Page 109 (6.933-972) "to save time... There he goes."

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to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death's door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren's. The great physician called him home. Well it's God's acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more poetical. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thoms Gray [analysis]
Raleigh thinks Dr Murren delivered Milly (15 years ago yesterday)
Church Times eg
"Immortelles" are dried flowers [eg]


A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hu! Not a budge out of him. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

dried flowers/ stuffed bird
Hooper (died 1897, buried nearby)


The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve. Ought to be sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy. Apollo that was.

Othello I.1.61 'For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.'


How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As you are now so once were we.



Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather. Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Hely's.

Edison's 1890 talking doll:


Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait. Stop!



He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he goes.

>

mysteries:


[DD 02:41-04:42]
[DD 00:00-03:07]

[IM 1:07:36-1:11:04]

[LV1 1:14:04-1:17:37]

[LV2 30:58-34:08]


hades: 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

[Bloom in denial]

if we agree that Bloom sometimes deflects his thoughts from Boylan and Molly by intentionally doing mental calculations [eg], is it possible that other instances of similar mental self-distraction are clues to other issues Bloom is avoiding?

1. depression under cloud, positive thinking and real estate

Boylan

calculations

science?

Calypso: cat, bed, travel, pub math, Zionism, pleasant evenings, depression, exercises, real estate

Page 108 (6.895-932) "M'Intosh... them together"

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— M'Intosh, Hynes said, scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his name?



He moved away, looking about him.



— No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!



Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him?

cf p94, where it was playing on streetorgan




A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.



— O, excuse me!



He stepped aside nimbly.



Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over. A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just.

cf p38 "What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh." [not J's neologism]



The mourners moved away slowly, without aim, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb.



— Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.



— Let us, Mr Power said.

the blue lines are StreetView paths, the spindly red line is their probable route to the gravesite, the upper left corner is all St Patrick section where Kane (and likely Dignam) is buried, the red dot is both Parnell and May Joyce:

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke:



— Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will come again.



Hynes shook his head.



— Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.



Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then lump them together

Old Ireland's Hearts and Hands [lyrics]

>

mysteries:


[DD 03:26-04:22]
[DD 00:00-02:41]

[IM 1:04:46-1:07:36]

[LV1 1:11:07-1:14:04]

[LV2 28:19-30:58]


hades: 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Page 107 (6.857-894) "We are praying... he now?"

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We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory.



Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor mamma, and little Rudy.



The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.



The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.



The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.

"took heart of grace" = took courage, took the small risk of going too early (cf p101 "--The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too.")



Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all. No: coming to me.



— I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your christian name? I'm not sure.

(everyone just calls him 'Bloom')


— L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He asked me to.

(Bloom correctly anticipates their slight, of reducing him to an initial)


— Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once.



So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

Dr Louis A Byrne, 45
(is Bloom systematically pondering the deaths of everyone mentioned? or is he avoiding some troubling association with M'Coy's jobchange?)
"died of" (pun?)
Dignam died on Monday
"Got the run" = got fired
"Levanted" = absconded, fled east?
who besides Bloom could be running off with ad money?
♬ Charlie is my Darling [lyrics by Robert Burns]
(Bloom ponders why M'Coy asked Bloom to cover for him, and what payback he might ask)


— And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the...


He looked around.


— Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?

>

mysteries:


[DD 03:13-04:08]
[DD 00:00-03:26]

[IM 1:02:05-1:04:46]

[LV1 1:08:13-1:11:07]

[LV2 25:37-28:19]


hades: 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Page 106 (6.818-856) "they might object... after the other."

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they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same idea.

'♬ Just lay me down in my native peat'? [lyrics]
or??? '♬ When I am laid in earth' (Dido's Lament)


Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.



Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.



The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.



Pause.



If we were all suddenly somebody else.



Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.



Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold thee? Bam! expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other.

(the consensus is that "Feel no more" is not an allusion to the song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline)

sinner's death

Edgardo (from "Oh meschina!): "Tramontar piu non vedra... Rivederla ancor vogli' io" (Never more to dawn on thee... Now once more will I behold her) [libretto] [♬]
"Shall we never more behold thee" [♬]

>

mysteries:


[DD 01:37-03:37]
[DD 00:00-03:13]

[IM 58:40-1:02:05]

[LV1 1:04:55-1:08:13]

[LV2 22:23-25:37]


hades: 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

Page 105 (6.783-817) "But they must... Ay but"

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But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls.

p60

He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

Hamlet V.i

Spurgeon

"profound knowledge of the human heart" cliche since 1759
he means '...nisi bonum' but confuses 'Nisi Prius court'


— How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.

— Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.

(how has it taken two pages to share the dockets?)


The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.



Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is here nor care.

Julius Caesar III.2.73 'ANTONY Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.'
I.2.17 'Soothsayer: Beware the ides of March.'


Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of.

macintosh spoilers


A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
How could you possibly do so?

1834 version


Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way. Ay but

>

mysteries: dockets timelapse


[DD 00:58-03:46]
[DD 00:00-01:37]

[IM 55:51-58:40]

[LV1 1:01:49-1:04:55]

[LV2 19:39-22:23]


hades: 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111

[Man in the macintosh spoilers]

"Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of." p105

"Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen."

" -- And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the...
He looked around.
-- Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?
-- M'Intosh, Hynes said, scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his name?
He moved away, looking about him.
-- No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!
Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him?"

"In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's path." WRocks

"The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead." Cyclops

"The mourners included: Patk. Dignam (son), Bernard Corrigan (brother-in-law), Jno. Henry Menton, solr., Martin Cunningham, John Power .)eatondph 1/8 ador dorador douradora (must be where he called Monks the dayfather about Keyes's ad) Thomas Kernan, Simon Dedalus, Stephen Dedalus, B.A., Edw. J. Lambert, Cornelius Kelleher, Joseph M'C. Hynes, L. Boom, C.P. M'Coy,-- M'Intosh, and several others.
Nettled not a little by L. Boom (as it incorrectly stated) and the line of bitched type, but tickled to death simultaneously by C.P. M'Coy and Stephen Dedalus, B.A., who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their total absence (to say nothing of M'Intosh)" Eumeus

"Golly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep at his wearables. By mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the Richmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis. Trumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden all forlorn. Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies. Pardon? See him today at a runefal? ...Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes. Brigade!" Oxen

"London's burning, London's burning! On fire, on fire!...
(A man in a brown macintosh springs up through a trapdoor. He points an elongated finger at Bloom.)
THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH
Don't you believe a word he says. That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins." Circe

"What selfinvolved enigma did Bloom risen, going, gathering multicoloured multiform multitudinous garments, voluntarily apprehending, not comprehend?
Who was M'Intosh?" Ithaca

theories:

Capt Sinico or Mr Duffy from Painful Case

James Clarence Mangan

Joyce himself (Nabokov) "in the library episode known as "Scylla and Charybdis," where Stephen Dedalus explains how the great Shakespeare "has hidden his own name, a fair name, William, in the plays, a super here, a elown there, as a painter of old Italy set his face in a dark corner of his canvas..." (Ulysses, 221). This, as Nabokov concludes from evidence hinted at earlier on in his lecture, "is exactly what Joyce has done--setting his face in a dark corner of his canvas. The Man in the Brown Macintosh who passes through the dream of the book is no other than the author himself. Bloom glimpses his maker!"."

Rudolph Bloom's ghost (John Gordon, paywall) more

Joseph from Old Testament (Cosgrove, paywall)

arsonist (Barger)