Ulysses 2.5 features a completely redesigned shortcut bar integrated into Apple’s standard toolbar. The drawback, however, is that all commands have been condensed into three buttons on the right side of the bar. As a user of the previous version, I’ll admit it took me some time to get used to this shift, but now I like it. Episode Five, “The Lotus Eaters,” is the first episode in which the thematic parallel to Homer begins to dominate the text. In The Odyssey, Odysseus’s men eat the flower of the Lotus Eaters and become drowsily complacent, forgetting about their quest to return home.

• Ulysses 2 50th Anniversary
• Ulysses 2014 Cab
• Ulysses 2 5 Dollar Gold Coin

​

By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, pastWindmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher’s, the postal telegraph office. Couldhave given that address too. And past the sailors’ home. He turned from themorning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady’scottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewedfagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlesslyholding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow. O lethim! His life isn’t such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring da home.Come home to ma, da. Slack hour : won’t be many there. He crossedTownsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes : house of : Aleph,Beth. And past Nichols’ the undertaker’s. At eleven it is. Time enough. DaresayCorny Kelleher bagged that job for O’Neill’s. Singing with his eyes shut.Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Hername and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surelyhe bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumay call. With my tooraloom,tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and OrientalTea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets : choice blend,finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from TomKernan. Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still readblandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right handwith slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under theirdropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside hishigh grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of hishat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it tohis waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again : choice ​blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it mustbe : the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowerymeads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghaleselobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente. Not doing a hand’s turn all day.Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate.Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanicgardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness inthe air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Wherewas the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating onhis back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn’t sink if you tried : sothick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body inthe water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal to theweight? It’s a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking hisfingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What isweight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second.Law of falling bodies : per second, per second. They all fall to the ground.The earth. It’s the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk withher sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freemanfrom his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it ateach sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air : just drop in to see.Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means. From thecurbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too latebox. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

— Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruitingposter with soldiers of all arms on parade : and held the tip of his baton againsthis nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went toofar last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter.He thanked and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower, Esq,

c/o P. O. Westland Row,

City.

​

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, revie-wing again the soldiers on parade. Where’s old Tweedy’s regiment? Castoffsoldier. There : bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he’s a grenadier. Pointedcuffs. There he is : royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. Thatmust be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist anddrill. Maud Gonne’s letter about taking them off O’Connell street atnight : disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith’s paper is on the same tacknow : an army rotten with venereal disease : overseas or halfseasoverempire. Half baked they look : hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table :able. Bed : ed. The King’s own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman ora bobby. A mason, yes.

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk : as if thatwould mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt itsway under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will paya lot of heed, I don’t think. His fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled theenvelope in his pocket. Something pinned on : photo perhaps. Hair? No.

M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate companywhen you.

— Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

— Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular.

— How’s the body?

— Fine. How are you?

— Just keeping alive, M’Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect :

— Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you’re...

— O no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

— To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn’t. A badge maybe.

— E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

— I must try to get out there, M’Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heardit last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

— I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the doorof the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stoodstill, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pocketsfor change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this,looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch ​pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for castetill you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about toyield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess heronce take the starch out of her.

— I was with Bob Doran, he’s on one of his periodical bends, and whatdo you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway’s we were.

Doran, Lyons in Conway’s. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. Incame Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneathhis vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braideddrums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps.Talking of one thing or another. Lady’s hand. Which side will she get up?

— And he said : Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy?I said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country : Broadstone probably. High brown boots with lacesdangling. Well turned foot. What is he fostering over that change for? Seesme looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings toher bow.

—Why? I said. What’s wrong with him? I said.

Proud : rich : silk stockings.

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M’Coy’s talking head. Getting up in aminute.

—What’s wrong with him, he said. He’s dead, he said. And, faith, hefilled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. Iwas with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes,he said. He’s gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise andthe peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustacestreet hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering thedisplay of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?

— Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

— One of the best, M’Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her richgloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker : the laceflare of her hat in thesun : flicker, flick. ​

— Wife well, I suppose? M’Coy’s changed voice said.

— O yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly :

What is home without

Plumtree’s Potted Meat?

Incomplete.

With it an abode of bliss.

— My missus has just got an engagement. At least it’s not settled yet.

Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I’m off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness :

— My wife too, he said. She’s going to sing at a swagger affair in theUlster hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.

— That so? M’Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who’s getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating breadand. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark ladyand fair man. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Love’s

Old

Sweet

Song

Comes lo-ve’s old...

— It’s a kind of a tour, don’t you see? Mr Bloom said thoughtfully.Sweeeet song. There’s a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M’Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

— O well, he said. That’s good news.

He moved to go.

— Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

— Tell you what, M’Coy said. You might put down my name at thefuneral, will you? I’d like to go but I mightn’t be able, you see. There’s adrowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myselfwould have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name ifI’m not there, will you? ​

— I’ll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That’ll be all right.

— Right, M’Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I’d go if I possiblycould. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M’Coy will do.

— That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn’t catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I’d likemy job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetededges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklowregatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day tothis.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has justgot an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way :for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don’t you know? In the sameboat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can’t he hear the diffe-rence? Think he’s that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow.Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn’tget worse. Suppose she wouldn’t let herself be vaccinated again. Your wifeand my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Ulysses 2 50th Anniversary

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicolouredhoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane’s Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery’s summersale. No, he’s going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight : Mrs Bandman Palmer.Like to see her in that again. Hamlet she played last night. Male impersonator.Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide? Poor papa! Howhe used to talk about Kate Bateman in that! Outside the Adelphi in Londonwaited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was : sixtyfive.And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is.Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blindAbraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.

— Nathan’s voice! His son’s voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who lefthis father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of hisfather and left the God of his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I’m glad. I didn’t go into the room to look at hisface. That day! O dear! O dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was the best for him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of thehazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn’t met thatM’Coy fellow. ​

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champingteeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oatenreek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or careabout anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words.Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too : a stump ofblack guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy allthe same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be veryirritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper hecarried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman’s shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies,all weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non.Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables asthey pass. He hummed :

Là ci darem la mano

La la lala la la.

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in thelee of the station wall. No-one. Meade’s timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins andtenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its for-gotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child atmarbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinkingsphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut apiece out of his mantel not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbleswhen I went to that old dame’s school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis’s.And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.

A flower. I think it’s a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyedthen? What does she say?

Dear Henry,

Ulysses 2014 Cab

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorryyou did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfullyangry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughtyboy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real ​meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughtyboy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you thinkof poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, whenwill we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never feltmyself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write mea long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. Sonow you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote.O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before mypatience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughtydarling. I have such a bad headache today and write by return to your longing

Martha.

P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want toknow.

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell andplaced it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-onecan hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then, walking slowlyforward, he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angrytulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don’t please poorforgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meetall naughty nightstalk wife Martha’s perfume. Having read it all he took itfrom the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder didshe wrote it herself. Doing the indignant : a girl of good family like me,respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you :not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad asa row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time.Naughty boy : punish : afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try itanyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Commonpin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere : pinnedtogether. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses withoutthorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in theCoombe, linked together in the rain.

​

O, Mairy lost the pin of her drawers.

She didn’t know what to do

To keep it up

To keep it up.

It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sittingall day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does yourwife use? Now could you make out a thing like that?

To keep it up.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master orfaked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also thetwo sluts in the Coombe would listen.

To keep it up.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there :quiet dusk : let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strangecustoms. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper : fruit, olives,lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown.Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listenswith big dark soft eyes. Tell her : more and more : all. Then a sigh : silence.Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly inshreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sankin the dank air : a white flutter then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in thesame way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure chequefor a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out ofporter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four timesa day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment.Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, oneand fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty : fifteen about.Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach.Barrels bumped in his head : dull porter slopped and churned inside. Thebungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together,winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl ofliquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth. ​

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porchhe doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind theleather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy for a pass toMullingar.

Ulysses 2 5 Dollar Gold Coin

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John ConmeeS. J. on saint Peter Claver and the African mission. Save China’s millions.Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium.Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstonethey had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants the same.Convert Dr. William. J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their godlying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek.Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Cleveridea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee : Martin Cunninghamknows him : distinguished looking. Sorry I didn’t work him about gettingMolly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t.They’re taught that. He’s not going out in bluey specs whit the sweat rollingoff him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening.Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushedthe swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on : some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet placeto be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slowmusic. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in thebenches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt atthe altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in hishands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (arethey in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank.Then the next one : a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it intoher mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes andopen your mouth. What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupe-fies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don’t seem to chew it; onlyswallow it down. Rum idea : eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cottonto it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one byone, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in itscorner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought ​to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there,with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in theirstomachs. Something like those mazzoth : it’s that sort of bread : unleavenedshewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. Itdoes. Yes, bread of angels it’s called. There’s a big idea behind it, kind ofkingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny alump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in the sameswim. They do. I’m sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Thencome out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it.Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.Old fellow asleep near that confession box. Hence those snores. Blind faith.Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel aninstant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair hehad on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know what to do to.Bald spot behind. Letters on his back I. N. R. I.? No : I. H. S. Molly told meone time I asked her. I have sinned : or no : I have suffered, it is. And theother one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn upwith a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be herewith a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly.Their character. That fellow that turned queen’s evidence on the invincibleshe used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning.This very church. Peter Carey. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey.And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting thatmurder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that’s a good name for them,there’s always something shiftylooking about them. They’re not straight menof business either. O no she’s not here : the flower : no, no. By the way did Itear up that envelope? Yes : under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice : then he tossed off the dregssmartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank whatthey are used to Guinness’s porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley’sDublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane’s ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn’tgive them any of it : show wine : only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraudbut quite right : otherwise they’d have one old booser worse than anothercoming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the.Quite right. Perfectly right that is. ​

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to makethat instrument talk, the vibrato : fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gar-diner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini.Father Bernard Vaughan’s sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don’tkeep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear apin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel thethrill in the air, the full, the people looking up :

Quis est homo!

Some of that old sacred music is splendid. Mercadante : seven last words.Mozart’s twelfth mass : the Gloria in that. Those old popes were keen onmusic, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too.They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too chanting, regular hours,then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs intheir choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Mustbe curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose theywouldn’t feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into fleshdon’t they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way outof it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about andbless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glancedabout him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at thegospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat backquietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thingout from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Thenthe priest knelt down and began to read off a card :

— O God, our refuge and our strength…

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw themthe bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Gloria andimmaculate virgin Joseph her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if youunderstood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes likeclockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance.Punish me, please. Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor.Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha?And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whisperinggallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God’s little joke.Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. ​Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide herblushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will addressthe meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be inRome : they work the whole show. And don’t they rake in the money too?Bequests also : to the P. P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Massesfor the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries andconvents. The priest in the Fermanagh will case in the witness box. Nobrowbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltationof our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church : they mappedout the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed :

— Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be oursafeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him,we humbly pray) : and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the powerof God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spiritswho wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The womenremained behind : thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plateperhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open allthe time. Women enjoy it. Annoyed if you don’t. Why didn’t you tell mebefore. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there’s a (whh!) just a (whh!)fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Still likeyou better untidy. Good job it wasn’t farther south. He passed, discreetlybuttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into rhe light. Hestood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before himand behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holywater. Trams : a car of Prescott’s dyeworks : a widow in her weeds. Noticebecause I’m in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time?Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where isthis? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny’s in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move.Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long’s, foundedin the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the othertrousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well,poor fellow, it’s not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. ​I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or thesecond. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seemsto have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher’s stone. Thealchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why?Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Livingall the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots.Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you likethe dentist’s doorbell. Doctor whack. He ought to physic himself a bit.Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himselfhad a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here tochloroform you. Test : turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose oflaudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad forcough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy whereyou least expect it. Clever of nature.

— About a fortnight ago, sir?

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty drysmell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.

— Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and thenorangeflower water...

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

— And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to hereyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Thosehomely recipes are often the best : strawberries for the teeth : nettles andrainwater : oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of theold queen’s sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold yes.Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you wanta perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d’Espagne. That orange-flower. Pure curd soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have.Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt getsrolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it inthe bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure.Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be rather glum.

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought abottle? ​

— No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I’ll call later in the day andI’ll take one of those soaps. How much are they?

— Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

— I’ll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when youcome back.

— Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, thecoolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons’ voice and hand said :

— Hello, Bloom, what’s the best news? Is that today’s? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To lookyounger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons’ yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants awash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears’ soap.Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

— I want to see about that French horse that’s running today, BantamLyons’ said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber’sitch. Tight collar he’ll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut ofhim.

— You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

— Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximumthe second.

— I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

— What’s that? his sharp voice said.

— I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw itaway that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering : then thrust the outspreadsheets back on Mr Bloom’s arms.

— I’Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway’s corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soapin it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately.Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. ​Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamblethen smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back.Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of amosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed thehorseshoe poster over the gate of college park : cyclist doubled up like a cod ina pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then thespokes : sports, sports, sports : and the hub big : college. Something to catchthe eye.

There’s Hornblower standing at the porter’s lodge. Keep him on hands :might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower?How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sitaround under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can’t play it here. Duckfor six wickets. Still Captain Buller broke a window in the Kildare street clubwith a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skullswe were acracking when M’Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won’t last.Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearerthan them all.

Enjoy a bath now : clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepidstream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb ofwarmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk andlimbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow :his navel, bud of flesh : and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating,floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languidfloating flower.