[58]。

[248]指撒有芬香种子(如芝麻等)的糕饼。前面的“真好吃”一语，当天夜里又由莉迪亚・杜丝嘴里说出来，见第十五章注[7l3]。

[249]一种平纹薄毛呢，起初用来做修女披的头纱，故名。现在也用做衣料。

[250]据希腊神话，皮格马利翁是塞浦路斯国王，他也是位雕刻家、 并爱上了他手雕的一座女性象牙雕像加拉蒂亚。后来女神让它变为活人，并与皮格马利翁结为夫妻。从罗马诗人奥维德到本世纪的萧伯纳，都曾在作品中采用这一题材。

[251]奥尔索普指都柏林的奥尔索普父子酿酒公司所生产的廉价瓶装啤酒。

[252]“食物……食物”这里套用乔达诺・布鲁诺在《关于原因、原则和一》(参看第二章注[86])中所阐述的物质循环不已的繁殖过程。

[253]指女神们没有肛门。

[254]在莎士比亚的《维纳斯与阿都尼》(1593)中，维纳斯像男人追求女人那样来向阿都尼求爱。参看张谷若译文第6行：“拼却女儿羞容，凭厚颜，要演一出凰求凤。”第42行：“爱既无法使他就范，她就用力把他控制。”

[255]此句后面，本书海德一九八九年版(第145页倒12行)有“他还是名出色的会员呢”之句。

[256]共济会(参看第五章注[8])分会将成员划为三个主要等级:学徒、师兄弟、师傅。该会吸收过几名妇女。伊丽莎白・奥尔沃思(?－1773)是最早的一人。 她是第一任唐奈赖尔子爵阿瑟・圣莱杰的独女。据说她十七岁时，家里召开共济会的会议，给她撞见了。为了保守秘密，就让她入了会。尤金・伦赫夫所著《共济会》 (纽约・1934)一书中刊有她的画像。

[257]汤姆・罗赤福特是以一个搭救过下水道工人的同名工程师为原型而塑造的人物。参看第十章注[107]。

[258]这是双关语。英文standing一词，既可作“站看”(与“坐”相反)解，又可作“做东”(“请客”)解。这里，大鼻子弗林故意把它理解为前者。

[259]那个人指布卢姆。参看第五章注[96]及有关正文。

[260]在特定条件下，使一立方厘米空气产生一静电单位正或负离子的电离的辐射量为一伦琴，以德国物理学家威廉・康拉德・封・伦琴的姓氏命名。

[261]罗赤福特的发明，参看第十章注[103]及有关正文。

[262]原文为意大利语。这是奥地利作曲家莫扎特的歌剧《唐乔万尼》(1787年首演)中被杀死的骑士长亡灵的唱词。

[263]意大利语，意思是“今晚同你”。下面的“teco”是“同你”。

[264]布卢姆先用意人利语唱了一句，接着又用英语来唱，因而失去了原作的韵味，所以这里说不对头。

[265]在本书末尾，摩莉想到了布卢姆拉比利・普雷斯科特的广告事。参看第十八章。

[266]布赖顿位于伦敦以南五十一公里处，为英吉利海峡的海滨胜地。

[267]马盖特是英国肯特郡一城镇，位于泰晤士河口湾南面。十八世纪以来成为闻名的海滨浴场。

[268]《我为什么脱离了罗马教会》(伦敦，1883) 是查尔斯・帕斯卡尔・特勒斯弗尔・奇尼其(1809－1899)所写的小册子。他于一八三三年当上天主教神父，一八五八年皈依新教，成为加拿大长老会牧师。

[269]“鸟窝会”是个新教传道会，收养着一百七十名穷孩子。

[270]指附属于犹太人皈依基督教伦敦公会的爱尔兰教会。

[271]意思是说，从公牛后面和马前面走才安全。因为公牛喜用犄角顶，马好尥蹶子。

[272]彭罗斯，参看本章注[62]。

[273]期图尔特医院是专门收留弱智儿童和精神病患者的医院。

[274]据《自由人报》(1904年6月16日)、在美国的德国圣马丁路德教会主日学校当天组织一次乘汽船(“斯洛克姆将军”号)游览的活动。结果船在纽约港起火，烧死一O三O人，大部分是妇孺。

[275]“业”是佛教名词，系梵文karman(羯磨)的意译。佛教认为业发生后不会消除。它将引起善恶等报应。

[276]“遇见了他尖头胶皮管”，参看本章注[37]及有关正文。

[277]弗雷德里克・福基纳爵士(1831－1908)，都柏林市记录法官(1876－1905)，参看第七章注[158]。他曾任慈善学校(原名“蓝衣学校”)董事，并著有《文学杂记：慈善学校史;法院与巡回裁判的故事》(1909)。

[278]都柏林天主教大主教约翰・托马斯・特洛伊(1739－1828)曾对 一七九八年的起义发出过“庄严的声讨”。从那以后，人们总把他的名字和“庄严”一词联系在一起。

[279]“愿……魂”是审判长对被判死刑者说的套语。

[280]麦拉斯义卖会其实是在一九0四年五月三十一日举办的。小说中为了行文方便，把日期移到六月十六日。

[281]《弥赛亚》是德国作曲家亨德尔(1685－1759)所作最为脍炙人口的圣乐，一七四二年四月十三日在都柏林首演，给人留下极其深刻的印象。

[282]他，指布莱泽斯・博伊兰。

[283]托马斯・迪恩爵士(1792－1871)，爱尔兰建筑家，曾设计过三一学院博物馆(1857)和科克市以及其他城市的重要建筑物。