Page 104 (6.744-782) "in the dead... themselves."

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in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death. Shades of night hovering here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark.

♬ Silver Threads Among The Gold
Hamlet III.ii "When churchyards yawn"
"Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant" probably eliding the subject 'John O'Connell', but see also the cemetery roster where another DO'C (John's son?) is listed as clerk
Daniel's illegitimate brood was the subject of a ♬ song


Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.

Romeo and Juliet V.3


He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well, so it is.

Major Gamble, Royal Marines Light Infantry, Secretary of Mount Jerome Cemetery for 40yrs


Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks.

blood libel, 1462
'By order of'
£3/13/6 was also LB's calculated payment for Beaufoy's Masterstroke p66


I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh, nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink, decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, black treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.

food-metaphors
1st body farm 1981
more

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Page 103 (6.708-743) "The barrow... chucked"

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The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.

maybe?

— John O'Connell, Mr Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend.

John Killeen O'Connell, 58yo (30yo Daniel was one of 11 kids living at home??)

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:



— I am come to pay you another visit.



— My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your custom at all.



Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side, puzzling two long keys at his back.



— Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?



— I did not, Martin Cunningham said.



They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles.



— They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After traipsing about in the fog they found the grave, sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up.

(if you can find the grave of 'Owen Patrick Farrelly, 45 Middle Gardiner St, who departed this life 11th September 1892, aged 44 years' it's supposedly a pretty close match)



The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He resumed:



— And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like the man, says he. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.



Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.

CK is taking care of future business


— That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.


— I know, Hynes said. I know that.


— To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else.

heart motif


Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout checks. Habeas corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked

"passout checks" = like ticket stubs to get back in free

who disturbed him when??

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mysteries:


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[DD 00:00-00:48]

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Page 102 (6.670-707) "I am the resurrection... stared ahead."

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— I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost heart.



— It does, Mr Bloom said.



Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.

consensus today: average length = 84 inches, width = 28
inches


Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.



— Everything went off A 1, he said. What?



He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom.



— As it should be, Mr Kernan said.



— What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.



Mr Kernan assured him.



— Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I know his face.



Ned Lambert glanced back.



— Bloom, he said, Madam Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife.



— O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. She was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good armful she was.

the Blooms will celebrate their 16th anniversary in October, so this was earlier


He looked behind through the others.



— What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.



Ned Lambert smiled.



— Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for blottingpaper.

Hely, Ltd., manufacturing stationers, letterpress and lithographic printers, and bookbinders, 27-30 Dame Street; Charles Wisdom Hely, managing director

— In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.

"coon" has various slang meanings, more or less derogatory, but it seems clearly an ethnic/racial slur here


— Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.



John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.

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Page 101 (6.632-669) "Kelleher opened... solemnity:"

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Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and the other to the brother-in-law. All followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last, folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

"left" seems to imply they came out the SE side, and turn NE first
"gravely... gravel"?
"sharp... cry... pack of blunt boots" (hunting imagery?)


The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

cf p31-32 "Lal the ral the ra The rocky road to Dublin... Lal the ral the ra, lal the ral the raddy." ("gravel" = rocky road)


— The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.

if they're coming out the SE side, this comment is pretty redundant (expository license?). on the NW side, though, the monument is less obvious, and they're closer to the St Patrick section of the cemetery (also NW) where Kane was buried, and likely Dignam as well (but they'd have to turn right first, then left)

(any path to the St Patrick section would require left-right zigzagging)


Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone.

from NW
from SE


— He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!

the heart story is true, weirdly enough (lost now?)


— Her grave is over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

Glasnevin's own unbookmarkable StreetView map puts the Joyces here beside the path, in the Dublin Section (West)... so the Dignam party can't be going down that path ("over there" sounds too distant) (JSJ was indeed buried there too, but not till 1932) (Parnell's grave is just across the path, too, in the South Section (West), unmentioned until later)

they may be at the point where they'd have to turn left, but instead they go straight, and turn later? (it would be a much vaguer gesture from farther away)


Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.



— She's better where she is, he said kindly.



— I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven.



Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by.



— Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.



Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.



— The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place.



They covered their heads.



— The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? Mr Kernan said with reproof.



Mr Bloom nodded gravely, looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secret searching. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.



Mr Kernan added:



— The service of the Irish church, used in Mount Jerome, is simpler, more impressive, I must say.

(he speaks with many commas!)


Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The language of course was another thing.

(is he rehearsing saying that out loud, and deciding not to?)


Mr Kernan said with solemnity:

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mysteries: their path


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Page 100 (6.595-631) "Father... server. Corny"

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Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully about the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways like a sheep in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways.

[more]

— Non intres in judicium cum servo tuo, Domine.



Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on the altarlist. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a toad too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air of the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad gas round the place. Butchers for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks. Who was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and you're a doner.

organ (built 1767) ♬

Bloom is comparing organist Mervyn Browne's £150/yr  to Old Glynn's £50 (p79)

(some editions have 'goner' for "doner")


My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better.

(he's half-kneeling on the newspaper)


The priest took a stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's bucket and shook it over the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and shook it again. Then he came back and put it back in the bucket. As you were before you rested. It's all written down: he has to do it.



— Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.



The server piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that of course...

(is Bloom imagining Molly seducing a boy-servant?!)


Holy water that was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded business men, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now.



— In paradisum.


Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.



The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny

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Page 99 (6.559-594) "I was down... croak."

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— I was down there for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped with Dick Tivy.



— And how is Dick, the solid man?

♬ The Solid Man


— Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert answered.



— By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald?

"bald" = hovering-death motif?


— Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.



— Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front?



— Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid.

Mat Kane's boss would have been Sir Patrick Coll
the real John Henry Mentin (signature-pdf) would have been 44yo

— I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world.



— How did he lose it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what?



— Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus said with a sigh.



They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel.

StreetView
this is immediately facing the cardinal's mausoleum


Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek combed hair and the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings to O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel. Which end is his head?

song: "I Owe Ten Dollars to O'Grady" [sheetmusic]
Socrates' famous last words were "Crito, I owe a cock [ie, a sacrifice] to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?"

getting the head at the 'right' end was ritually significant


After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

pic?

A server, bearing a brass bucket with something in it, came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I, said the rook.

Cock Robin ♬


They halted by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak.

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Page 98 (6.522-558) "dead weight... own town?"

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dead weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the stiff: then the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law.



All walked after.

Martin Cunningham whispered:

— I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

— What? Mr Power whispered. How so?

point-of-view finally shifts temporarily from Bloom


— His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis. You heard him say he was going to Clare. Anniversary.

Ennis in 1901 had about 20,000 people. There's still/again a Queen's Hotel downtown that may be that old. Rudolph Bloom is elsewhere described as the proprietor ( = owner). (So did RB leave any money to LB?) [more]


— O God! Mr Power whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself!



He glanced behind him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Speaking.

"dark, thinking eyes"

mausoleum: [pix] StreetView



— Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked.


— I believe so, Mr Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get the youngster into Artane.

"Artane" = the O'Brien Institute for Destitute Children [1901?] [exposé]

— How many children did he leave?

— Five. Ned Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's.

Todd Burns department store [pix]


— A sad case, Mr Bloom said gently. Five young children.



— A great blow to the poor wife, Mr Kernan added.



— Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed.



Has the laugh at him now.



He looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had outlived him. Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must outlive the other. Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world. Condole with her. Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him. For Hindu widows only. She would marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after.

"Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world" [♬]
"Him?" = Kernan


Widowhood not the thing since the old queen died. Drawn on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert. Frogmore memorial mourning. But in the end she put a few violets in her bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more in her warm bed.



— How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays.


— Never better. How are all in Cork's own town?

song info
lyrics?
[sheetmusic!]

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mysteries:


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