PINEAPPLE ROCK, LEMON PLATT, BUTTER SCOTCH². A SUGARSTICKY GIRL shovelling³ scoopfuls of creams for a christian⁴ brother. Some school treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty⁶ the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne, sucking red jujubes white.
A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful⁷ among the warm sweet fumes⁸ 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, martyr¹¹, 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 heartily¹³ 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 luminous¹⁴ crucifix? Our Saviour¹⁵. 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 raisins¹⁶. 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 confession¹⁷, 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 larders¹⁸. I'd like to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation¹⁹ for fear he'd collapse²⁰ on the altar. A housekeeper²¹ 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 reverence²². 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 plumed²³ up from the parapet. Brewery²⁵ barge²⁶ with export stout²⁷. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats²⁸ 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 christians²⁹. Imagine drinking that! Rats: vats. Well of course if we knew all the things.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quay³⁰ walls, gulls³². 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 droll³⁴ 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 crumpled³⁵ paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells³⁷, floated under by the bridge piers³⁸. 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.

The hungry famished³⁹ gull³¹
Flaps o'er the waters dull.
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.
Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
Doomed⁴⁰ for a certain time to walk the earth.
-- Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
His gaze passed over the glazed⁴¹ apples serried⁴² 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 brittle⁴³ paste and threw its fragments down into the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped⁴⁴ silently two, then all, from their heights, pouncing⁴⁵ on prey⁴⁶. Gone. Every morsel⁴⁷.

Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb⁴⁹ from his hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fishy⁵⁰ flesh they have to, all sea birds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen⁵¹ themselves. No accounting⁵² 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 cram⁵³ a turkey, say, on chestnut⁵⁴ 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 quack⁵⁵ doctor for the clap used to be stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly⁵⁶ confidential⁵⁷. 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. Par²⁴ 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 witty⁵⁹. Can be rude too. Blurt⁶⁰ 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 baron⁶¹ of beef. Powerful man he was at storing away number one Bass⁶². Barrel of Bass. See? it all works out.

A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the gutter⁶⁴, scarlet⁶⁵ 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 chunk⁶⁶ of bread from under his foreboard, crammed⁶⁷ it into his mouth and munched⁶⁸ as he walked. Our staple⁶⁹ food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters⁷⁰, 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 transparent⁷¹ show cart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blotting⁷² 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 obituaries⁷³, 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 Dame⁷⁴ 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 nun⁷⁵ 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 plodded⁷⁶ 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 sprained⁷⁷ my ankle first day she wore choir⁷⁸ 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 hips⁸⁰. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit pie we had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug⁸¹ little room that was with the red wallpaper, Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy⁸³ smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype⁸⁴ atelier he told me of. Hereditary⁸⁵ taste.

He walked along the curbstone.

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting⁸⁶ 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 tenor⁸⁷, just coming out then. Seeing her home after practice. Conceited⁸⁸ 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 lodge⁸⁹ meeting on about those lottery⁹⁰ tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supper room or oakroom of the mansion⁹¹ 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. Positively⁹² last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard⁹³ collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust⁹⁴? Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered⁹⁵ 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 hearth⁹⁶ unclamping the busk of her stays. White.

Swish and soft flop⁹⁷ 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 hairpins⁹⁸. 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 gaily⁹⁹, 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 tickled¹⁰⁰ the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry¹⁰¹, 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 gnaw¹⁰² 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. Rummaging¹⁰³. 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 rummage¹⁰⁴. Her eyes fixed¹⁰⁵ 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 ace⁹ 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 bleaching¹⁰⁷. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy¹⁰⁸ 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. Pungent¹⁰⁹ mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes¹¹⁰ of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart¹¹¹ with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades¹¹². 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 compassion¹¹³. 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 dangled¹¹⁵ 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 dodge¹¹⁶ through passers towards the shop-fronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled¹¹⁷ out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs¹¹⁸. 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 jaw¹¹⁹ wagging as he spoke¹²⁰ earnestly.

Meshuggah. Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling¹²¹ 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 lark¹²² in the Scotch house, I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster¹²³ 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 wading¹²⁴ 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 eminent¹²⁷ poet A. E. (Mr Geo Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy¹²⁸ tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc cuisine¹²⁹, 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 dividend¹³⁰. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca'canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady¹³¹ news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement¹³² and rode out with the Ward¹⁰ 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 mare¹⁰⁶ 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 ranger¹³⁴ 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 tingled¹³⁵ 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 soda¹³⁶ 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. Hardy¹³⁷ annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest¹³⁸ 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. Luncheon¹³⁹ interval¹⁴⁰ 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 groaning¹⁴¹ on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly³³ swollen¹⁴² out! Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt¹ 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 pensive¹⁴³ bosom¹⁴⁴ of the silver effulgence¹⁴⁵. 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 tiresome¹⁴⁶ 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 bellies¹⁴⁷ 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 pumpkin¹⁴⁸. 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 gratitude¹⁴⁹ in people. Humane¹⁵⁰ 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 squad¹⁵¹ of constables¹⁵² 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 scattered¹⁵³, saluting¹⁵⁴ 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 cavalry¹⁵⁵. 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 tunic¹⁵⁶. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack¹⁵⁷ 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 hoofs¹⁵⁸ clattering¹⁵⁹ 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 skull¹¹⁴ 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 cubs¹⁶⁰ yelling their guts¹⁶¹ out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates¹⁶² 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 twig¹²⁵ 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 fascination¹⁶³: 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 spinach¹⁶⁴. 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 inveigling¹⁶⁵ them to your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme seasoning¹⁶⁶ under the apron¹⁶⁷ for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts¹⁶⁸. 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 thoroughly¹⁶⁹ 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: squads¹⁷⁰ 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 tugged¹⁷¹ 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, bawling¹⁷² 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 rubble¹⁷³, sprawling¹⁷⁴ 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. Vitality¹⁷⁵. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

Provost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon¹⁷⁶: tinned salmon. Well tinned in there. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors¹⁷⁷ a vacuum.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silver ware⁴⁸ 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, puffed¹⁷⁸, 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 pawns¹⁷⁹. 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 octopus¹⁸⁰, 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 tentacles¹⁸¹...

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 forth¹⁸². 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 vegetarian¹⁸³. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity¹⁸⁴. They say it's healthier. Wind and watery¹⁸⁵ 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 detest¹⁸⁶ 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 poetical¹⁸⁷. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew¹⁸⁸ 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.

The dreamy cloudy gull
Waves o'er the waters dull.
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 junction¹⁸⁹. 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 rims¹⁹⁰ 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, standing¹⁹¹ between the awnings¹⁹², 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 blotted¹⁹³ 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 descended¹⁹⁴ 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 Harp¹⁹⁵ theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth⁵ of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet¹⁹⁶. 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: guffaw¹⁹⁷ 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 lured¹⁹⁸ his senses. Muslin prints, silk, dames¹⁹⁹ and dowagers, jingle²⁰⁰ 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 plumb²⁰¹.

He passed, dallying²⁰², the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades²⁰³ of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted²⁰⁴ urn¹² poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous²⁰⁵ 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 lotion²⁰⁶. 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 brass²⁰⁷ rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

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

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling²⁰⁸ harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silk webs, silver, rich fruits, spicy²⁰⁹ 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 assailed²¹¹. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved²¹² 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, tangled²¹³ pressed grass, in trickling²¹⁴ hallways of tenements²¹⁵, 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. Stink²¹⁶ 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, swilling²¹⁷, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging²¹⁸, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid²¹⁹ 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 shovelled²²⁰ gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill²²¹. 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 gorge²²² rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek⁵⁸ of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment²²³.

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork, to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm²²⁴, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that. Scoffing²²⁵ up stewgravy with sopping²²⁶ sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! Get out of this.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening²²⁷ the wings of his nose.

-- Two stouts²²⁸ here.

-- One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming²²⁹ 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 allusion²³⁰ is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy²³¹ 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 helping²³² 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 Bunk²³³ 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 mashed²³⁵ here.

-- Pint²³⁶ of stout.

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp²³⁷. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.

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

Suppose that communal²³⁸ kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting²³⁹ down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour²⁴⁰ 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' dwellings²⁴¹, 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 batch²⁴³ 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 Phoenix²⁴⁴ Park. Harpooning²⁴⁵ flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'h?te she called it. Soup, joint²⁴⁶ and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids²⁴⁷ 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 stinks²⁴⁸ Italian organgrinders crisp of onions, mushrooms truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl²⁴⁹. Wretched brutes²⁵⁰ there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls²⁵¹ open. Moo. Poor trembling calves²⁵². Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak²⁵³. Butchers' buckets wobble lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody²⁵⁴ bones. Flayed²⁵⁵ 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. Insidious²⁵⁶. 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.

Sardines²⁵⁷ on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered²⁵⁸ and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary²⁵⁹ notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary²⁶⁰ 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 abode²⁶¹ of bliss²⁶². Lord knows what concoction²⁶³. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced²⁶⁴ up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene²⁶⁵ that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion²⁶⁶. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter²⁶⁷ of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards⁶³ full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty²⁶⁸ 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 crab²⁶⁹.

-- Wife well?

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

-- Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped²⁷⁰ 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 bilious²⁷¹ clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

His midriff yearned²⁷² then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly²⁷³.

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. Flea²⁷⁴ 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 replete²⁷⁵. 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 relish²⁷⁷ of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips²⁷⁸ of his wine soothed²⁷⁹ 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. Licensed²⁸⁰ for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises²⁸¹. 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 Cannon²⁸² 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 flutes²⁸³.

-- 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 rumbling²⁸⁴ stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O the big doggy-bowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened²⁸⁵ rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish²⁸⁶ 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 kindled²⁸⁷ his veins²⁸⁸. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins, sardines, gaudy²⁸⁹ lobsters²⁹⁰' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails²⁹¹ 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 risky²⁹² 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. Tempting²⁹⁴ fruit. Ice cones²⁹⁵. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters²⁹⁶? Unsightly like a clot¹³³ of phlegm. Filthy²⁹⁷ 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 tainted²⁹⁸ 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, aristocrats²⁹⁹. 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. Swell³⁶ blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de la crème. They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit³⁰⁰ 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. Combustible³⁰¹ 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 tempt²⁹³ 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 pane³⁰² 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 ointments³⁰⁴ her hand touched me, caressed³⁰⁵: 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 pulp³⁰⁶ her mouth had mumbled³⁰⁷ sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting³⁰⁸. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles³⁰⁹ 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 veining³¹⁰ of the oaken slab³¹¹. 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. Quaffing³¹² nectar at mess with gods, golden dishes, all ambrosial³¹³. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips³¹⁴, bottle of Allsop. Nectar, imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Lovely forms of woman sculped Junonian. Immortal³¹⁵ 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.

Dribbling³¹⁶ 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, manly³¹⁷ 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 canvassing³¹⁸ 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 broach³¹⁹ the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely³²⁰, 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. Plovers³²¹ 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 juggling³²² fingers. He winked³²³.

-- 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 smelt³²⁴ 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 Almighty³²⁵ 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 imbibe³²⁶. 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 scrawled³²⁷ 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 ginger²⁴², 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, sipping³²⁸.

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 snip²⁷⁶.

-- 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 plunge³²⁹ 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 ravenous³³⁰ terrier choked up a sick knuckly³³¹ cud on the cobble stones and lapped it with new zest³³². Surfeit³³³. Returned with thanks having fully²³⁴ digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom coasted warily³³⁴. 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 pestering³³⁵.

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 distilled³³⁶ first? Some chap in the blues³³⁷. Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library now I must.
Bare clean closestools, waiting, in the window of William Miller³³⁸, plumber³³⁹, 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, gastric³⁴⁰ juice coils of intestines³⁴¹ like pipes. But the poor buffer³⁴² would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science.

-- A cenar teco.

What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.

Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited
To come to supper tonight,
The rum the rumdum.
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, gnawing³⁴³ a crusted knuckle³⁴⁴. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts³⁴⁵ 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 pauper³⁴⁶ children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight³⁴⁷. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion³⁴⁸ of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome?

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane³⁴⁹. 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 drawn³⁵⁰ up before Drago's. Where I saw his brilliantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping³⁵¹. Driver in John Long's. Slaking³⁵² 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 condescending³⁵³. 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 drudge³⁵⁴ get his doze⁸². 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 pious³⁵⁵ 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. Tune¹²⁶ pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed³⁵⁶ person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider³⁵⁷. 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 postal³⁵⁸ 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 braces²¹⁰.

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. Holocaust³⁵⁹. 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 wigs³⁰³. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar³⁶⁰. His excellency the lord lieutenant³⁶¹. 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 leech³⁶². 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 swerved³⁶³ 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 steadfastly³⁶⁴ 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 hip⁷⁹ pocket soap lotion have to call tepid³⁶⁵ paper stuck, Ah, soap there! Yes. Gate.

Safe!

菠萝味硬糖果，蜜饯柠檬，黄油糖块。一个被糖弄得黏糊糊的姑娘正在为基督教兄弟会的在俗修士[1]一满杓一满杓地舀着奶油。学校里要举行什么集会吧。让学童享一次口福吧，可是对他们的肠胃并不好。国王陛下御用[2]菱形糖果及糖衣果仁制造厂。上帝拯救我们的……[3]坐在宝座上，把红色的枣味胶糖嘬到发白为止。

一个神色阴郁的基督教青年会[4]的小伙子，站在格雷厄姆·莱蒙的店铺溢出来的温馨、芳香的水蒸气里，留心观察着过往行人，把一张传单塞到布卢姆先生手里。

推心置腹的谈话。

布卢……指的是我吗?不是。

羔羊的血。[5]

他边读边迈着缓慢的步子朝河边走去。你得到拯救了吗?在羔羊的血里洗涤了一切罪愆。上主要求以血做牺牲。分娩，处女膜，殉教，战争，被活埋在房基下者，献身，肾脏的燔祭，德鲁伊特的祭台。[6]。以利亚来了。[7]锡安教会的复兴者约翰·亚历山大·道维博士[8]来了。

来了!来了!!来啦!!!

大家衷心欢迎。

这行当挺划算。去年，托里和亚历山大[9]来了。一夫多妻主义。他的妻子会阻拦的。我是在哪儿见到伯明翰某商行那个夜光十字架的广告来看?我们的救世主。半夜醒来，瞥见他悬挂在墙上。佩珀显灵的手法。[10]把铁钉扎了进去。[11]

那准是用磷做的。比方说，倘若你留下一段鳕鱼，就能看见上面泛起一片蓝糊糊的银光。那天夜里我下楼到厨房的食橱去。那里弥漫着各种气味，一打开橱门就冲过来，可不好闻。她想要吃什么来看?乌拉加葡萄干[12]。她在思念西班牙。那是鲁迪出生以前的事。那种蓝糊糊、发绿的玩艺儿就是磷光。对大脑非常有益。

他从巴特勒这座纪念碑房[13]的拐角处眺望巴切勒步道。迪达勒斯的闺女还呆在狄龙的拍卖行外面呢。准是出售什么旧家具来了。她那双眼睛跟她父亲的一模一样，所以一下子就认得出来。她闲荡着，等候父亲出来。母亲一死，一个家必然就不成其为家了。他有十五个孩子，几乎每年生一个。这就是他们的教义[14]，否则神父就不让那可怜的女人忏悔，更不给她赦罪。生养并繁殖吧[15]。你可曾听到过如此荒唐的想法?连家带产都吃个精光。神父本人反正用不着养家糊口。他们享受丰足的生活[16]。神父的酒窖和食品库。我倒是想看看他们在赎罪日[17]是否严格遵守绝食的规定。十字面包[18]。先吃上一顿饭，再着补一道茶点，免得晕倒在祭坛前。你可以去问问一位神父所雇用的管家婆。绝对打听不出来的。正如从她的主人那里讨不到英镑、先令或便士。他独自过得蛮富裕，从来不请客。对旁人一毛不拔。连家里的水都看得很严。你得自带黄油抹面包。[19]神父大人，闭上你的嘴。

天哪，那个可怜的小妞儿，衣服破破烂烂的。她看上去好像营养也不良。成天是土豆和人造黄油，人造黄油和土豆。[20]当他们感觉到的时候，就已来不及了。布丁好坏，一尝便知。这样，身体会垮的。

当他来到奥康内尔桥头时，一大团烟像羽毛般地从栏杆处袅袅升起。那是啤酒厂的一艘驳船，载有供出口的烈性黑啤酒，正驶向英国。我听说海风会使啤酒变酸的。哪一天我要是能通过汉考克弄到一张参观券就好啦，去看看那家啤酒公司[21]该多么有趣。它本身就是个井然有序的世界。排列着大桶大桶的黑啤酒，一派宏伟景象。老鼠也蹿了进来，把肚皮喝得胀鼓鼓的，大得宛若一条柯利狗[22]，漂在酒面上。啤酒喝得烂醉如泥。一直喝到像个基督徒那样[23]呕吐出来。想想看，让我们喝这玩艺儿!老鼠，大桶。喏，倘若我们晓得这一切，可就……

他朝下面望去，瞥见几只海鸥使劲拍着翅膀，在萧瑟的码头岸壁间兜着圈子。外面正闹着天气。倘若我纵身跳下去，又将会怎样?吕便·杰的儿子想必就曾灌进一肚子那样的污水。多给了一先令八便士[24]。嘻嘻嘻。西蒙·迪达勒斯的话说得就是这样俏皮。他也确实会讲故事。

海鸥兜着圈子，越飞越低，在寻找猎物。等一等。

他把揉成一团的纸[25]朝海鸥群中掷去。以利亚以每秒三十二英尺的速度前来。海鸥们根本不予理睬。受冷落的纸团落在汹涌浪涛的尾波上，沿着桥墩漂向下游。它们才不是什么大笨蛋呢。有一天我从爱琳王号[26]上也扔了块陈旧的点心，海鸥竟在船后五十码的尾流中把它叼住了。它们鼓翼兜着圈子飞翔，就这样凭着智慧生存下来。

海鸥啊饿得发慌，

飞翔在沉滞的水上。

诗人就这样合辙押韵。莎士比亚却不用韵体。他写的是无韵诗。语言流畅，思想宏伟。

哈姆莱特，我是你父亲的灵魂，

注定在地上游行相当一个时期。[27]

“两个苹果一便士!两个一便士!”

他的视线扫过排列在货摊上那些光溜溜的苹果。这个季节嘛，准是从澳大利亚运来的。果皮发亮，想必是用抹布或手绢擦的。

且慢。还有那些可怜的鸟儿哪。

他又停下脚步来，花一便士从卖苹果的老妪手里买了两块班伯里[28]点心，掰开那酥脆的糕饼，一块块地扔进利菲河。瞧见了吗?起初是两只，紧接着所有的海鸥都悄悄地从高处朝猎物猛扑过去，全吃光了。一丁点儿也没剩。他意识到它们的贪婪和诡诈，就将手上沾的点心渣儿掸下去。它们未曾指望会有这样的口福。吗哪[29]。所有的海鸟——海鸥也罢，海鹅也罢，都靠食鱼而生，连肉都带鱼腥味了。安娜·利菲[30]的白天鹅有时顺流而下，游到这里，就用嘴梳理自己的羽毛，炫耀一番。人各有所好。也不晓得天鹅的肉是什么滋味儿。鲁滨孙·克鲁索只得靠它们的肉为生呢。[31]

它们有气无力地拍翅兜着圈子。我再也不去给你们啦。一便士的就蛮够啦。你们本该好好地向我道声谢的，可是连“呱”的一声都没叫。而且它们还传染口蹄疫。倘若净用栗子粉来喂火鸡，肉也会变成栗子味的。吃猪就像猪。然而咸水鱼为什么不咸呢?究竟是怎么回事?

他扫视着河面，想寻求个答案。只见一般划艇停泊在形似糖浆的汹涌浪涛上，懒洋洋地摇晃着它那灰胶纸拍板。

吉诺批发店[32]

11

裤子

那倒是个好主意。也不晓得吉诺向市政府当局交租金不。你怎么可能真正拥有水呢?它不断地流，随时都变动着，我们在流逝的人生中追溯着它的轨迹。因为生命是流动的。任何场所统统适合登广告。每一应公用厕所都有治淋病的庸医的招贴。而今完全看不到了。严加保密。亨利·弗兰克斯大夫[33]。跟舞蹈师傅马金尼[34]的自我广告一样，一分钱也不用花。要么托人去贴，要么趁着深更半夜悄悄跑进去，借解钮扣的当儿，自己把它贴上。麻利得就像夜晚躲债的。这地方再合适不过了。“禁止张贴广告”、“邮寄一百零十粒药丸”。有人服下去，心里火烧火燎的。

倘若他……

哦!

呃?

不……不。

不，不。我不相信。他该不至于吧?

不，不。

布卢姆先生抬起神情困惑的眼睛，向前踱去。不要再想这个了。一点钟过了。港务总局的报时球已经降下来了。邓辛克[35]标准时间。罗伯特·鲍尔爵士[36]的那本小书饶有趣味。视差。我始终也没弄清楚这个词的意思。那儿有个神父，可以去问问他。这词儿是希腊文：平行，视差。我告诉她什么叫作“轮回”之前，她管它叫“遇见了他尖头胶皮管”[37]。哦，别转文啦!

布卢姆先生想起“哦，别转文啦!”这句话，朝着港务总居的两扇窗户泛出微笑。她的话毕竟是对的。用夸张的字眼来表达平凡的事物，只不过是取其音调而已。她讲话并不俏皮，有时候还挺粗鲁。我只是心里想想的话，她却脱口捅了出来。但是倒也不尽然。她常说，本·多拉德有着一副下贱的桶音[38]。他那两条腿款跟桶一样，他仿佛在往桶里唱歌。喏，这话不是说得蛮俏皮吗!他们通常管他叫“大本钟”[39]。远不如称他作“下贱的桶音”来得俏皮。他们饭量大如信天翁。一头牛的脊肉，一顿就吃光。他喝上等巴斯啤酒的本事也不含糊。是只啤酒桶。怎么样?俏皮话说得都很贴切吧。

一排穿白罩褂、胸前背后挂着广告牌的人正沿着明沟慢慢地朝他走来。每个人都在广告牌上斜系着一条猩红的饰带。大甩卖。他们正像今天早晨那位神父一样：我们犯了罪。我们受了苦[40]。他读着分别写在他们那五顶白色高帽上的红字母:H·E·L·Y·’S。威兹德姆。希利商店。[41]帽子上写着Y的男子放慢脚步，从胸前的广告牌下面取出一大块面包塞到嘴里，边走边狼吞虎咽着。我们每天在主食上花三先令，沿着明沟，穿街走巷。靠面包和稀稀的麦片粥，勉强把皮和骨连在一起。他们不是博伊——不，而是默·格拉德[42]的伙计。反正招徕不了多少顾客。我曾向他建议，让两个美女坐在一辆透明的陈列车里写信，并摆上笔记本、信封和吸墨纸。我敢断定，那准会轰动。美女写字，马上就会引人注目。人人都渴望知道她在写什么。要是你站在那里望空发楞，就会有二十个人围上来。谁都想参与别人的事，女人也是如此。好奇心。盐柱[43]。希利不肯接受这个主意，因为这不是他首先想出来的。找还建议做个墨水瓶的广告，用黑色赛璐珞充当流出来的墨水渍。他在广告方面的想法就像在讣告栏底下刊登李树商标肉罐头，冷肉部。你不能小看它们。什么?敝店的信封。——喂，琼斯，你到哪儿去呀?——鲁滨孙，我不能耽误，得赶紧去买唯一靠得住的坎塞尔牌消字灵，戴姆街八十五号希利商店出售的。幸而我不再在那儿干了。去那些修道院收帐可真是件苦差事。特兰奎拉女修道院[44]。那儿有个漂亮的修女，一张脸长得可真俊。小小的头上包着尖头巾，非常合适。修女?修女?从她的眼神来看，我敢说她曾失过恋。跟那种女人是很难讨价还价的。那天早晨她正在祈祷的时候，我打扰了她。但是她好像蛮乐意跟外界接触。她说，这是我们的大日子。迦密山[45]的圣母节。名字也挺甜，像糖蜜[46]。她认识我，从她那副样子也看得出，她认识我。要是她结了婚，就不会这样了。我估计修女们确实缺钱。尽管如此，不论煎什么，她们仍旧用上等黄油。她们可不用猪油。吃大油吃得我直烧心。她们喜欢里里外外抹黄油。摩莉掀起头巾，在品尝黄油。修女?她叫帕特·克拉费伊，是当铺的女儿。人们说，铁蒺藜就是一位尼姑发明的[47]。

当那个帽子上写着带有撇号的S字[48]的人拖着深重的脚步走过去后，他才横穿过韦斯特莫兰街。罗弗自行车铺。今天举行赛车会[49]。那是多久以前的事儿来看?是菲尔·吉利根[50]去世的那一年。我们住在伦巴德西街。且慢，当时我正在汤姆[51]的店铺来着。我们结婚那一年，我在威兹德姆·希利的店里找到了工作。六年。他是十年前——九四年[52]死的。对，就是阿诺特公司着大火的那一年。维尔·狄龙正任市长[53]。格伦克里的午餐会[54]。市参议员罗伯特·奥赖利在比赛开始前，将葡萄酒全倒进汤里。吧唧吧唧替内在的参议员把它舔干净[55]。简直听不清乐队在演奏什么。主啊，所赐万惠，我等……[56]那时候，米莉还是个小娃娃哩。摩莉身穿那件钉着盘花饰扣的灰象皮色衣服。那是男裁缝的手艺，钉了包扣。她不喜欢这身衣服，因为她头一回穿它去参加合唱队在糖锥山[57]举行的野餐会那一天，我把脚脖子扭伤了。就好像该怪它似的。老古德温的大礼帽仿佛是用什么黏糊糊的东西修补过的。那也是给苍蝇开的野餐会哩。她从未穿过剪裁这么得体的衣服。不论肩膀还是臀部，都像戴手套一样，刚好合身。那阵子她的体态开始丰腴了。当天我们吃的是兔肉馅饼。大家都追着她看。

幸福啊。当时我们可比现在幸福。舒适的小房间，四周糊着红色墙纸。是在多克雷尔那家店[58]里买的，每打一先令九便士。给米莉洗澡的那个晚上，我买了一块美国香皂，接骨木花的。澡水散发出馨香的气味。她浑身涂满肥皂，真逗。身材也蛮好。如今她正干着照相这一行。我那可怜的爹告诉我，他曾搞过一间银板照相的暗室[59]。这也是一种祖传的兴趣吧。

他沿着人行道的边石走去。

生命的长河[60]。那个活像是神父的家伙姓什么来着?每逢路过的时候，他总是斜眼望着我们家。视力不佳，女人。曾在圣凯文步道的西特伦[61]家住过一阵子。姓彭什么的。是彭迪尼斯吗?近来我的记性简直。彭……?当然喽，那是多年以前的事啦。也许是电车的噪音闹的。哦，要是连每天见面的排字房老领班姓什么都记不起来的话[62]。

巴特尔·达西[63]是当时开始出名的男高音歌手。排练后，总送她回家。他是个自命不凡的家伙，用发蜡把胡子捻得挺拔。他教会了她《南方刮来的风》这首歌。

风刮得很猛的那个晚上，我去接她。古德温的演奏会刚在市长官邸的餐厅或橡木室里举行完毕。分会正在那里为彩票的事开着碰头会[64]。他和我跟在后面走。我手里拿着她的乐谱，其中一张被刮得贴在高中校舍的栏杆上。幸亏没刮跑。这种事会破坏她整个儿晚上的情绪。古德温教授跟她相互挽着臂走在前面。可怜的老酒鬼摇摇晃晃，脚步蹒跚。这是他的告别演奏会了，肯定是最后一次在任何舞台上露面。也许几个月，也许是永远地[65]。我还记得她冲着风畅笑，竖起挡风雪的领子。记得吧?在哈考特街角上，一阵狂风。呜呜呜!她的裙子整个儿被掀起，她那圆筒形皮毛围巾把老古德温勒得几乎窒息而死。她被风刮得涨红了脸。记得回家后，我把火捅旺，替她煎了几片羊腿肉当晚餐，并浇上她爱吃的酸辣酱。还有加了糖和香料、烫热了的甘蔗酒。从壁炉那儿可以瞥见她在卧室里正解开紧身褡的金属卡子。雪白的。

她的紧身褡嗖的一声轻飘飘地落在床上。总是带着她的体温。她一向喜欢松开一切束缚。她在那儿坐到将近两点钟，一根根地摘下发卡。米莉严严实实地裹在小床里。幸福啊，幸福，就在那个夜晚……

“哦，布卢姆先生，你好吗?”

“哦，你好吗，布林太太[66]?”

“抱怨也是白搭。摩莉近来怎么样?我好久没见着她啦。”

“精神抖擞，”布卢姆先生快活地说，“喏，知道吗，米莉在穆林加尔找到工作啦。”

“离开家啦?可真了不起!”

“可不是嘛，在一家照相馆里干活儿。像火场一样忙得团团转。您府上的孩子们好吗?”

“个个都有一张吃饭的嘴，”布林太太说。

她究竟有多少儿女呢?眼下倒不像是在身怀六甲。

“你戴着孝哪。难道是……?”

“没有，”布卢姆先生说，“我刚刚参加了一场丧礼。”

可以想象，今天一整天都会不断有人问起，谁死啦?什么时候怎么死的?反正躲也躲不掉。

“嗳呀妈呀!”布林太太说，“我希望总不是什么近亲。”

倒也不妨让她表表同情。

“姓迪格纳穆的，”布卢姆先生说，“是我的一位老朋友。他死得十分突然，可怜的人哪。我相信得的是心脏病。葬礼是今天早晨举行的。”

你的葬礼在明天，

当你穿过裸麦田[67]。

嗨唷嗬，咿呀嗨，

嗨唷嗬……

“老朋友死了真令人伤心，”布林太太说，她那女性的眼睛里露出悲怆的神色。

这个话题就说到这儿吧。还是适可而止。轻轻地问候一声她老公吧。

“你先生——当家的好吗?”

布林太太抬起她那双大眼睛。她的眼神倒还没失去往日的光泽。

“哦。可别提他啦!”她说，“他这个人哪，连响尾蛇都会被他吓倒的。眼下他在餐馆里拿着法律书正在查找着诽谤罪的条例哪。我这条命早晚会送在他手里。等一等，我给你看个东西。”

一股热腾腾的仿甲鱼汤蒸气同刚烤好的酥皮果酱馅饼和果酱布丁卷的热气从哈里森饭馆里直往外冒。浓郁的午餐气味刺激着布卢姆先生的胃口。为了做美味的油酥点心，就需要黄油、上等面粉和德梅拉拉沙糖[68]。要么就和滚烫的红茶一道吃。气味或许是这个妇女身上散发出来的吧?一个赤脚的流浪儿站在格子窗跟前，嗅着那一股股香味。借此来缓和一下饥饿的煎熬。这究竟是快乐还是痛苦呢?廉价午餐。刀叉都锁在桌上[69]。

她打开薄皮制成的手提包。帽子上的饰针：对这玩艺儿得当心点儿——在电车里可别戳着什么人的眼睛。乱找一气。敞着口儿。钱币。请自己拿一枚吧。她们要是丢了六便士，那可就麻烦啦。惊天动地。丈夫吵吵嚷嚷：“星期一我给你的十先令哪儿去啦?难道你在养活你弟弟一家人吗?脏手绢。药瓶。刚掉下去的是喉咙片。这个女人要干什么?……

“准是升起了新月，”她说，”一到这时候老毛病就犯啦。你猜他昨儿晚上干什么来着?”

她不再用手翻找了。她惊愕地睁大了一双眼睛盯着他，十分惊愕，可还露着笑意。

“怎么啦?”布卢姆先生问。

让她说吧。直勾勾地盯着她的眼睛。我相信你的话，相信我吧。

“夜里，他把我叫醒啦，”她说，“他做了个梦，一场噩梦。”

消化不良呗。

“他说，黑桃幺[70]走上楼梯来啦。”

“黑桃幺!”布卢姆先生说。

她从手提包里掏出一张折叠起来的明信片。

“念念看，”她说，“他今天早晨接到的。”

“这是什么?”布卢姆先生边接过明信片，边说，“万事休矣。”

“万事休矣：完蛋[71]，”她说，“有人在捉弄他。不论是谁干的，真是太缺德啦。”

“确实是这样，”布卢姆先生说。

她把明信片收回去，叹了口气。

“他这会子就要到门顿先生的事务所去。他说他要起诉，要求赔偿一万镑。”

她把明信片叠好，放回她那凌乱的手提包，啪的一声扣上金属卡口。

两年前她穿的也是这件蓝哔叽衣服，料子已经褪色了。从前它可风光过。耳朵上有一小绺蓬乱的头发。还有那顶式样俗气的无檐女帽上头还缀了三颗古色古香的葡萄珠，这才勉强戴得出去。一位寒酸的淑女。从前她可讲究穿戴啦。如今嘴边已经出现了皱纹。才比摩莉大上一两岁。

那个女人从她身旁走过去的时候，曾用怎样的眼神瞅她!残酷啊。不公正的女性[72]。

他依然盯着她，竭力不把心头的不悦形之于色。仿甲鱼汤、牛尾汤、咖哩鸡肉汤的气味冲鼻。我也饿了。她那衣服的贴边上还沾着点心屑呢，腮帮子上也巴着糖渣子。填满了各色果品馅儿的大黄酥皮饼[73]。那时候她叫乔西·鲍威尔。那是好久以前的事了，在海豚仓的卢克·多伊尔家玩过哑剧字谜[74]。万事休矣，完蛋。

换个话题吧。

“最近你见着博福伊太太了吗?”布卢姆先生问。

“米娜·普里福伊吗?”她说。

我脑子里想的是非利普·博福伊。戏迷俱乐部。马查姆经常想起那一妙举[75]。我拉没拉那链儿呢?[76]拉了，那是最后一个动作。

“是的。”

“我刚才顺路去探望了她一下，看看她是不是已分娩了。眼下她住进了霍利斯街的妇产医院。是霍恩大夫[72]让她住院的。她已足足折腾了三天。”

“哦，”布卢姆先生说，“我听了很难过。”

“可不是嘛，”布林太太说，“家里还有一大帮娃娃哪。护士告诉我，是不常见的难产。”

“哎呀，”布卢姆先生说。

他的目光表露着深切的怜悯，全神贯注地倾听她这个消息，同情地砸着舌头：“啧!啧!”

“我听了很难过，”他说，“怪可怜的!三天啦!够她受的!”

布林太太点了点头。

“从星期二起，阵痛就开始啦……”

布卢姆先生轻轻地碰了一下她的胳膊肘尖儿，提醒她说：

“当心!让这个人过去吧。”

一个瘦骨嶙峋的人从河边沿着人行道的边石大步流星地走了过来，隔着系有沉甸甸的带子的单片眼镜，茫然地凝视着阳光。一顶小帽像头巾一般紧紧地箍在他头上。迈一步，夹在腋下的那件折叠起来的风衣、拐杖和雨伞就晃荡一阵。

“瞧他，”布卢姆先生说，“总是在街灯外侧走路。瞧啊!”

“我可以问一下他是谁吗?”布林太太说，“他是个半疯儿吗?”

“他名叫卡什尔·博伊尔·奥康内尔·菲茨莫里斯·蒂斯代尔·法雷尔[78]，”布卢姆先生笑眯眯地说，“瞧啊!”

“这串儿够长的啦，”她说，“丹尼斯迟早也会变成这个样子。”

她突然闭上了嘴。

“他出来啦，”她说，“我得跟着他走。再见吧。请代我向摩莉问候一声，好吗?”

“好的，”布卢姆先生说。

他望着她一路躲闪着行人，走到店铺前面去。丹尼斯·布林身穿紧巴巴的长礼服，脚登蓝色帆布鞋，腋下紧紧地夹着两部沉甸甸的大书，从哈里森饭馆里抱着脚步走了出来。像往常一样，仿佛是一阵风把他从海湾刮来的似的。他听任她赶上自己，并没有感到意外，一路朝她掀起他那脏巴兮兮的灰胡子，摆动着皮肉松弛的下巴，热切地说着什么。

疯狂[79]。完全疯啦。

布卢姆先生继续轻松愉快地走去。瞥见前面阳光下那顶像头巾一般紧紧地箍在头上的小帽，还有那大摇大摆地晃荡着的拐杖、雨伞和风衣。瞧瞧他!又离开了人行道。这也是在世上鬼混的一种方式。还有另一个披头散发、衣衫槛褛的老疯子，到处闲荡。如果跟这种人一道过日子，必然够呛。

万事休矣，完蛋。那准是阿尔夫·柏根或里奇·古尔丁干的。毫无疑问，是在苏格兰屋[80]开着玩笑写的。他正前往门顿的事务所。一路用那双牡蛎般的眼睛瞪着明信片的那副样子，足以让众神人饱眼福。

他从爱尔兰时报[81]社前走过。那儿兴许还放着其他应征者的回信哩。我倒巴不得统统给答复了。这制度倒是替罪犯大开方便之门：暗码。现在正是吃午饭的时候。那边那个戴眼镜的职员并不认识我。啊，就把他们先撂在那儿，慢慢儿来吧。光是把那四十四封信测览一遍就够费事的了。招聘一名精干的女打字员，协助一位先生从事文字工作。找曾管你叫淘气鬼，因为我不喜欢那另一个世界。请告诉我它的含意。请告诉我，你太太使用哪一种香水[82]。告诉我世界是谁创造的。她们就像这样劈头盖脑地向你提出各种问题。另外一个叫莉齐·特威格[83]，说是，我的文学作品有幸受到著名诗人A·E·(乔·拉塞尔先生)的赞赏。她边呷着浑浊的茶，边翻看一本诗集，连梳理头发的工夫都没有。

这家报纸登小广告赛过任何一家。如今扩大到各郡。聘请厨师兼总管家，一级烹调，并有女仆打下手。征聘性格活泼的酒柜侍者。今有品行端正的女青年(罗马天主教徒)，愿在水果店或猪肉铺觅职。那份报纸是詹姆斯·卡莱尔[84]创办的，百分之六点五的股息。买科茨公司的股票大赚了一笔。一步一步地来。老奸巨滑的苏格兰守财奴。净写一些溜须拍马的报道。我们这位宽厚而深孚众望的总督夫人啦。如今，他连《爱尔兰狞猎报》[85]也给买下来了。蒙卡什尔夫人产后已完全康复，昨日率领医院俱乐部的一批猎犬骑马前往拉思奥斯参加放猎大会[86]。不能食用的狐狸[87]。也有专为果腹而狞猎的。恐怖感能使猎物的肉变得松软多汁。她的骑法就跟男子汉一样，叉开腿跨在马背上。这是一位能够拔山扛鼎的女狞猎家。侧鞍也罢，后鞍也罢，她一概不骑，乔可决不要[88]!集合时她首先赶了来。及至杀死猎物时，她也亲临现场。有些女骑手简直健壮得像母种马一样。她们在马房周围大摇大摆地转悠。一眨眼的工夫就把一杯不兑水的白兰地一饮而尽。今天早晨呆在格罗夫纳饭店前的那个女人嗖的一下就上了马车。嘘——嘘。她敢骑在马上跨过一道石墙或有着五根横木的障碍物[89]。那个瘪鼻子的电车司机想必是故意使的坏。[90]她究竟长得像谁呢?对啦!像是曾经在谢尔本饭店把自己的旧罩衫和黑色衬衣卖给我的那位米莉亚姆·丹德拉德太太[91]。离了婚的西班牙裔美国人。我摆弄它们时，她毫不理会。大概把我看成她的衣服架子了。我是在总督的宴会上遇到她的。公园护林人斯塔布新[92]把我和《快报》[93]的维兰带进去参加了。吃的是那些达官贵人的残羹剩汤。一顿有肉食的茶点。我把蛋黄酱当炸乳蛋羹，浇在李子布丁上了。打那以后，她一定耳鸣了好几个星期。我恨不得当她的公牛。她是个天生的花魁。谢天谢地，看孩子可别找她。

可怜的普里福伊太太!丈夫是个循道公会[94]教徒。他说的虽然是疯话，其中却包含着哲理[95]。中午吃教育奶场[96]所生产的番红花甜面包，喝牛奶和汽水。基督教青年会。边吃边看着记秒表，每分钟嚼三十二下，然而他那上细下圆的羊排状络腮胡子还是长得密密匝匝。据说他的后台挺硬。酉奥多的堂弟在都柏林堡[97]。家家都有个显赫的亲戚。每年他总给她一株茁壮的一年生植物[98]。有一次，我看见他光着头正领着一家人从“三个快乐的醉汉”酒馆前大踏步走边。大儿子还用买东西的网兜提着一个。娃娃们大哭大叫。可怜的女人!她得年复一年，整日整夜地喂奶。这些禁酒主义者是自私自利的。马槽里的狗[99]。劳驾，红茶里我只要一块糖就够了。

他在舰队街的十字路口停下来。该吃午饭的时候了。到罗依[100]吃上一客六便士的份饭吧?还得到国立图书馆去查阅那条广告呢。倒不如到伯顿[101]去吃那八便士一客的，刚好路过那里。

他从博尔顿的韦斯特莫兰店[102]前走边。茶。茶。茶。我忘了向汤姆·克南定购茶叶啦。

咂咂咂，嗞嗞嗞!想想看，她在床上哼了三天，额头上绑着一条泡了醋的手绢，挺着个大肚子。唉!简直太可怕了!胎儿的脑袋大大啦，得用钳子。在她肚子里弯曲着身子，摸索着出口，盲目地试图往外冲。要是我的话，准把命送啦。幸而摩莉十分顺产。他们应该发明点办法来避免这样。生命始于分娩的痛苦。昏睡分娩法。维多利亚女王就使用过这种办法。她生了九胎[103]。一只多产的母鸡。老婆婆以鞋为家，生下一大群娃娃[104]。倘若他患的是肺病呢。现在该是考虑这些的时候了，而别去写什么“忧郁多思的胸脯闪着银白色光辉”[105]这类的空话了。那是哄傻子的空话。他们完全不用伤筋动骨，三下两下就能盖起一座大医院。从各种税收中，按复利借给每一个出生的娃娃五镑。按五分利计算，到了二十一岁就积累成一百零五先令了。英镑挺麻烦的，得用十进法乘二十。要鼓励大家存钱。二十一年内可存上一百一十多先令[106]。想在纸上好好计算一下。数目相当可观哩，比你想像的要多。

死胎当然不算数。连户口都不给上嘛。那是徒劳。

两个大腹便便的孕妇呆在一起，煞是可笑。摩莉和莫依塞尔太太[107]。母亲们的聚会。肺结核暂且收敛，随后又回来了。分娩后，她们的肚皮一下子就扁平了!温和的眼神。卸下了个大包袱的感觉。产婆桑顿老大娘是个快活的人儿[108]。她说:这些都是我的娃娃。喂娃娃之前，她总先把奶面糊糊的肚子放在自己嘴里尝尝。哦，好吃，好吃。替老汤姆·沃尔的儿子接生的时候，她把手扭伤了。那是他头一次亮相。脑袋活像个获奖的老倭瓜。爱生气的穆伦大夫[109]。人们随时都来敲门喊醒他。“求求您啦，大夫。我内人开始阵痛啦。”至于谢礼呢，一连拖欠几个月。那是你老婆的出诊费呀。净是些忘恩负义的家伙。医生大多是好心肠的。

爱尔兰国会大厦[110]那老高老大的门前，一簇鸽子在飞来飞去。它们吃饱了在嬉戏。咱们撒到哪个人身上呢?我挑那个穿黑衣服的家伙。撒了。好运道。从空中往下撒，该是多么过瘾啊。有一回，阿普约翰、我本人和欧文·戈德堡[111]爬上古斯草地附近的树，学猴子玩。他们叫我青花鱼[112]。

一队警察排成纵队，迈着正步从学院路走了过来。一个个吃得脸上发热，汗水顺着钢盔往下淌，轻轻地拍打着警棍。饭后，皮带底下塞满了油汪汪的浓汤。警察的日子通常过得蛮快活[113]。他们分成几股散开来，边敬礼边回到各自的地段上去。放他们出去填饱肚子。最好是在吃布丁的时候去袭击，正进餐的当儿给他一拳头。另一队警察三三两两地分散开来，绕过三一学院的栅栏，走向派出所。饲料槽在等着他们。准备迎接骑兵队。准备迎接浓汤。

他从汤米·穆尔那捣鬼[114]的指头底下横穿过去。他们把他这座铜像竖在一座小便池上，倒是做对了。众水汇合[115]。应该给妇女也修几座厕所。她们总是跑进点心铺，佯说是：“整理一下我的帽子。”世界纵然辽阔，惟数此峡……这是朱莉娅·莫尔坎[116]演唱的拿手歌曲。直到最后的时刻，她的嗓音始终都保持得洪亮如初。她是迈克尔·巴尔夫[117]的女弟子吧?

他目送着最后一名警察那穿着宽宽的制服上衣的背影。干这行当，就得对付一批棘手的主顾。杰克·鲍尔可以告诉你一桩事[118]。他爹就是一名便衣刑警。要是一个家伙在被抓的时候给了他们麻烦，等那人进了拘留所，就狠狠地让他尝尝厉害。干的是那种差事嘛，倒也难怪他们。尤其是年轻警察。乔·张伯伦在三一学院被授予学位的那一天，那个骑警为他可费了大事[119]。这是千真万确!他的马蹄沿着阿贝街一路嘚嘚嘚地朝我们逼来。幸而我灵机一动，一个箭步蹿进曼宁酒吧去，不然我准会惹上麻烦。他真是飞奔而来，想必是栽在人行道的鹅卵石上撞破了脑壳。我悔不该被卷进那批医学院学生当中。还有三一学院那些戴学士帽的一年级学生。反正就是想闹事。不过，这下子我倒结识了小迪克森。我被蜜蜂蜇了的那回，就是他在仁慈圣母医院替我包扎的。如今他在霍利斯街，普里福伊太太就在那儿。轮中套轮。[120]警笛的响声至今还萦回在我耳际。大家仓惶逃走。他为什么单单盯上了我呢?他对我说，你被捕了。事情就是这样开始的。

“支持布尔人[121]!”

“为德威特[122]三欢呼!”

“把乔·张伯伦吊死在酸苹果树上![123]”

蠢才们。成群的野小子们声嘶力竭地喊叫。醋山岗[124]。奶油交易所的乐队[125]。不出几年，其中半数就必然将成为治安法官[126]和公务员。一打起仗来，就手忙脚乱地参军。就是这些人，过去经常说，哪怕上高高的断头台。[127]

你决不知道自己在跟什么人说话。科尼·凯莱赫的眼神活像是哈维·达夫[128]。活像是那个密告“常胜军”计划的彼得——不对，是丹尼斯——不对，是詹姆斯·凯里[129]，其实他是市政府的官员。他煽动莽撞的小伙子去刺探情报，暗地里地却不断从都柏林堡领取情报活动津贴。快别再跟他来往了吧，危险哩。这些穿便衣的家伙怎么老是缠住女佣啊?平素穿惯制服的人，一眼就认得出来。把女佣推得紧紧贴着后门，粗鲁地挑逗一番。接着就干起正事了。来的那位先生是谁呀?少爷说过什么没有?从钥匙孔里偷看的汤姆[130]。做囮子的野鸭。血气方刚的年轻大学生抚摩着正在熨衣服的她那丰腴的胳膊，同她起腻。

“这些是你的吗，玛丽?”

“我才不穿这样的呢，……住手，不然我就向太太告你的状。深更半夜还在外面游荡。”

“好日子快要到来了，玛丽。你等着瞧吧。[131]”

“喏，你同那快要到来的好日子一道给我滚吧。”

还有酒吧间的女招待。纸烟店的姑娘。

詹姆斯·斯蒂芬斯的主意再高明不过了。他了解对方。他们每十个人分作一组，所以一个成员就是告密也超不出本组范围[132]。新芬[133]。要是想开小差，就准会挨一刀。有只看不见的手。[134]留在党内呢，迟早会被刑警队枪杀。看守的闺女帮助他从里奇蒙越狱，乘船离开拉斯科[135]。他曾在警察的鼻子底下住进白金汉宫饭店[136]。加里波第[137]。

你得有点儿个人魅力才行，像巴涅尔那样。阿瑟·格里菲思是个奉公守法的人，然而不孚众望。要么就海阔天空地谈论“我们可爱的祖国”。腊肉烧菠菜[138]。都柏林面包公司的茶馆。那些讨论会[139]。说共和制乃是最好的政治制度，又说什么国语问题应该优先于经济问题。[140]还说你的女儿们可曾把他们勾引到你家来呢?肉啊酒的，让他们填饱肚子。米迦勒节的鹅[141]。为你准备了一大堆调好了味的麝香草，塞在鹅的肚皮里。趁热再吃一夸脱鹅油吧。半饥半饱的宗教狂们。揣上个一便士的面包卷[142]，就跟着乐队走它一遭儿。东道主忙于切肉，顾不得作感恩祷告啦。一想到另一个人会为你付钱，就吃得格外香。毫不客气。请把那些杏子——其实是桃子一一递过来。那个日子不太遥远了。爱尔兰自治的太阳正从西北方冉冉升起。

走着走着，他脸上的笑容消失了。乌云徐徐地遮住太阳，三一学院那阴郁的正面被暗影所笼罩。电车一辆接一辆地往返行驶，叮叮当当响着。说什么也是白搭。日复一日，事物毫无变化。一队警察开出去，又开回来。电车来来往往。那两个疯子到处徘徊。迪格纳穆被车载走了。麦娜·普里福伊挺着大肚皮躺在床上，呻吟着，等着娃娃从她肚子里被拽出来。每秒钟都有一个人在什么地方出生，每秒钟另外又有一个死去。自从我喂了那些鸟儿，已经过了五分钟。三百人翘了辫子，另外又有三百个呱呱落地，洗掉血迹。人人都在羔羊的血泊中被洗涤，[143]妈啊啊啊地叫着。

整整一座城市的人都死去了，又生下另一城人，然后也死去。另外又生了，也死去。房屋，一排排的房屋;街道，多少英里的人行道。堆积起来的砖，石料。易手。主人转换着。人们说，房产主是永远不会死的。此人接到搬出去的通知，另一个便来接替。他们用黄金买下了这个地方，而所有的黄金还都在他们手里。也不知道在哪个环节上诈骗的。日积月累发展成城市，又逐年消耗掉。沙中的金字塔。是啃着面包洋葱[144]盖起来的。奴隶们修筑的中国万里长城。巴比伦。而今只剩下巨石。圆塔。此外就是瓦砾，蔓延的郊区，偷工减料草草建成的屋舍。柯万用微风盖起来的那一应蘑菇般的房子[145]。只够睡上一夜的蔽身处。

大是毫无价值的。

这是一天当中最糟糕的时辰。活力。慵懒，忧郁。我就恨这个时辰。只觉得像是被谁吞下去又吐了出来似的。

学院院长的宅第。可敬的萨蒙博士。鲤鱼[146]罐头。严严实实地装在那个罐头里[147]。活像是小教堂的停尸所。即便给我钱，我也不愿意去住那样的地方。今天要是有肝和熏猪肉就好了。大自然讨厌真空状态。

太阳徐徐从云彩间钻出，使街道对面沃尔特·塞克斯顿店那橱窗里的银器熠熠发光。约翰·霍华德·巴涅尔连看也没看一眼就从橱窗前走过去了。

这是那一位的弟弟[148]，跟他长得一模一样。那张脸总是在我眼前晃。这是个巧合。当然，有时你也会想到某人数百次，可就是碰不见他。他那走路的样儿，活像个梦游者。没有人认识他。今天市政府准是在召开什么会议。据说自从他就职以来，连一次也没穿过市政典礼官的制服。他的前任查理·卡瓦纳总是戴着翘角帽，头发上撒了粉，刮了胡子，得意洋洋地骑着高头大马上街。然而，瞧瞧他走路时那副狼狈相，仿佛是个在事业上一败涂地的人。一对荷包蛋般的幽灵的眼睛。我好苦恼。啊，伟人的老弟。乃兄的胞弟。他要是跨上了市政典礼官的坐骑，那才神气呢。兴许还要到都柏林面包公司去喝杯咖啡，在那儿下下象棋。他哥哥曾把部下当作“卒”来使用。对他们一概见死不救。人们吓得不敢说他一句什么。他那眼神让人见了毛骨悚然。这就是他引人瞩目的地方。名气。整个家族都有点儿神经病。疯子范妮[149]，另外一个妹妹就是迪金森太太[150]，给马套上猩红色挽具，赶着车子到处跑。她昂首挺胸，活像是马德尔外科医生[151]。然而在南米斯郡，这位弟弟还是败在大卫·希伊[152]手下了。他曾申请补上奇尔特恩分区·的空缺[153]，然后引退成为官吏。爱国主义者的盛宴，在公园里剥桔皮吃[154]。西蒙·迪达勒斯曾经说过，他们要是把这个弟弟拉进议会，巴涅尔就会从坟墓里回来，抓住他的胳膊将他拖出下议院。

“说到这双头章鱼[155]，一个脑袋长在世界的尽头忘记来到的地方，而另一个脑袋则用苏格兰口音讲话。上面长的八腕……”

有两个人沿着便道的边石走，从背后赶到布卢姆先生前面去了。胡子[156]和自行车，还有一位年轻女人。

哎呀，他也在那儿。这可真是凑巧了。是第二回。未来的事情早有过预兆。[157]承蒙著名诗人乔·拉塞尔先生的赞赏。跟他走在一起的说不定就是莉齐·特威格哩。A·E·[158]究竟是什么意思呢?兴许是名姓的首字：艾伯特、爱德华[159]，阿瑟·埃德蒙[160]，阿方萨斯·埃比或埃德或埃利[161]或阁下[162]。他说什么来着?世界的两端用苏格兰口音讲话。八腕：章鱼。大概是什么玄妙的法术或象征含义吧。他在滔滔不绝地说着。她一声不响地聆听着。给一位从事文字工作的先生当个助手。

他目送着那位穿手织呢衣服[163]的高个子，以及他的胡子和那辆自行车，还有他身旁那仔细聆听着的女人。他们是从素饭馆[164]走出来的，只吃了些蔬菜和水果，不吃牛排。你要是吃了，那头母牛的双眼就会永远盯着你。他们说，素食更有益于健康。不过，老是放屁撒尿。我试过。成天净跑厕所了。跟患气胀病[165]一样糟糕。通宵达旦地做梦。他们为什么把给我吃的那玩艺儿叫作坚果排[166]呢?坚果主义者，果食主义者。让你觉得你吃的像是牛腿扒。真荒谬。而且咸得很。是用苏打水煮的[167]。害得你整晚守在自来水笼头旁边。

她那双长袜松垮垮地卷在脚脖子上。我最讨厌这个样子，太不雅观了。他们统统是搞文学、有灵气的人。梦幻般的，朦朦胧胧的，象征主义的。他们是唯美主义者。就算是你所看到的食物会造成那种富于诗意的脑波，我也毫不以为奇。就拿那些连衬衫都被爱尔兰土豆洋葱炖羊肉般的黏汗浸透了的警察来说吧，你从他们当中的任何一个也挤不出一行诗来。他甚至不晓得诗是什么。非得沉浸在某种情绪里才行。

梦幻一般朦胧的海鸥，

在沉滞的水土飞翔。[168]

他在纳索街角穿过马路，站在耶茨父子公司[169]的橱窗前，估计着双筒望远镜的价码。要么我到老哈里斯家去串门，跟小辛克莱[170]聊一聊吧?他是个文质彬彬的人。此刻多半正吃着午饭哪。得把我那架旧望远镜送去修理啦。戈埃兹棱镜片要六基尼。德国人到处钻。他们靠优惠条件来占领市场。削价抢生意。兴许能从铁路遗失物品管理处买上一架。人们忘掉在火车上和小件寄存处的物品之多，简直惊人。脑子里都在想些什么呢?女人也是这样。真是难以置信。去年到恩尼斯去旅行的时候，我只好替那个农场主的女儿捡起她的手提包，在利默里克[171]换车的当儿交给了她。还有无人认领的钱呢。银行屋顶上有一块小表[172]，是用来测试这些望远镜的。

他把眼睑一直耷拉到虹膜的底边。瞧不见。倘若你设想着表在那儿，你就好像能看见似的。然而还是瞧不见。

他掉转身去，站在两个布篷之间，朝太阳伸直了右臂，张开手。他已多次想这么尝试一下了。是啊，很完整。用小指头尖儿遮着太阳的圆盘[173]。淮是光线在这里聚焦的缘故。我要是有副墨镜就好了。那该多么有趣呀。我们住在伦巴德西街的时候，关于太阳的黑子，大家议论纷纷。那是可怕的爆炸形成的。今年将有日全蚀，秋季不定什么时候。

现在我才想起来。原来那个报时球是按照格林威治标准时间下降的。从邓辛克接上一根电线，用来操纵时钟。我一定得在某月的第一个星期六去看一趟。我要是能弄到一封给乔利教授[174]的介绍信，或是找到一些有关他的家谱的资料才好呢。叫他出其不意地受到恭维。这挺灵。他会感到怡然自得。贵族总以做国王情妇的后裔为荣。他的女祖先。反正竭力阿谀。脱帽鞠躬，必然畅通无阻。[175]可不能一进去就信口开河地说些明知道不该说的话:视差是什么?结果款是：把这位先生领出去。

哎呀。

他又把右手垂到身边了。

关于这些，完全不摸头脑。纯粹是浪费时间。一个个气体球儿旋转着。相互交错，然后消失。亘古及今，周而复始。起初是气体，接着就是固体，然后是世界。冷却了，死去的硬壳四处漂流，冻僵的岩石宛如菠萝糖块[176]。月亮。她说：淮是升起了新月。我也相信是这样。

他从克莱尔屋[177]前走过。

且慢。两周前的星期日我们在那儿时是满月，所以今天应该刚好是新月。我们沿着托尔卡河往下游走去。费尔维尤那里适宜观赏月色。[178]她低吟着：五月的新月喜洋洋，宝贝。那个男人走在她的另一侧。肘。胳膊。他。萤光灯一闪一闪的，宝贝。[179]互相触摸。指头。这个提出要求。那个回答：好的。

别想下去了，别想下去了。既然必须这样，那就只好这样坝。必须[180]。

布卢姆先生呼吸急促，放慢脚步穿过亚当小巷。

他的心情好容易才宁静下来，神态安详地放眼望去。大白天在这条街上走着的，正是肩膀颇像酒瓶的鲍勃·多兰[181]。麦科伊曾说，他一年一度痛饮一遭。他们纵酒是为了说点什么或者做点什么，要么就是为了追女人[182]。跟相公们和妓女们在库姆街鬼混一阵，一年里的其他日子就像法官那么清醒。

对，果然不出所料。他正溜进帝国酒馆。消失了。光喝苏打水有益于他的健康。在惠特布雷德经营女王剧院之前，这里原是帕特·金塞拉开哈普剧院[183]的地方。他仍保持着孩子气。按照戴恩·鲍西考尔待[184]的派头，在秋月般的脸上扣着一顶式样俗气的无檐圆帽。《三个俊俏姑娘放学了》。[185]日子过得真快啊。呃?他的裙子底下露出长长的红裤子。酒徒们喝啊，笑啊，忽而喷溅出酒沫子，忽而又给酒呛住了。再给我满上吧，帕特。刺眼的红色。醉鬼门寻欢作乐。哄堂大笑，喷烟吐雾。摘下那顶白帽子。[186]他那双喝得挂满了血红的眼睛。现在他到哪儿去啦?在什么地方当叫化子呢。那把竖琴害得我们大家挨过饿。[187]

那阵子我更幸福一些。可那时的我究竟是我吗?或许难道现在的我才是我吗?当时我二十八，她二十三。我们从伦巴德西街搬走之后[188]，起了点儿变化。鲁迪一死，再也不能像往常那样啦。没法叫时光倒流。那就像是想用手去攥住水似的。难道你想回到那个时期吗?刚开始的那个时期。真想吗?你在自己家里不幸福吗，你这可怜的小淘气鬼?她恨不得替我钉钮扣哩。我得写封回信。到图书馆去写吧。

格拉夫顿街上，花花哨哨地张挂着商店的遮阳篷，使他眼花·镣乱。平纹印花细布，穿绸衣的太太们和上了岁数的贵妇，还有发出一片叮当声的挽具，在灼热的街道[189]上低低地响着的马蹄声。那个穿白袜子的女人有着一双粗腿。但愿下场雨，把她弄得满脚烂泥。士里土气的乡巴佬。那些胖到脚后跟的统统都来啦。女人一发福，腿就那么臃肿。摩莉的腿看上去也不直溜。

他遛遛达达地从布朗·托马斯开的那爿绸缎铺的橱窗前走过。瀑布般的飘带。中国薄绢。从一只倾斜的雍口里垂下血红色的府绸。红艳艳的血。是胡格诺派教徒带进来的。事业是神圣的。嗒啦。嗒啦。那个合唱可精彩啦。嗒咧，嗒啦。得用雨水来洗。梅耶贝尔。咯啦。嘣嘣嘣。[190]

针插。我老早就催老婆去买一个了。她到处乱插。窗帘上也插了好儿根。

他挽了挽左袖:蜇的痕迹差不多看不见啦。今天就算了吧。得折回去取化妆水。也许等她过生日那天再去买吧。六、七、八，九月八日。差不多还有三个月呢。何况她未必喜欢。女人不肯捡起针来，说是那样就会把爱情断送掉。[191]

闪亮的绸缎，搭在纤细黄铜栏杆上一条条的衬裙，摆成辐射状的扁平长筒丝袜闪闪发光。

回忆过去是徒然的。该当怎样就怎样。把一切都向我讲了吧。

高嗓门。被太阳晒暖了的绸缎。马具叮当响。一切都是为了一个女人：家庭和房子，丝织品，银器，多汗的水果，来自雅法的香料。移民垦殖公司[192]。全世界的财富。

一个温馨、丰腴的肉体在他的头脑里安顿下来。他的脑子屈服了，拥抱的芳香从四面八方向他袭来。他的肉体隐然感到如饥似渴，默默地渴望着热烈的爱。

公爵街。终于到了。必须吃点儿什么。伯顿饭馆。那样就会舒坦一点。

他在剑桥[193]的犄角拐了弯，依然被那种感觉纠缠着。叮当声，马蹄声。馨香的肉体，温暖而丰满。吻遍了通身。默许了。在盛夏的田野里，在被压得缠在一起的篙草丛中，在公寓那嘀嘀嗒嗒漏着雨的门厅里，在沙发或咯吱咯吱响的床上。

“杰克，心肝儿!”

“宝贝!”

“吻我，雷吉!”

“我的乖!”

“宝宝!”

他心里坪坪跳着，推开了伯顿饭馆的门。一股臭气堵塞住他那颤巍巍的呼吸。冲鼻的肉汁，泥浆般的蔬菜。瞧瞧动物们那副狼吞虎咽的样子。

人啊，人啊，人啊。

他们有的端坐在酒柜旁的高凳上，把帽子往后脑勺一推，有的坐在桌前，喊着还要添免费面包。狂饮劣酒，往嘴里填着稀溜溜的什么，鼓起眼睛，揩拭沾湿了的口髭。一个面色苍白、有着一张板油般脸色的小伙子，正用餐巾擦他那玻璃酒杯、刀叉和调羹。又是一批新的细菌。有个男人胸前围着沾满酱油痕迹的小孩餐巾，喉咙里呼噜噜地响着，正往食道里灌着汤汁。另一个把嘴里的东西又吐回到盘子上。那是嚼了一半的软骨，嘴里只剩齿龈了，想嚼却没有了牙。放在铁丝格子上炙烤的厚厚的一大片肋肉，囫囵吞下去拉倒。酒鬼那双悲戚的眼睛。他咬下一大口内，又嚼不动了。我也像那副样子吗?用别人看我们的眼睛来瞧瞧自己。[194]肚子饿了的就怒气冲天。牙齿和下巴活动着。别嚼啦!哎呀!一块骨头!在教科书的一首诗里写着：爱尔兰最后一位异教徒国王科麦克就是在博因河[195]以南的期莱镇上噎死的。不晓得他吃的是什么。想必是美味无比的佳希吧。圣帕特里克后来使他扳依基督

“烤牛肉和包心菜。”

“来一盘焖肉。”

男人的气味。啐上了唾沫的锯屑，甜丝丝、温吞吞的纸烟气味，嚼烟的恶臭，洒掉的啤酒，啤酒般的人尿味，发霉的酵母气味。

他快要呕吐了。

在这里，连一口也咽不下去。那个汉子在磨刀叉哪，打算把他面前的东西吃个一干二净。那老家伙在剔牙。一阵轻微的痉挛，肚子填得饱饱的，正在反刍。饭前饭后。饭后的祝祷文。望望这一幅画像，再望望那幅[197]。用浸泡得烂糟糟的面包片蘸肉汁来吃。干脆把盘子都舔个干净算啦，人啊!不要再这样啦!

他紧蹙鼻翼，四下里打量那些坐在凳子上对桌进食的人们。

“给咱来两瓶黑啤酒。”

“来盘罐头腌牛肉配包心菜。”

那家伙挑起满满一刀子包心菜，往嘴里塞，像是靠这来活命似的。-口就吞了下去。我看着都吓一跳。还不如用三只手来吃[198]呢。把肢体一根根地撕裂。这是他的第二天性。他是嘴里叼着一把银刀子生下来的。我认为这话挺俏皮。啊，不。银子就意味着生在阔人家。叼着一把刀子生下来的。可那么一来，隐喻就消失了。

一个腰带系得松松的侍者在唏哩哗啦地收走黏糊糊的盘子。法警长罗克[l99]站在柜台那儿，把他那大杯上冒起的啤酒泡沫吹掉。冒起了一大堆，黄黄地溅在他的靴子周围。一个就餐者直直地竖起刀叉，双肘倚着桌面，正准备吃下一道菜。他隔着摊在面前的那张污迹斑斑的报纸，正朝着食物升降机那边凝望。另一个家伙嘴里塞得满满的，在跟他谈着什么。很谈得来的知音。饭桌上的谈话。“星吃[期]一，我在芒[曼]切[彻]斯特银行[200]鱼[遇]见了特[他]。”“咦，是吗，真的呀?”

布卢姆先生迟迟疑疑地把两个手指按在嘴唇上。眼神里表示：

“不在这儿吃啦。别去看他。”

走吧。我就恨这种吃相下作的人。

他朝门口退去。到戴维·伯恩那儿去吃点快餐吧。先填上肚皮，好能走动。早饭吃得挺饱。

“这儿要烤牛肉和土豆泥。”

“再来一品脱黑啤酒。”

大家都在全力以赴，埋头大吃。咕嘟咕嘟。吃下去。咕嘟咕嘟。往嘴里填。

他走出门外，吸到清新一些的空气，就朝格拉夫顿街折回去。要么吃，要么被吃掉。杀!杀!

假定几年以后成立起公共伙房，那会怎么样呢?大家都带上粥钵和饭盒，等人给盛，在街上就把自已那一份吞下去了。这里有约翰·霍华德·巴涅尔，比方说，还有三一学院院长，每一个母亲的儿子。[201]别提你们的院长们和三一学院院长。妇孺，马车夫，神父，牧师，元帅，大主教。来自艾尔斯伯里路，克莱德路，工匠住所，北都柏林联合救济院，市长乘着他那辆富丽堂皇、古色古香的马车，老女王坐着软轿。我的盘子空啦。请你排到我前面来。带上我们市政府的杯子，就跟菲利普·克兰普顿爵士的饮用喷泉一样。[202]用你的手绢擦掉细菌。下一个人又用他的来再擦上去一批。奥弗林神父会指出他们大家的愚昧无知。[203]尽管如此，还是会打架的。人人都争头一份儿。孩子们争夺着巴在锅底儿上的那点残渣。得用凤凰公园那样大[204]的一口汤锅才行。用鱼叉叉起腌猪里脊和后腿肉来吃。你会憎恨周围的一切人。她把这叫作市徽饭店的客饭[205]。浓汤、肘子和甜食。永远也无法知晓你咀嚼的究竟是谁的思想。那么，所有这些盘子啦，叉子啦，又由谁来洗呢?到那时候兴许全都靠药片来充饥吧。牙齿就越来越糟了。

素食主义毕竟也有些道理，大地栽培出来的东西总是清香的。当然，大蒜挺臭，像那些意大利摇手风琴师的身上散发出的新鲜葱头、蘑菇和块菌的气味。也给动物带来痛苦。拔掉家禽的羽毛，把下水掏净。牲畜市场上那些不幸的牲口等着屠夫用斧子把它们的头盖骨劈成两半。哞!可怜的、浑身发抖的小牛。咩!打着趔趄的牛惠子。[206]煎白菜牛肉卷。屠夫的桶里装满了颤动着的肺脏。替咱把那爿胸脯肉从钩子上卸下来。啪嗒!刚砍下来的头和鲜血淋漓的骨头[207]。剥了皮、眼睛酷似玻璃珠儿般的羊，钩子勾在腰腿部位，从那堵着血淋淋的纸的鼻子里往锯屑上淌浓鼻涕。鞭打陀螺，让它们旋转个不停。娃娃们，可干万不要把它们胡乱抽碎。

他们给痨病患者开的药方是鲜血。什么时候都需要血。不知不觉之间病情就厉害起来了。趁着它还冒着热气儿，把那浓得像糖一样的血舔个干净。饿鬼们。

啊，我饿了。

他走进戴维·伯恩的店。这是一爿规规矩矩的酒吧。老板不喜欢饶舌。偶尔请你白喝上一盅，但次数少得就像四年一度的闰年。有一回他替我兑现了一张支票。

我吃什么好呢?他掏出怀表。现在让我想想看。啤酒兑柠檬汽水?

“喂，布卢姆，”大鼻子弗林[208]从他惯常坐的角落里说。

“哦，弗林。”

“近来怎么样?”

“好得很……让我想想看。来杯勃良第红葡萄酒[209]和……我想想看。”

架子上摆着沙丁鱼。光是望一望就几乎吃出了味道似的。三明治?在火腿和用它做成的食品上涂点芥末，夹在面包当中。[210]肉罐头。倘若你家里没有李树商标肉罐头呢?那可就美中不足了。[211]、多么愚蠢的广告!他们把这则广告插在讣告下面。这么一来，死者就统统爬上了李子树[212]。迪格纳穆的肉罐头。嗜食人肉者会就着柠檬和大米饭来用餐了。白种人传教师味道太咸了，很像腌猪肉。酋长想必会吃那精华的部分。由于经常使用，肉一定会老吧。他的妻子们全都站成一排，等着看效果。从前有过一位正统、高贵的黑皮肤老国王。他把可敬的麦克特里格尔先生的什么物儿吃掉了还是怎么了。有它才算幸福窝。天晓得是怎么搭配的。把胎膜、发霉的肺脏以及气管剁碎，搅和在一起来冒充。费多大劲也找不到一丝肉。清真食品。不能把肉和牛奶放在一道吃。照现在的说法就是食品卫生。犹太教赎罪日的斋戒是内脏的一次春季大扫除。和平与战争取决于某人的消化力。各种宗教。圣诞节的火鸡和鹅。屠杀无辜。[213]吃啊，喝啊，快活一场。[214]然后济贫院的临时收容所遂告爆满。一个个头上缠着绷带。奶酪把本身以外的一切全消化掉。多螨的奶酪。[215]

“你们有奶酪三明治吗?”

“有的，先生。”

要是有的话，找还想来几颗橄榄。我更喜欢意大利产的。一杯高级勃良第葡萄酒会使我忘掉那档子事。那是润滑汕。一客美味的拌生菜，凉凉的，像是黄瓜。汤姆·克南善于烹调。做得有滋有味。纯的橄榄油。米莉替我在炸肉排旁添上一根嫩嫩的荷兰芹菜，端给我。要一颗西班牙葱头。天主创造了食物，魔鬼制造了厨子。[216]辣子镑蟹。[217]

“太太好吗?”

“蛮好，谢谢……那么，来一客奶酪三明治吧。你们有戈尔贡佐拉[218]奶酪吗?”

“有的，先生。”

大鼻子弗林饮着他那兑水烈酒。

“近来演唱了吗?”

瞧他那张嘴。简直能够往自己的耳朵里吹口哨了。再配上一双扇风耳。音乐。这方面他懂得的跟我的马车夫一般多。不过，还是告诉他的好。没什么害处，免费广告嘛。

“她已经订了合同，本月底就参加一次大规模的巡回演出。你也许己经听说了吧。”

“没听说。哦，挺时髦的。谁是经纪人?”

侍者端上了盘子。

“多少钱?”

“七便士，先生……谢谢您，先生。”

布卢姆先生把他的三明治切成细条。麦克特里格尔先生。比那梦幻般的、奶油状的玩艺儿要好切一些。他那五百个妻子。她们尽情地得到了满足。

“要芥末吗，先生?”

“谢谢。”

他把三明治一条条揭起，抹满黄色的斑斑点点。得到了满足。我想起来了：它变得越来越大，越来越大，越来越大。

“经纪人?”他说，“喏，那就像个公司，明白吧。资金大家摊，赚了钱大家分。”

“啊，现在我记起来了，”大鼻子弗林说，他把一只手伸进兜里去挠大腿窝的痒处，“是谁告诉我的来着?布莱泽斯·博伊兰也搀和进去了吧?”

芥末热辣辣地刺激着布卢姆先生的心脏。他抬起双眼，跟那座逼视着的挂钟打了个照面。两点钟。酒吧的钟快了五分钟。时间在流逝。指针在移动。两点钟。还不到。

这当儿他的小腹往上翻，随后又垂下去。越发热烈地渴望着，渴望着。

葡萄酒。

他闻着并啜着那醇和的汁液，硬逼着自己的喉咙一饮而尽。然后，小心翼翼地把酒杯撂下。

“是的，”他说，“实际上他是发起人。”

没什么可怕的：这家伙没有头脑。

大鼻子弗林吸溜着鼻涕，挠着痒。跳蚤也正在饱餐着哪。

“杰克·穆尼[219]告诉我，他走了红运。迈勒·基奥在那次拳击比赛中又击败了贝洛港营盘的士兵[220]，所以他赌赢了。真的，他还告诉我，他把那小子带到卡洛郡[221]去啦……”

但愿他那鼻涕别溜进他的玻璃杯里去。没有，他又把它吸回去了。

“听我说，比赛之前差不多一个月光景，就让他光嘬鸭蛋，天哪，听候底下的吩咐。用意是让他把酒戒掉，明白吗?哦，天哪，布莱泽斯可是个刁滑的家伙。”

戴维·伯恩从后面的柜台那儿走了过来。他的衬衫袖子打了裥，用餐巾抹着嘴唇，脸色红涨得像鲱鱼似的。微笑使他的鼻眼显得那么饱满。[222]活像是在欧洲防风根上抹了过多的大油。[223]

“他本人来啦，精神饱满，”大鼻子弗林说，“你能告诉我们哪匹马会赢得金杯吗？”

“我跟这不沾边儿，弗林先生，”戴维·伯恩回答说，“我绝不在马身上下赌注。”

“这你算做对啦，”大鼻子弗林说。

布卢姆先生把他那一条条的三明治吃掉。是新鲜干净的面包做的。呛鼻子的芥末和发出脚巴丫子味儿的绿奶酪，吃来既恶心可又过瘾。他嘬了几口红葡萄酒，觉得满爽口。里面并没搀洋苏木[224]染料。喝起来味道越发醇厚，而且能压压寒气。

精致安静的酒吧。柜台使用的木料也挺精致。刨得非常精致。我喜欢它那曲线美。

“我根本不想沾赛马的边儿，”戴维·伯恩说。“就是这些马，害得许许多多人破了产。”

酒商大发横财。他们获得了在店内供应啤酒、葡萄酒和烈性酒的特许证。正面我赢，反面你输。

“你说得有道理，”大鼻子弗林说。“除非你了解内情，不然的话，眼下没有不捣鬼的比赛。利内翰就得到了些内情。今天他把赌注压在‘权杖’上。霍华德·德·沃尔登爵士的坐骑‘馨芳葡萄酒’挺走红，它曾在埃普瑟姆[225]赢过。骑手是莫尔尼·卡农。两周以前，我要是把赌注下在‘圣阿曼’上，原是会以七博一获胜的。”

“是吗?”戴维·伯恩说。

他朝窗户走去，拿起小额收支帐簿翻看。

“这话一点儿不假，”大鼻子弗林吸溜着鼻涕说，“那可是一匹少见的名马。它老爹是‘圣弗鲁斯奎’。罗思柴尔德的这匹小母马曾在一场雷雨当中获胜，它耳朵里塞了棉花。骑师身穿蓝夹克，头戴淡黄色便帽。大个子本·多拉德和他那‘约翰·奥冈特’统统见鬼去吧!唉，是他拦住我，劝我别把赌注押在‘圣阿曼’上的。”

他无可奈何地喝着杯子里的酒，并且用手指顺着酒杯的槽花往下摸。

“唉，”他叹了口气说。

布卢姆先生站在那儿大吃大嚼，一面低头望着他叹气。笨脑瓜大鼻子。我要不要告诉他利内翰那匹马的事?他己经知道啦。不如让他忘掉。跑去会输掉更多钱的。傻瓜和他的钱。[226]鼻涕又往下人淌了。他吻女的时候，鼻子准是冰凉的。兴许她们还高兴呢。女人喜欢针刺般的胡子。狗的鼻子冰凉。市徽饭店里，赖尔登老太太[227]正带着她那条饥肠辘辘的斯凯更狗[228]。摩莉把它放在腿上抚摩着。啊，好大的狗，汪汪汪，汪，汪汪汪!

葡萄酒把嘴里那卷起来的面包心、芥末和令人一阵恶心的奶酪都浸软了。这可是好酒。我并不渴，所以味道就更醇香了。当然，一方面是由于刚洗完澡。喝上一两口就行了。然后，在六点钟左右我就可以……六点。六点。时光流逝得好快啊。她。

葡萄酒的奴火暖起他的血管。我太需要这杯酒了。近来觉得自己气色不佳。他那双不再饥饿了的眼睛打量着架子上那一排排的罐头：沙丁鱼、颜色鲜艳的龙虾大螯。人们专挑那古里古怪的东西吃。从贝壳和海螺里用针挑出肉来吃。还从树上捉。法国人吃地上的蜗牛。要不就在钩子上挂鱼饵，从海里钓。鱼可真傻，一千年也没学到乖。要是你不晓得随便往嘴里放东西有多么危险。有毒的浆果。犬蔷筏果。圆嘟嘟的，你会以为蛮安全。花哨刺目的颜色会引起你的警惕。大家传来传去就都知道了。先让狗吃吃看。会被那气味或模样吸引住。诱人的水果。圆锥形的冰淇淋。奶油。本能。就拿桔树林来说吧，也需要人工灌溉。布莱布特洛伊街[229]。是啊，然而牡蛎怎么样呢?难看得像一口痰，外壳儿也肮里肮脏。要费九牛二虎之力才撬得开。是谁发现的?它们就靠从丢弃的残羹剩饭和下水道的污物长肥的。就着红岸餐馆的牡蛎喝香摈酒。倒是能促进性欲。春药。今天早晨他还在红岸餐馆来着。[230]在饭桌上他活像一只老牡蛎，一到床上身子兴许就变年轻了。不，六月没有“r”字，所以不吃牡蛎。[231]可有些人就是喜欢吃发霉的食品。变了质的野味。用土锅炖的野兔肉。得失逮只野兔。中国人讲究吃贮放了五十年的鸭蛋，颜色先蓝后绿。一桌席上三十道菜。每一道菜都是好端端的，吃下去就搀在一起了。这倒是一篇投毒杀人案小说的好材料。是大公爵利奥波德[232]吗?不，嗯。要么就是哈布斯堡王室后裔的一个叫作奥托的人吧?[233]是谁净吃自己脖颈后面的头皮呀?那是全城最廉价的午饭啦。当然喽，是贵族们，接着，其他人也都跟着赶起时髦来。米莉也说石油加面粉好吃。我自己也喜欢生面团。据说，为了怕跌价，他们把捕到的一半牡蛎又丢回大海里去啦。一便宜就没有买主啦。鱼子酱。那可是美味。盛在绿玻璃杯里的莱茵白葡萄酒。豪华盛宴。某某夫人。敷了脂粉的胸脯上挂着珍珠。高贵仕女。上流社会的名流。[234]这帮人为了显示自己的身份，总点些特殊的菜肴。隐士则吃大盘大盘的豆食，这样好抑制肉欲的冲动。想了解我的话，就来同我一道就餐吧。王室御用的鲟鱼。[235]屠夫科菲从名誉郡长那里获得猎取森林中鹿类的权利。他将半头母牛孝敬了郡长。我曾瞥见摆在高等法院法官[236]府上厨房里的野味。戴白帽的大师傅[237]活像个犹太教教士。火烧鸭子[238]。帕穆公爵夫人式波纹形包心菜[239]。最好写在菜单上，好知道你吃了些什么。药味重了就会毁了肉汤。我有亲身体验。把它放在爱德华牌汤粉里做调料。为了他们，把鹅像傻瓜般地填喂[240]。将龙虾活活地扔进沸水里煮。请吃点雷鸟[241]。在高级饭店里当个侍者倒也不赖。接小费，穿礼服，净是些半裸的夫人们。杜比达特小姐[242]，我可以给您再添点儿拧檬汁板鱼片吗?好的，再来点儿，而且她真地吃了。我估计她必是胡格诺派教徒家的。我记得有位，杜比达特小姐曾在基利尼[243]住过。我记得法语du dela[244]。但也许这就是同一条鱼哩，穆尔街的老米基·汉隆为了挣钱，曾把手指伸进那条鱼的腮里，开了膛掏出内脏。他连在支票上签名都不会。咧着嘴，只当是在画一幅风景画呢。默哎迈克尔，哧哎汉。[245]像一大筐翻毛生皮鞋那样愚蠢[246，却偏偏称有五万英镑。

两只苍蝇巴在窗玻璃上，嗡嗡叫着，紧紧膘在一块儿[247]。

热烘烘的葡萄酒在口腔里打了个转儿就咽下去，余味仍盘桓不已。把勃艮第葡萄放在榨汁器里碾碎。晒在炎日下。好像悄悄地触摸一下，勾起桩桩往事。触到他那润湿了的感官，使他回忆起来了。他们曾躲藏在霍斯那片野生的羊齿丛里。海湾在我们脚下沉睡着。天空。一片沉寂。天空。在狮子岬，海湾里的水面发紫，到了德鲁姆列克一带就变成绿色了。靠近萨顿那边又呈黄绿色。海底的原野，浮在海藻上那淡褐色条纹。一应座被淹没的都市。她披散着头发，枕着我的上衣。被石南丛中的蠼螋蹭来蹭去。我的手托着她的后颈。尽情地摆弄我吧。哎呀，大好啦!她伸出除了油膏、冰凉柔软的手摸着，爱抚着我，一双眼睛直勾勾地凝望着我。我心荡神移地压在她身上，丰腴的嘴唇大张着，吻着她。真好吃。她把嘴里轻轻地咀嚼得热乎乎的香籽糕[248]递送到我的嘴里。先在她口中用牙根嚼得浸透唾沫、又甜又酸、黏糊糊的一团儿。欢乐。我把它吞下了：欢乐。富于青春的生命。她把递过那一团儿的嘴唇噘起来。柔软、热乎乎、黏咂咂、如胶似漆的嘴唇。她的两眼像花儿一样，要我吧，心甘情愿的眼睛。小石子儿掉下来了。她躺在那儿纹丝儿不动。一只山羊，一个人也没有。在霍斯那高高的山丘上面，一只母山羊缓步走在杜鹃花丛中，醋栗一路坠落着。在羊齿草的屏障下，她被暖暖和和地围裹起来，漾着微笑。我狂热地压在她身上，吻她。眼睛，嘴唇，她那舒展的脖颈。女人那对乳房在修女薄呢[249]短上衣里面挺得鼓鼓的，怦怦悸动。肥大的奶头高耸着。我用热热的舌头舔着她。她吻了我。我被吻了。她委身于我，爱抚着我的头发。亲嘴儿，她吻了我。

我。而我现在呢。

紧紧膘在一块儿的苍蝇嗡嗡叫着。

他那低垂的眼睛沿着栎木板那寂然无声的纹理扫视。美丽。它画着曲线。曲线是美的。婀娜多姿的女神们。维纳新，朱诺。举世赞美的曲线。只要到图书馆和博物馆去，就能看见裸体女神伫立在圆形大厅里。有助于消化。不论男人瞧哪个部位，她们全不介意。一览无余。从来不言不语。我的意思是说，从来不对弗林那样的家伙说什么。倘若她真像加拉蒂亚对皮格马利翁[250]那样开了腔，她首先会说什么呢?凡人啊！马上就叫你乖乖就范了。跟众神一道畅饮甘露神酒吧，金盘子里盛的统统是神馔。可不像我们通常吃的那种六便士一份的午餐：炖羊肉、胡萝卜、芜菁和一瓶奥尔索普[251]。神酒，可以设想那就跟喝电光一样。神馔。按照朱诺的形象雕刻的女人那优美的神态。不朽的丽质。然而我们是往一个孔里填塞食品，又从后面排泄。食物，乳糜，血液，粪便，土壤，食物[252]。得像往火车头里添煤似的填塞食品。女神们却没有[253]。从来没见过。今天我倒要瞧一瞧。管理员不会理会的。故意失手掉落一样东西，然后弯下身去拾，好瞧瞧她究竟有没有。

从他的膀恍里点点滴滴地透出无声的信息，去解吗?不去解啦，不，还是去解了吧。作为一个男子汉，他拿定了主意把杯中物一饮而尽，然后起身走到后院去。边走边想：她们觉得自己就像是男人[254]，但也曾委身于男人们，并且跟相恋的男人们睡觉。一个小伙子曾享用过她。

当他的皮靴声消失后，戴维·伯恩边看着帐簿边说：

“他是哪一行的?不是干保险这个行当的吗?”

“他早就不干那一行啦，”大鼻子弗林说，“他在给《自由人报》拉广告哪。”

“我跟他挺熟的，”戴维·伯恩说，“他是不是遭到什么不幸啦?”

“不幸?”大鼻子弗林说，“可没听说。怎么看出的?”

“我留意到他穿着丧服。”

“是吗?”大鼻子弗林说，“确实是这样。我问过他家里的人都好吗?你说得一点儿不错，他确实穿着丧服。”

“我要是看到一位先生在这方面遭到不幸，”戴维·伯恩用慈祥的口吻说，“我就绝不去碰这个话题。那只会又一次勾起他们的悲伤。”

“反正他也不是替老婆戴孝，”大鼻子弗林说，“前天我还碰见他正从约翰·怀思·诺兰的妻子在亨利大街上经营的那家爱尔兰牛奶坊里走出来，手里捧着一罐子奶油，带回去给心爱的太太。真的，她在吃上讲究极啦。胸脯丰满，可妖艳哩。”

“他在替《自由人报》做事情吗?”戴维·伯恩说。

大鼻子弗林噘起嘴来。

“他可不是靠拉广告的收入来买奶油的，一点儿没错。”

“那究竟是怎么回事呢?”戴维·伯恩放下他的帐簿，走过来说。

大鼻子弗林用手指变戏法般地望空比划了几下，眨了眨眼。

“他加入共济会啦。”

“真的吗?”戴维·伯恩说。

“千真万确，”大鼻子弗林说，“古老、自由而众所公认的行会[255]。天主赐与光、生命和爱。他们帮了他一把。告诉我这话的是一位……喏，还是姑隐其名吧。”

“确有此事吗?”

“嗯，那可是个出色的组织，”大鼻子弗林说，“你有困难的时候，他们就助你一臂之力。我晓得有个人正在千方百计想参加，然而他们那门关得可紧啦。他们绝不让女人参加，这一点着实做得对。”

戴维·伯恩边微笑边打哈欠边点头。

“啊——哧!”

“一回，有个女人躲在一应巨大的时钟里，”大鼻子弗林说，“想看看他们究竟搞些什么名堂。可他妈的，给他们发觉了，就把她拖了出来，让她当场宣誓，当上一名师傅。听说她是唐奈顿尔的圣莱杰家族里的一名成员[256]。”

戴维·伯恩打完哈欠后又坐了下来，泪汪汪儿地说：

“这是真的吗?他可是位规规矩矩、不多言不多语的先生呢。他常常光顾这里，可我从来没看见他——喏，酒后失态过。”

“连全能的天主都不能把他灌醉，”大鼻子弗林斩钉截铁地说，“每逢闹腾得过了火，他就开溜啦。你没见到他在瞧自己的表吗?啊，当时你不在座。要是你邀他喝上一盅，他就会先掏出怀表，看看该喝点儿什么。我敢说他确实是这样。”

“有些人就是这样的，”戴维·伯恩说，“我看他是个牢靠的人。”

“他这个人不赖，”大鼻子弗林边吸溜着鼻涕边说，“还听说，他曾伸手去帮过一个伙伴的忙。平心而论，哦，布卢姆有种种长处。然而有一件事，他是绝对不干的。”

他把手指当作没有蘸墨水的钢笔，在那杯兑了水的烈性酒旁，作潦潦草草地签字的样子。

“我知道，”戴维·伯恩说。

“白纸黑字，他可绝对不肯，”大鼻子弗林说。

帕迪·伦纳德和班塔姆·莱昂斯走了进来。汤姆·罗赤福特[257]皱着眉头跟在后面，闷闷不乐地一只手按在紫红色背心上。

“你好，伯恩先生。”

“你们好，各位先生。”

他们在柜台那儿停下了脚步。

“谁来做东?”帕迪·伦纳德问道。

“反正我已经坐下啦，”[258]大鼻子弗林回答说。

“那么，喝什么好呢?”帕迪·伦纳德问。

“我要姜麦酒加冰块，”班塔姆·莱昂斯说。

“来多少?”帕迪·伦纳德大声说，“你到底是什么时候喜欢上这个的?你要什么，汤姆?”

“下水道的干管怎么样啦?”大鼻子弗林边呷酒边问。

汤姆·罗赤福特用手紧紧按住胸骨，打了个嗝作为答复。

“劳驾给我杯清水好吗，伯恩先生?”他说。

“好的，先生。”

帕迪·伦纳德朝着他的酒友们瞟了一眼。

“哎呀，好没出息!”他说，“我在请什么样的人喝啊，凉水和姜麦酒!分明是两个酒徒，连伤腿上的威士忌都会舔个干净的家伙。他好像掌握着一匹能得金杯的骏马。万无一失啦。”

“是‘馨芳葡萄酒’吧?”大鼻子弗林问。

汤姆·罗赤福特从纸卷里往摆到他跟前的杯中撒了点粉末。

“这消化不良症真讨厌，”他在喝下之前说。

“小苏打很有效哩，”戴维·伯恩说。

汤姆·罗赤福特点点头，喝了下去。

“是‘馨香葡萄酒’吗?”

“什么也不要说!”班塔姆·莱昂斯使了个眼色，“我准备自己在那马上投五先令。”

“妈的，你要是个好汉，就告诉我们吧，”帕迪·伦纳德说，“这究竟是谁透露给你的?”

布卢姆先生一面往外走，一面伸了伸三个指头来致意。

“再见吧!”大鼻子弗林说。

其他人都掉过头去。

“就是那个人透露给我的，[259]”班塔姆·莱昂斯悄悄地说。

“呸!”帕迪·伦纳德鄙夷地说，“伯恩先生，我们还要两小瓶詹姆森威士忌，还有……”

“冰块姜麦酒，”戴维·伯恩彬彬有礼地补充说。

“唉,”帕迪·伦纳德说，“给娃娃个奶瓶嘬嘬。”

布卢姆先生边朝道森大街走去，边用舌头把牙齿舔净。必须是绿色的东西才行：比方说，菠菜。这样，就能用伦琴射线[260]透视办法来追踪了。

在公爵巷，一只贪吃的狗正往鹅卵石路面上吐着一摊令人恶心的肘骨肉，然后又重新热切地舔着。饕餮。把吞下的充分消化后，又怀着谢意把它吐了出来。第一次是香甜的，第二次蛮有滋味。布卢姆先生小心翼翼地绕道而行。反刍动物们。这是第二道菜肴。它们用上颚嚼动着，我倒是想知道汤姆·罗赤福特怎样对待他那项发明[261]的。对着弗林那张嘴去解释，是白费蜡。瘦人嘴巴长。应该有个人厅或什么地方，发明家可以聚在那里，自由自在地搞发明。当然缕，那样一来，各种怪人就会都来找麻烦了。

他哼唱着，用庄严的回声拉长了各小节的尾音：

唐乔万尼，你邀请我

今晚赴宴[262]。

觉得舒坦些了。勃良第。能够提神。最早酿酒的是谁呢?什么地方的一个心情忧郁的汉子。酒后撤疯。现在我得到国立图书馆去查查(基尔肯尼民众报)了。

威廉·米勒卫生设备商店的橱窗里摆着一具具光秃秃、干干净净的抽水马桶，把他的思绪又拉回来了。能做到的。吞进一根针去，盯着它一直落下去。有时又在几年后从肋骨里冒出来了。在体内周游一道，经过不断起着变化的胆汁导管，把忧郁喷了出去的肝脏，胃液，像管子般弯弯曲曲的肠子。然而那被试验的可怜虫老得站在那儿展示自己的内脏。这就是科学。

A cenar teco.[263]

这里的“teco”是什么意思呢?也许是“今晚”吧。

唐乔万尼，你邀请我，

今天同你共进晚餐，

泽，朗姆，泽，朗达姆。

不对头。[264]

凯斯。只要南尼蒂那儿顺顺当当，我就能有两个月的进项。这样就有两镑十先令——两镑八先令左右了。海因斯欠了我三先令。两镑十一先令。普雷斯科特染坊的运货马车就在那儿。要是拉到比利·普雷斯科特[265]的广告，那就能挣两镑十五先令。加在一起是五基尼左右。打着如意算盘吧。

可以给摩莉买条真丝衬裙，颜色正好配她那副新袜带。

今天。今天。不去想了。

然后到南方逛逛去。英国的海滨浴场怎么样?布赖顿[266]，马盖特[267]。沐浴在月光下的码头。她的嗓音悠然飘荡。海滨那些俏丽的姑娘。一个睡意的流浪汉倚着约翰·朗酒吧的墙，边啃着结了一层厚痂指关节，边深深地陷入冥。巧手工匠，想找点活儿干。工钱低也行，给啥吃啥。

布卢姆先生在格雷糖果点心铺那摆着售不出去的果酱馅饼的橱窗跟前拐了弯，从可敬的托马斯·康内兰的书店前走过去。《我为什么脱离了罗马教会[268]》。“鸟窝会”[269]的女人们在支持他。据说，土豆歉收的年头，她们经常施汤给穷孩子们，好叫他们改信新教。以前，爸爸曾到过马路对面那个使穷犹太人皈依基督教的公会。[270]他们用的是同样的诱饵。我们为什么脱离了罗马教会。

一个年轻的盲人站在那儿用根细杖敲着人行道的边石。没有电车的影子。他想横过马路。

“你想到对面去吗?”布卢姆先生问。

年轻的盲人没有回答。他那张墙壁般的脸上稍微皱起眉头，茫然地晃动了一下头。

“你现在是在道森大街上，”布卢姆先生说，“莫尔斯沃思大街就在对面。你想横穿过去吗?眼下什么过路的也没有。”

他的手杖颤悠悠地朝左移动。布卢姆先生目送着，就又瞥见普雷斯科特染坊的那辆载货马车还停在德拉格理发馆门前。上午我在同一个地方瞥见他那除了润发油的头，当时我刚好……马耷拉着脑袋。车把式正在约翰·朗酒吧里润着喉咙呢。

“那儿有一辆载货马车，”布卢姆先生说，“可是它一动也没动。我送你过去吧。你想到莫尔斯沃思大街去吗?”

“是的，”年轻人回答说，“南弗雷德里克大街。”

“来吧，”布卢姆先生说。

他轻轻地碰了一下盲青年那瘦削的肘部，然后拉着那只柔弱敏感的手，替他引路。

跟他搭讪一下吧。可别采取居高临下的态度。他们会不相信你的话的。随便拉拉家常吧。

“雨不下啦。”

不吭声。

他的上衣污迹斑斑。他必是一边吃一边洒。对他来说，吃起东西来味道也完全不同。最初得用匙子一口一口地喂。他的手就像是娃娃的手。米莉的手也曾经是这样的。很敏感。他多半能凭着我的手估摸出我个头有多大。他总该有个名字吧?载货马车。可别让他的手杖碰着马腿。马累得正在打着盹儿。好啦，总算安安全全地过了马路。要从公牛后面，马的前面走。[271]

“谢谢您，先生。”

凭着嗓音，知道我是个男的了吧。

“现在行了吧?到了第一个路口就朝左拐。”

年轻的盲人敲敲边石，继续往前走。他把拐杖抽回来，又探一探。

布卢姆先生跟在盲人的脚后面走着。他穿着一套剪裁不得体的人字呢衣服。可怜的小伙子!他是怎么知道那辆载货马车就在那儿的呢?准是感觉到的。也许用额头来看东西。有一种体积感。一种比暗色更要黑一些的东西——重量或体积。要是把什么东西移开了，他能感觉得到吗?觉察出一种空隙。关于都柏林城，他想必有一种奇妙的概念，因为他总像那样敲黄石头走路。倘若没有那根手杖，他能够在两点之间笔直地走吗?一张毫无血色的、虔诚的脸，就像是许下愿要当神父似的。

彭罗斯[272]!那人就叫这个名字。

瞧，他们可以学会做多少事。用手指读书。为钢琴调音。只要他们稍微有点儿头脑，我们就会感到吃惊。一个残疾人或驼背的要是说出常人也会说的话，我们就会夸他聪明。当然，在其他方面他们的感官比我们灵敏。刺绣。编箩筐。大家应该帮帮他们。等摩莉过生日的时候，给她买一只针线筐吧。她就讨厌做针线活儿。也许会不高兴的。人们管他们叫瞎子。

他们的嗅觉也一定更敏锐。四面八方的气味都聚拢了来。每一条街各有不同的气味。每一个人也是这样。还有春天，夏天，各有不同的气味。种种味道呢？据说双目紧闭或者感冒头痛的时候，就品尝不出酒的味道。还说摸着黑抽烟，一点儿味道也没有。

比方说，对待女人也是如此。看不见就更不会害臊了。那个仰着头从斯图尔特医院[273]跟前走边的姑娘。瞧瞧我，穿戴得多么齐全。要是瞧不见她，该是多么奇怪啊。在他心灵的眼睛里，会映出一种形象。嗓音啦，体温啦。当他用手指摸她的时候，就几乎能瞥见线条，瞥见那些曲线了。比方说，他把手放在她头发上。假定那是黑色的。好的。我们就称它作黑色吧。然后移到她的白皮肤上。兴许感觉就有所不同。白色的感觉。

邮局。得写封回信。今天可真忙啦。用邮政汇票给她寄两先令去——不，半克朗吧。薄礼，尚乞哂纳。这儿刚巧有家文具店。且慢。考虑考虑再说。

他用一根手指非常缓慢地把头发朝耳后拢了拢。又摸了一遍。像是极为柔细的稻草。然后又用手指去抚摩一下右脸颊。这里也有茸毛，不够光滑。最光滑要算肚皮了。四下里没有人。那个青年正走进弗雷德里克大街。也许是到利文斯顿舞蹈学校去给钢琴调音哩。我不妨装出一副调整背带的样子。

他走边多兰酒吧，一边把手偷偷伸进背心和裤腰之间，轻轻拉开衬衫，摸了摸腹部那松弛的皱皮。然而我知道那颜色是黄中透白。还是找个暗处去试试吧。

他缩回了手。把衣服拽拢。

可怜的人哪!他还是个孩子呢。可怕啊。确实可怕。什么都看不见，那么他都做些什么梦呢?对他来说，人生就像是一场幻梦。生就那副样子，哪里还有什么公道可言?那些妇孺参加一年一度的游览活动，在纽约被烧死、淹死[274]。一场浩劫。他们说，“业”[275]就是为了赎你在前世所犯下的宿孽，而轮回转生——遇见了他尖头胶皮管子。[276]哎呀，哎呀，哎呀。当然值得同情。然而不知怎地，他们总有点儿难以接近。

弗雷德里克·福基纳爵士[277]正步入共济会会堂。庄严如特洛伊[278]。他刚在厄尔斯福特高台街美美地吃过一顿午餐。司法界的一群老朽们都聚在一道，起劲地喝着大瓶大瓶的葡萄酒，海阔天空地谈论着法院啦，巡回裁判啦，慈善学校年鉴啦。“我判了他十年徒刑。”他也许对我喝的那种玩艺儿嗤之以鼻。他们喝的是瓶子上沾满尘埃、标着酿造年份的陈年老酒。关于记录官法庭该怎样主持公道，他自有看法。这是位用心良好的老人。警察的刑事诉讼卷宗里塞满了种种案件——他们为了提高破案率而捏造罪名。他要求他们纠正。对那些放债者毫不姑息。曾把吕便·杰狠狠地收拾了一顿。说起来他可不折不扣是个人们所说的可鄙的犹太人。这些法官权力很大。都是些戴假发、脾气暴躁的老酒鬼。就像爪子疼痛发炎的熊一样。愿天主可怜你的灵魂。[279]

哦，招贴画。麦拉斯义卖会。总督阁下。十六日，那就是今天啊。[280]为默塞尔医院募款。《弥赛亚》的首演[281]也是为了这个。对。亨德尔。到那儿去看看怎样?鲍尔斯桥。顺便到凯斯商店走一遭。像水蛭似的巴在他身上也没用。呆长了会讨嫌。在门口总会碰上熟人的。

布卢姆先生来到了基尔戴尔大街。首先得去图书馆。

在阳光底下戴着草帽。棕黄色皮鞋。卷边长裤。对，就是他[282]。

他的心轻轻地悸跳着，向右拐吧。博物馆。女神们。他向右拐了个弯。

是他吗?多半是。别看他了。酒上了我的脸。我为什么要……?太叫人发晕。对，就是他。走路的那个姿势。别看他啦。别看他啦。往前走吧。

他边大步流星地走向博物馆的大门，边抬起眼睛。漂亮的建筑。是托马斯·迪恩爵士[283]设计的。他没跟在我后边吧?

也许他没瞧见我。阳光正晃着他的眼睛。

他气喘吁吁，发出一声声短促的叹息。快点儿。冰冷的雕像群。那里挺僻静，不出一分钟我就安全了。

是啊，他没瞧见我。两点多啦。就在大门口那儿。

我的心脏!

他的眼睛直跳，直勾勾地望着奶油色石头的曲线。托马斯·迪恩爵士，希腊式建筑。

我要找样东西。

他那只焦躁的手急忙伸进一个兜里，掏出来一看，是读后没叠好的移民垦殖公司的广告。可放在哪儿了呢?

匆匆忙忙地找。

他赶快又将公司的广告塞了回去。

她说是下午。

我找的是那个。对，那个。所有的兜都翻遍了。手绢。《自由人报》。放在哪儿了呢?对啦。裤子。皮夹子。土豆。我放在哪儿了呢?

快点口。放轻脚步。马上就到啦。我的心脏。

他一边用手摸索着那不知放到哪儿去了的东西，一边念叨着还得去取化妆水。在裤兜里找到了肥皂，上面粘着温吞吞的纸。啊，肥皂在这儿哪。对，来到大门口了。