Excerpt: 'Ulysses' by James Joyce


From Chapter 7, Aeolus:


Before Nelson’s pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley started for
Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston
park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount, Green Rathmines, Ringsend, and
Sandymount Tower, Harold’s Cross. The hoarse Dublin United Tramway
Company’s timekeeper bawled them off :
— Rathgar and Terenure!
— Come on, Sandymount Green!
Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck
moved from their railheads, swerved to the down line, glided parallel.
— Start, Palmerston park!


Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks called and
polished. Parked in North Prince’s street His Majesty’s vermilion mailcars,
bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks
of letters, postcards, lettecards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, provincial,
British and overseas delivery.


Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince’s stores
and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped
dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince’s stores.
— There it is Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes.

— Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I’ll take it round to the
Telegraph office.
The door of Ruttledge’s office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in
a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll
of papers under his cape, a king’s courier.
Red Murray’s long shears sliced out the advertisement from the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.
— I’ll go through the printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square.
— Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind
his ear, we can do him one.
— Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I’ll rub that in.


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom’s arm with the shears and whispered :
— Brayden.
Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately figure entered between the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and
National Press and the Freeman’s Journal and National Press. Dullthudding
Guinness’s barrels. It passed stately up the staircase steered by an umbrella,
a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step : back. All
his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh
behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.
— Don’t you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.
The door of Ruttledge’s office whispered : ee : cree. They always build
one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.
Our Saviour : beardframed oval face : talking in the dusk Mary, Martha.
Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights : Mario the tenor.
— Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.
— Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our
Jesus Mario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his
heart. In Martha.
Co-ome thou lost one,
Co-ome thou dear one


— His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.
A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and
stepped off posthaste with a word.
— Freeman!
Mr Bloom said slowly :
— Well, he is one of our saviours also.
A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed
in through the sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the
now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? Thumping,
He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn
packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards
Nannetti’s reading closet.


Hynes here too : account of the funeral probably. Thumping thump.
This morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash
a man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His machineries
are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand : fermenting. Working away,
tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in.


Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman’s spare body, admiring a glossy
Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland my country. Member for
College green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for all it was worth. It’s the
ads and side features sell a weekly not the stale news in the official gazette.
Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in the year one thousand and.
Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis, barony of Tinnachinch. To all

whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute showing return of number
of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Nature notes. Cartoons. Phil
Blake’s weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle Toby’s page for tiny tots. Country
bumpkin’s queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for flatulence? I’d
like that part. Learn a lot teaching others. The personal note M. A. P. Mainly
all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand. World’s biggest balloon. Double
marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms laughing heartily at each other.
Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the Irish.
The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now
if he got paralysed there and no one knew how to stop them they’d clank on
and on the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the
whole thing. Want a cool head.
— Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.
Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him they say.
The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet
and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the dirty glass
— Right : thanks, Hynes said moving off.
Mr Bloom stood in his way.
— If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing
backward with his thumb.
— Did you? Hynes asked.
— Mm, Mr Bloom said. Look sharp and you’ll catch him.
— Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I’ll tap him too.
He hurried on eagerly towards the Freeman’s Journal.
Three bob I lent him in Meagher’s. Three weeks. Third hint.


Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti’s desk.
— Excuse me, councillor, he said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember.
Mr Nannetti considered the cutting a while and nodded.
— He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said.
He doesn’t hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
The foreman moved his pencil towards it.
— But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He
wants two keys at the top.

Hell of a racket they make. Maybe he understands what I.
The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began
to scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket.
— Like that, Mr Bloom said, crossing his forefingers at the top.
Let him take that in first.
Mr Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the
foreman’s sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient
reels feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of it unreeled.
What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels : various uses, thousand
and one things.
Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew swiftly
on the scarred woodwork.


— Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.
Better not teach him his own business.
— You know yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the
top in leaded : the house of keys. You see? Do you think that’s a good idea?
The foreman moved his scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched
there quietly.
— The idea, Mr Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor,
the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the
isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?
I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce that voglio. But
then if he didn’t know only make it awkward for him. Better not.
— We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design?
— I can get it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house
there too. I’ll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little
par calling attention. You know the usual. High class licensed premises.
Longfelt want. So on.
The foreman thought for an instant.
— We can do that, he said. Let him give us a three months’ renewal.
A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage. He began to check it silently.
Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of cranks, watching the silent
typesetters at their cases.

Want to be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot
to give us his spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the
unpar one ar alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment of a harassed
pedlar while gauging au the symmetry of a peeled pear under a cemetery
wall. Silly, isn’t it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry.
I could have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to
have said something about an old hat or something. No, I could have said.
Looks as good as new now. See his phiz then.
Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine jogged forwards its flyboard
with sllt the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost human the way it
sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak. That door too sllt creaking,
asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt.


The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying :
— Wait. Where’s the archbishop’s letter? It’s to be repeated in the Tele-
graph. Where’s what’s his name?
He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
— Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
— Ay. Where’s Monks?
— Monks!
Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.
— Then I’ll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you’ll give it a
good place I know.
— Monks!
— Yes, sir.
Three months’ renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow. Rub in August : good idea : horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists
over for the show.

He walked on through the caseroom, passing an old man, bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have
put through his hands in his time : obituary notices, pubs’ ads, speeches, divorce
suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober serious man
with a bit in the savingsbank I’d say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter
working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.


He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads
it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. man-
giD. kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading backwards with his
finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long
business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house
of bondage alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that’s the other.
Then the twelve brothers, Jacob’s sons. And then the lamb and the cat and
the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher and then the angel of
death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat.
Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but
it’s everybody eating everyone else. That’s what life is after all. How quickly
he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.
Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to
the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him
out perhaps? Better phone him up first. Number? Same as Citron’s house.
Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.


He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over these
walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there
always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom’s next door when I was there.
He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap
I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took
out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned into the hip pocket of his trousers.

What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still : tram :
something I forgot. Just to see before dressing. No. Here. No.
A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening Telegraph office.
Know who that is. What’s up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.
He entered softly.


— The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to
the dusty windowpane.
Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert’s quizzing
face, asked of it sourly :
— Agonising Christ, wouldn’t it give you a heartburn on your arse?
Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on :
— Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way,
fanned by gentlest zephyrs tho’ quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling
waters of Neptune’s blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight
or ’neath the shadows cast o’er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the
giants of the forest. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his
newspaper. How’s that for high?
— Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.
Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating :
— The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys!
— And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again
on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
— That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don’t want
to hear any more of the stuff.
He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and,
hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.
High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Rather
upsets a man’s day a funeral does. He has influence they say. Old Chatterton,
the vice-chancellor, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they
say. Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. Living to spite
them. Might go first himself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right
honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky
cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.
— Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.

— What is it? Mr Bloom asked.
— A recently discovered fragment of Cicero’s, professor Mac Hugh
answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land.


— Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.
— Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With
an accent on the whose.
— Dan Dawson’s land, Mr Dedalus said.
— Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.
Ned Lambert nodded.
— But listen to this, he said.
The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was
pushed in.
— Excuse me, J.J. O’Molloy said, entering.
Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.
— I beg yours, he said.
— Good day, Jack.
— Come in. Come in.
— Good day.
— How are you, Dedalus?
— Well. And yourself?
J.J. O’Molloy shook his head.


Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline poor chap. That
hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What’s in the
wind, I wonder. Money worry.
— Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.
— You’re looking extra.
— Is the editor to be seen? J.J. O’Molloy asked, looking towards the
inner door.
— Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He’s
in his sanctum with Lenehan.

J.J. O’Molloy strolled Jo the sloping desk and began to turn back the
pink pages of the file.
Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts
of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T.
Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like the
statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the Express with
Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent.
Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a
new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn’t know
which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another
baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hailfellow well met the
next moment.
— Ah, listen to this for God’ sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we
but climb the serried mountain peaks…
— Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag!
— Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls,
as it were…
— Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he
taking anything for it?
— As ’twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland’s portfolio, unmatched, despite
their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions for very beauty, of bosky
grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the
transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight…


— The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
— That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the
moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence.
— O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan, shite and
onions! That’ll do, Ned. Life is too short.
He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache,
welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.
Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An
instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh’s unshaven
blackspectacled face.
— Doughy Daw! he cried.

All very fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake
that stuff. He was in the bakery line too wasn’t he? Why they call him Doughy
Daw. Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in
the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments
open house. Big blow out. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by
the stomach.
The inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by
a comb of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them
and the harsh voice asked :
— What is it?
— And here comes the sham squire himself, professor MacHugh said
— Getououthat, you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in recognition.
— Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink
after that.
— Drink! the editor cried. No drinks served before mass.
— Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor’s blue eyes roved
towards Mr Bloom’s face, shadowed by a smile.
— Will you join us, Myles? Ned Lambert asked.


— North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We
won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
— Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance
at his toecaps.
— In Ohio! the editor shouted.
— So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
Passing out, he whispered to J.J. O’Molloy :
— Incipient jigs. Sad case.
— Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet face.
My Ohio!
— A Perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.

He took a reel of dental floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off
a piece, twanged it smartly between two and two of his resonant unwashed
— Bingbang, bangbang.
Mr Bloom, seeing the coast clear, made for the inner door.
— Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he said. I just want to phone about an ad.
He went in.
— What about that leader this evening? professor MacHugh asked,
coming to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
— That’ll be all right, Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you
fret. Hello, Jack. That’s all right.
— Good day, Myles, J.J. O’Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip
limply back on the file. Is that Canada swindle case on today?
The telephone whirred inside.
— Twenty eight… No, twenty… Double four… Yes.


Lenehan came out of the inner office with Sport’s tissues.
— Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O.
Madden up.
He tossed the tissues on to the table.
Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was
flung open.
— Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops.
Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin
by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The
tissues rustled up in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under
the table came to earth.
— It wasn’t me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.
— Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There’s a
hurricane blowing.
Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he
stooped twice.

— Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrell
shoved me, sir.
He pointed to two faces peering in round the doorframe.
— Him, sir.
— Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said gruffly.
He hustled the boy out and banged the door to.
J.J. O’Molloy turned the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking :
— Continued on page six, column four.
— Yes… Evening Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner
office. Is the boss…? Yes, Telegraph… To where?… Aha! Which auction
rooms?… Aha! I see… Right. I’ll catch him.


The bell whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped
against Lenehan who was struggling up with the second tissue.
— Pardon, monsieur, Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and
making a grimace.
— My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I’m in
a hurry.
— Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee.
— The accumulation of the anno Domini.
— Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O’Molloy slapped
the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed
in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps :

We are the boys of Wexford
Who fought with heart and hand.


— I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr Bloom said, about this
ad of Keyes’s. Want to fix it up. They tell me he’s round there in Dillon’s.
He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The editor who,

leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand suddenly
stretched forth an arm amply.
— Begone! he said. The world is before you.
— Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out.
J.J. O’Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan’s hand and read them,
blowing them apart gently, without comment.
— He’ll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through his
blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him.
— Show! Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window.


Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in
Mr Bloom’s wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a
tail of white bowknots.
— Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan
said, and you’ll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk.
Small nines. Steal upon larks.
He began to mazurka in swift caricature across the floor on sliding feet past
the fireplace to J.J. O’Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands.
— What’s that? Myles Crawford said with a start. Where are the other
two gone?
— Who? the professor said, turning. They’re gone round to the Oval for
a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
— Come on then, Myles Crawford said. Where’s my hat?
He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket,
jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the air and against
the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
— He’s pretty well on, professor MacHugh said in a low voice.
— Seems to be, J.J. O’Molloy said, taking out a cigarette case in
murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it seems. Who has the most


He offered a cigarette to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan
promptly struck a match for them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J.J. O’Molloy
opened his case again and offered it.

— Thanky vous, Lenehan said, helping himself.
The editor came from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He
declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh :

’Twas rank and fame that tempted thee,
’Twas empire charmed thy heart.

The professor grinned, locking his long lips.
— Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said.
He took a cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with
quick grace, said :
— Silence for my brandnew riddle!
— Imperium romanum, J.J. O’Molloy said gently. It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one somehow of fat in the fire.
Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently towards the ceiling.
— That’s it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire.
We haven’t got the chance of a snowball in hell.


— Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We
mustn’t be led away by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative.
He extended elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs, pausing :
— What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow : but vile. Cloacae : sewers.
The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop said : It is meet to be
here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. The Roman, like the Englishman who
follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot
(on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession. He gazed about him
in his toga and he said : Is it meet to be here. Let us construct a watercloset.
— Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan said, Our old ancient
ancestors, as we read in the first chapter of Guinness’s, were partial to the
running stream.
— They were nature’s gentlemen, J.J. O’Molloy murmured. But we
have also Roman law.
— And Pontius Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.

— Do you know that story about chief Baron Palles? J.J. O’Molloy asked.
It was at the royal university dinner. Everything was going swimmingly…
— First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready?
Mr O’Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in
from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.
— Entrez, mes enfants! Lenehan cried.
— I escort a suppliant, M. O’Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led
by Experience visits Notoriety.
— How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in. Your
governor is just gone.


Lenehan said to all :
— Silence! What opera resembles a railway line? Reflect, ponder,
excogitate, reply.
Stephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the title and signature.
— Who? the editor asked.
Bit torn off.
— Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said :
— That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was he short taken?

On swift sail flaming
From storm and south
He comes, pale vampire,
Mouth to my mouth.

— Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to peer over their
shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned…?
Bullockbefriending bard.


— Good day, sir, Stephen answered, blushing. The letter is not mine.
Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to…
— O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and knew his wife too. The
bloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth

disease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in the waiter’s face in
the Star and Garter. Oho!
A woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the runaway wife of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O’Rourke, prince of Breffni.
— Is he a widower? Stephen asked.
— Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the
typescript. Emperor’s horses. Habsburg. An Irishman saved his life on the
ramparts of Vienna. Don’t you forget! Maximilian Karl O’Donnell, graf von
Tirconnel in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the king an Austrian
fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there one day. Wild geese. O yes,
every time. Don’t you forget that!
— The moot point is did he forget it, J.J. O’Molloy said quietly, turning
a horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is a thank you job.
Professor MacHugh turned on him.
— And if not? he said.
— I’ll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. A Hungarian it was
one day…


— We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us
is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to
the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the
tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim : time is money.
Material domination. Dominus! Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus!
Lord Salisbury. A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek!


A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.
— The Greek! he said again. Kyrios! Shining word! The vowels the
Semite and the Saxon know not. Kyrie! The radiance of the intellect. I ought
to profess Greek, the language of the mind. Kyrie eleison! The closetmaker
and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects of
the catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire

of the spirit, not an imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at
Ægospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made
a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause.
He strode away from them towards the window.
— They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said greyly, but they
always fell.
— Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received
in the latter half of the matinée. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
He whispered then near Stephen’s ear :


— There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double
To wear them why trouble?
I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?

In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket.
— That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after. That’ll be all right.
Lenehan extended his hands in protest.
— But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railway line?
— Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan announced gladly :
— The Rose of Castille. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee!
He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O’Madden Burke
fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
— Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.
The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen’s
and Mr O’Madden Burke’s loose ties.
— Paris, past and present, he said. You look like communards.
— Like fellows who had blown up the Bastille, J.J. O’Molloy said in
quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between
you? You look as though you had done the deed. General Bobrikoff.




— We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
— All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics…
— The turf, Lenehan put in.
— Literature, the press.
— If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of advertisement.
— And Madam Bloom, Mr O’Madden Burke added. The vocal muse.
Dublin’s prime favourite.
Lenehan gave a loud cough.
— Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a
coldin the park. The gate was open.


The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen’s shoulder.
— I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a
bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. In the lexicon of youth…
See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.
— Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great
nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the public! Give
them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its soul. Father,
Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M’ Carthy.
— We can all supply metanl pabulum, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.
— He wants you for the pressgang, J.J. O’Molloy said.


— You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in emphasis.
Wait a minute. We’ll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to say when
he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence. Gallaher,
that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he made his
mark? I’ll tell you. That was the smartest piece of journalism ever known.
That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder in the
Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I’ll show you.
He pushed past them to the files.

— Look at here, he said, turning. The New York World cabled for a special.
Remember that time?
Professor MacHugh nodded.
— New York World, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat,
Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean, Joe Brady and the rest
of them. Where Skin-the-goat drove the car. Whole route, see?
— Skin-the-goat, Mr O’Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that
cabman’s shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You
know Holohan?
— Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.
— And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones
for the corporation. A night watchman.
Stephen turned in surprise.
— Gumley? he said. You don’t say so? A friend of my father’s, is he?
— Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind
the stones, see they don’t run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher
do? I’ll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you Weekly
Freeman of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?
He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point.
— Take page four, advertisement for Bransome’s coffee let us say. Have
you got that? Right.
The telephone whirred.


— I’ll answer it, the professor said going.
— B is parkgate. Good.
His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.
— T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon
The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock’s wattles. An illstarched dicky
jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his waistcoat.
— Hello? Evening Telegraph here… Hello?… Who’s there?… Yes… Yes…
— F to P is the route Skin-the-goat drove the car for an alibi. Inchicore,
Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F. A. B. P. Got that?
X is Davy’s publichouse in upper Leeson street.

The professor came to the inner door.
— Bloom is at the telephone, he said.
— Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Burke’s public
house, see?


— Clever, Lenehan said. Very.
— Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, the whole bloody
Nightmare from which you will never awake.
— I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present, Dick Adams, the
besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and myself.
Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing :
— Madam, I’m Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.
— History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince’s street
was there first. Thee was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of an
advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg up.
Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the Star. Now he’s
got in with Blumenfeld. That’s press. That’s talent. Pyatt! He was all their
— The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the brother-
in-law of Chris Callinan.
— Hello?… Are you there?… Yes, he’s here still. Come across yourself.
— Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried.
He flung the pages down.
— Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O’Madden Burke.
— Very smart, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.
— Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers
were up before the recorder…
— O yes, J.J. O’Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home
through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that cyclone
last year and thought she’d buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a
commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-goat. Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!
— They’re only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said.

Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those
fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O’Hagan? Eh? Ah,
bloody nonsense! Only in the halfpenny place!
His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.
Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why
did you write it then?


Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth?
Must be some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes : two men dressed the
same, looking the same, two by two.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .la tua pace
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .che parlar ti piace
. . . .mentreche il vento, come fa, si tace.

He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in
russet, entwining, per l’aer perso in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma,
in gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fè più ardenti. But I old men, penitent,
leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night : mouth south : tomb womb.
— Speak up for yourself, Mr O’Madden Burke said.


J.J. O’Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.
— My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false
construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for the third
profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with you.
Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund
Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth
of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery gutter sheet
not to mention Paddy Kelly’s Budget, Pue’s Occurrences and our watchful friend
The Skibereen Eagle. Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like
Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.

— Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who
have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!
— Well, J.J. O’Molloy said, Bushe K. C., for example.
— Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes. Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it
in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.
— He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only
for… But no matter.
J.J. O’Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly :
— One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life
fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs
murder case. Bushe defended him.
And in the porches of mine ear did pour.
By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other
story, beast with two backs?
— What was that? the professor asked.


— He spoke on the law of evidence, J.J. O’Molloy said, of Roman
justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he cited
the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican.
— Ha.
— A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!
Pause. J.J. O’Mollooy too kout his cigarette case.
False lull. Something quite ordinary.
Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.
I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it
was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined
the whole aftercourse of both our lives.


J.J. O’Molloy resumed, moulding his words :
— He said of it : that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and terrible, of
the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and prophecy which if aught

that the imagination or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured
and of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live.
His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
— Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
— The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
— You like it? J.J. O’Molloy asked Stephen.
Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case. J.J. O’Molloy offered his case to Myles
Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his trophy, saying :
— Muchibus thankibus.


— Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J.J. O’Molloy
said to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal
hush poets : A. E. the master mystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She
was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer
that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about
planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have been pulling A. E.’s
leg. He is a man of the very highest morale, Magennis.
Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he
say about me? Don’t ask.
— No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarette case aside.
Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I ever
heard was a speech made by John F. Taylor at the college historical society.
Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and
the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days), advocating the
revival of the Irish tongue.
He turned towards Myles Crawford and said :
— You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his
— He is sitting withim T Healy, J.J. O’Molloy said, rumour has it,
on the Trinity college estates commission.
— He is sitting with a sweet thing in a child’s frock, Myles Crawford said.
Go on. Well?
— It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator,
full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction, I will not say

the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man’s contumely upon the new
movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore worthless.
He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an
outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger
touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus.


In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O’Molloy :
— Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sick bed. That he had
prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter
in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. He wore
a loose neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was not) a dying man.
His gaze turned at once but slowly from J.J. O’Molloy’s towards Stephen’s
face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar
appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair. Still seeking, he said :
— When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended John F. Taylor rose to reply.
Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.
He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more.
Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.
He began :
— Mr chairman, ladies and gentlemen : Great was my admiration in listening
to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by my learned friend.
It senned to me that I had been transported into a country far away from this country,
into an age remote from this age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was
listening to the speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses.
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smoke ascending in
frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble
words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it yourself?
— And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest
raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his words and their meaning
was revealed to me.


It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted
which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good, could
be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.

— Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our language? You
are a tribe of nomad herdsmen; we are a mighty people. You have no cities nor no
wealth : our cities are hives of humanity and our galleys, tireme and quadrireme, laden
with all manner merchandise furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged
from primitive conditions : we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history
and a polity.
Child, man, effigy.
By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes : a man supple
in combat : stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
— You pray to a local and obscure idol : our temples, majestic and mysterious,
are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours serfdom, awe and
humbleness : ours thunder and the seas. Israel is weak and few are her children :
Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called :
the world trembles at our name.
A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it
boldly :
— But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and accepted
that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and bowed his spirit before
that arrogant admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their
house of bondage nor followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have
spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai’s mountaintop nor ever have come
down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms
the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw.
He ceased and looked at them, enjoying silence.


J.J. O’Molloy said not without regret :
— And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
— A-sudden-at-the-moment-though-from-lingering-illness-often-
previously-expectorated-demise, Lenehan said. And with a great future behind him.
The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering
up the staircase.
— That is oratory, the professor said, uncontradicted.
Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings.

Miles of ears of porches. The tribune’s words howled and scattered to
the four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic
records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him : me no
I have money.
— Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper
may I suggest that the house do now adjourn?
— You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment?
Mr O’Madden Burke asked. ’Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug,
metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.
— That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All who are in favour say
ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To which
particular boosing shed…? My casting vote is : Mooney’s!
He led the way, admonishing :
— We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes,
we will not. By no manner of means.
Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally’s lunge of his
umbrella :
— Lay on, Macduff!
— Chip of the old block! the editor cried, slapping Stephen on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?
He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the crushed typesheets.
— Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll go in. Where
are they? That’s all night.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.


J.J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen :
— I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
— Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn’t it? It has
the prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this
world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling :
— Racing special!

Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
— I have a vision too, Stephen said.
— Yes, the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran :
— Racing special!


— Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty
and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.
— Where is that? the professor asked.
— Off Blackpitts.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistening
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
— They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson’s pillar.
They save up three and in tenpence a red tin letterbox moneybox. They shake
out the threepenny bits and a sixpence and coax out the pennies with the blade
of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. They put on
their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come
on to rain.
— Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.


— They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at
the north city dining rooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,
proprietress… They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl at the
foot of Nelson’s pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They give two
threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up
the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the dark,
panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, praising God and the
Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to
God. They had no idea it was that high.
Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water given her by a lady who got a

bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a
bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
— Antithesis, the professor said, nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What’s keeping our friend?
He turned.
A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scampering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them Myles
Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking with
J.J. O’Molloy.
— Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
He set off again to walk by Stephen’s side.


— Yes, he said. I see them.
Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the offices
of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called :
— Mr Crawford! A moment!
— Telegraph! Racing spécial!
— What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.
A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom’s face :
— Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!


— Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just
now. He’ll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he’ll see. But he
wants a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the Saturday pink. And he
wants it if it’s not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the Kilkenny
People. I can have access to it in the national library. House of keys, don’t
you see? His name is Keyes. It’s a play on the name. But he practically
promised he’d give the renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I
tell him, Mr Crawford?

K. M. A.

— Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said, throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.

A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.
Lenehan’s yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that
young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him today.
Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck
somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
— Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I suppose
it’s worth a short par. He’d give the ad I think. I’ll tell him…

K. M. R. I. A.

— He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his
shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.
While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode
on jerkily.


— Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I’m up to
here. I’ve been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back a
bill for me no later than last week. You must take the will for the deed.
Sorry, Jack. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow.
J. J. O’Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up
on the others and walked abreast.
— When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty
fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in, they go nearer to the railings.
— Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two
old Dublin women on the top of Nelson’s pillar.


— That’s new, Myles Crawford said. That’s copy. Out for the waxies’
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?
— But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see the
roofs and argue about where the different churches are : Rathmines’blue dome,
Adam and Eve’s, saint Laurence O’Toole’s. But it makes them giddy to look
so they pull up their skirts…

— Easy all, Myles Crawford said, no poetic licence. We’re in the archdio-
cese here.
— And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue
of the onehandled adulterer.
— Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the idea.
I see what you mean.


— It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between
them and eat the plums out of it one after another, wiping off with their
handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting the
plumstones slowly out between the railings.
He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O’Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney’s.
— Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.


— You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of Gorgias,
the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against
others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a bondwoman. And
he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen
and handed it to poor Penelope.
Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They made ready to cross O’Connell street.


At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys
stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Kingstown,

Blackrock and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount tower
Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, becalmed in
short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams,
aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled,
horsedrawn, rapidly.


— But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get
the plums?


— Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect.
Call it, let me see. Call it : deus nobis hæc otia fecit.
— No, Stephen said, I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or The Parable
of the Plums.
— I see, the professor said.
He laughed richly.
— I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O’Molloy.


J. J. O’Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance towards the statue and held
his peace.
— I see, the professor said.
He halted on sir John Gray’s pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile.


— Onehandled adulterer, he said grimly. That tickles me I must say.
— Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty’s
truth was known.

Excerpted from Ulysses, by James Joyce, 1922