Page 157 (8.486-524) "piledup... Young woman."

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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 rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's mushroom houses, built of breeze. Shelter for the night.

Kirwan's mushroom houses?

"mushroom houses" = food + architecture + compassion + springing-up-overnight


No one is anything.

existentially bleak, infinity = zero


This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.



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

1 Grafton street
StreetView now
1909 map

built 1760

81yo in 1901

Salmon had died in January

[source]

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silver ware in Walter Sexton's window opposite by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.

56yo in 1901

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, puffed, 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 pawns. 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.

some editions say 'Kavanagh' not "Boulger"

Charles, John, Fanny, Emily

"scarlet harness" vs "crimson halters"?

41yo in 1901

56yo in 1901

1907

— Of the twoheaded octopus, 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 tentacles...

1882 political cartoon of Mormonism as hydra

2 heads + 8 tentacles, cf 6 heads + 1 tentacle?

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.

>

mysteries: better pix of Parnells, Fanny's poems


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Page 156 (8.448-485) "does be... pavements,"

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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.

in episode 15 Bloom will hallucinate Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid's accusations: "He surprised me in the rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me and I was discoloured in four places as a result. And he interfered twict with my clothing."
and in 18 Molly will think "so long as I dont have the two of them under my nose all the time like that slut that Mary we had in Ontario Terrace padding out her false bottom to excite him"

Ontario Terrace dates this to 1897



— 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 fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about our lovely land. Gammon and spinach. 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 inveigling them to your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the band. No grace for the carver. Thought that the other chap pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Home Rule sun rising up in the northwest.

which tearoom???


p55 "a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland"


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: squads 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 tugged 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, bawling maaaaaa.

cf p58-59 cloud
he's entering Grafton street
"two loonies" Breen and Farrell?
cf p97 "Thousands every hour" closer to 2/sec
"maaaaaa"
Technic: Peristaltic prose

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements,

>

mysteries: Griffith in 1901?


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Page 155 (8.410-447) "their beats... gentleman"

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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 cavalry. 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? 

"crossed" (the statue was in the middle of College street?)

c1910

1875

 



He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack 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 hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky 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 skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their mortarboards. 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.

Hamlet I.v "I could a tale unfold"
18 Dec 1899


— Up the Boers!


— Three cheers for De Wet!

De Wet


— We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.

lyrics, history, ♬


Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high.

Butter Exchange Band est 1878, music
"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 twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And who is the gentleman

food imagery: Egging, raw, potato, menu

>

mysteries:


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Page 154 (8.371-409) "He walked on... saluting, towards"

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He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan.



Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt 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. Twilight sleep 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 pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. 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 tiresome 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.

about $3000 today


Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing.



Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after! Peaceful eyes. Weight off their mind. 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 nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. 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 gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

son 20yo in 1901

Doc Murren p109


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.

1909 map w/Goose green (Joyce lived nearby at 13yo: #2 Millbourne)

resemblance in  eyes?

A squad of constables 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 scattered, saluting, towards

1890

1909 map
StreetView now

looking back north c1895

more pix, 1865

(College street is a little north of the parliament/bank, but Bloom notices the latter first)

A policeman's lot is not a happy one ♬
 

>

mysteries: pic of Bolton's


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Page 153 (8.332-370) "poet A.E... my way."

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poet A.E. (Mr Geo Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.



Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc cuisine, 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 per cent dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca'canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the today news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward 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 mare 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: wishswish. 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 ranger 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 tingled for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks.

62yo in 1901

 [more]

Irish Field: 'devoted to the interests of the Irish turf and Irish steeple-chasing, racing, hunting, coursing, aquatic sports, yachting, rowing, cricket, cycling, angling, shooting, athletic sports, football, polo, &c. ; it forms a complete record of all the sports of the week in Ireland' Saturdays, 3d, founded 1870, published by the Irish Times [cite]

1907

"Not for Joe" context lyrics lyrics sheetmusic

Grosvenor p70

Shelbourne hotel

61yo in 1901

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Y.M.C.A. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest 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.

Mrs Purefoy's husband is almost as odd as Mrs Breen's?
Hamlet II.ii "Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't."

saffron buns

"educational dairy" 1883
"t.t" teetotaller

meta-discussion about annotating this paragraph [pdf]


He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way.

Bloom's been making very slow progress
1909 map
StreetView now

>

mysteries: pic of 3 Jolly Topers


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Page 152 (8.295-331) "A bony... eminent"

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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 dangled to his stride.

"from the river" = same direction as Bloom


— Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!

lampposts on Westmoreland pic


— 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!

49yo in 1901 (1911?)

James Henry Boyle Tisdell/Tisdale Burke Stewart Fitzsimons ‘Masher’ 'Endymion' Farrell [cite]


— 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 dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. 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 jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

(she sees DB, says bye to LB, heads towards DB, and only then does Bloom see DB shuffling out of Harrison's?)


Meshuggah. Off his chump.



Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling 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.

"Going the two days" supposedly 'Dublin slang for behaving with extraordinary flair or flourish'


U.p: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house, I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster 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 wading through fortyfour 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 eminent

The main entrance to the Irish Times had moved from Westmoreland to D'Olier street

Irish Times,1948 (note lamppost, curb, and crowded sidewalk)

Martha Clifford spoilers
Songs and Poems by Lizzie Twigg

>

mysteries:


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Page 151 (8.258-294) "U.P: up, ...man pass."

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— U.P: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great shame for them whoever he is.

"U.P: up" recurs 14 times but it can't be what the card actually says

#1 is most likely, #3 least

if there were periods, it would mean the letters stood for something (like United Presbyterian), and Bloom would speak or think those words

Someone


— 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.

nextdoor to Dillon's auction rooms just across the river


She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.



Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy 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.

one style of toque

Molly is 33yo, Bloom is 38


See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.



He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades. 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.

p66-67


— 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.

"on the way in" = the Breens live SE of Dublin?

44yo in 1901

— 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 compassion. Dth! Dth!

the cliche is 'Tsk! Tsk!' ...so how is "Dth" better? less judgmental?


— 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.

>

mysteries:


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