Page 163 (8.718-756) "all the plates... sandwich?"

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all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

1884ff

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic of course it stinks Italian organgrinders crisp of onions, mushrooms, truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

(Wikipedia claims that the business end of a poleaxe is the spike, not the blade, to kill them instantly with a blow to the head. And they also seem to have a long handle/pole for leverage?)

"Plup" = onomatopoetic variant on 'plop'?
"bloody bones" (cf p44, notes)
"Top and lashers" = head and tail


Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

the spirits in Homer's Book XI (Hades) are hungry for an offering of blood


Ah, I'm hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

"Moral pub" seems to be Joyce's original phrase!? So what makes a pub im/moral?


What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

weak beer diluted with ginger ale or lemonade [aka shandy]


— Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

— Hello, Flynn.

— How's things?

— Tiptop... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see.

NF in Dubliners


Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese.

mustered joke: 1890
Plumtree: p72

too salty

"There was a right royal old nigger,
Who ate the balls of the Reverend MacTrigger. [or Rigger]
His five hundred wives
Had the time of their lives,
It grew bigger and bigger and bigger."

cf p94: "the fifth quarter is lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla."

"cauls... tripes... windpipes" = barely in/edible
"mouldy" = "dicky"
"faked and minced up" = disguised

Mity cheese

cheese mite

[more]


— Have you a cheese sandwich?

>

mysteries:


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[From photographs to historical VRs]

before photography
location data included
paintings and drawings
verbal descriptions (diaries, journalism, novels)
government data (tax records, building records)
maps


so any vr that tries to recreate any part
of the world before photography
will inevitably be mostly guesses
and semirandom algorithmic variations
on plausible basic rules


but with photography
unreliable depictions of places
were gradually supplemented
by much more detailed and trustworthy and convenient and numerous
captures of moments in spacetime

that enforce severe local constraints
on those algorithms
(especially building facades)

with 'tourist attractions' documented best at first
while building interiors (and backsides)
were rarely documented at all

so Ulysses is set in a time
of painfully finite photographic documentation


most Dublin streets remained unimaged
maybe even until StreetView

and the first step towards a Ulysses VR
must be cataloguing all known photos
and refining the algorithmic simplification
of known architectural styles
to plausibly fill in gaps

---

is there already a way to grow a simcity on a dublin streetmap (and then descend into a streetview for exploration)?

from simcity 3000 in the year 2000 i find a free 271k 'Real-City Terrain'

and from 2012 a 3.76Mb SimTropolis terrain ("requires SC4TerraFormer")

Zynga's CityVille is free but my googling for 'Dublin' is flooded with discussion of that company's real customer service center in that city

it would be nice if you could say 'grow a city on this empty dublin streetmap' and watch it gradually populate the streets with residential and business neighborhoods, as property values fluctuate...

Page 162 (8.680-717) "Two stouts... wash up"

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— Two stouts here.

— One corned and cabbage.


That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.



An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?

a 29yo law clerk in 1901 (common surname)

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:

— Not here. Don't see him.

Out. I hate dirty eaters.


He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

41yo in 1901

— Roast and mashed here.


— Pint of stout.



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



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



Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children, cabmen, priests, parsons, fieldmarshals, archbishops. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a soup pot as big as the Phoenix Park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up

"Father O'Flynn" ♬
'Dont talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous forever at Greek and Latinity,
Dad and the divils and all at Divinity
Father OFlynn d make hares of them all!' [lyrics]

City Arms [pic] [1901]

>

mysteries: Rock's forename


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Page 161 (8.640-679) "Duke street... of his nose."

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Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

StreetView now

in 1901 (and still today) the numbering seems to have gone from #2 on Bloom's left (the Bailey bar/restaurant, ignored by Joyce) up the left side of the street to ~#11, and back down the right side to the Burton Hotel at #18 and Davy Byrne's at #21, opposite the Bailey. (George Moore's literary circle, including Gogarty and excluding Joyce, met at the Bailey thruout the decade.)

Combridge Ltd on right

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.



— Jack, love!


— Darling!


— Kiss me, Reggy!


— My boy!


— Love!

his surrendering now threatens to overwhelm him with random images of lust...?

1950s

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See the animals feed.

a few doors down on the right, 18 Duke street in 1901

whatever overwhelmed him now turns his stomach


Men, men, men.

(is it Boylan who really disgusts him?)


Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however.



— Roast beef and cabbage.


— One stew.



Smells of men. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.

(why should Byrne's be any different?)


His gorge rose.



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

"tootles" = teeth?

Hamlet III.iv "Look here upon this picture, and on this" (good vs evil)
"Get out of this" echoes commands to animals in ch3 and ch6


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

cf 'snooty'

>

mysteries: pix of Burton, Combridge's


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Page 160 (8.600-639) "him good... to adore."

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him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all.

54yo in 1901?

the Harp Musical Hall in Adam court closed in 1893

54yo in 1901

died NYC 1890

harvestmoon face

"Three Little Maids From School Are We" ♬

"The harp that once through Tara`s halls" ♬


I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

looking back towards Trinity

1925

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints, silk dames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Country bred chawbacon. All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb.

Molly remembers Grafton: "I hate those rich shops get on your nerves nothing kills me altogether only he [LB] thinks he knows a great lot about a womans dress and cooking mathering everything he can scour off the shelves into it if I went by his advices every blessed hat I put on does that suit me yes take that thats alright the one like a weddingcake standing up miles off my head he said suited me or the dishcover one coming down on my backside on pins and needles about the shopgirl in that place in Grafton street I had the misfortune to bring him into and she as insolent as ever she could be with her smirk saying Im afraid were giving you too much trouble what shes there for but I stared it out of her"


He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa è santa! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.

1848

cf p147 "Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain of black celluloid."

♬


Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window curtains.



He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.

cuts love


Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

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

...to Eccles to interrupt the rendezvous (has Bloom been delaying his lunch until he decides this?)

cf p152 (quoting Martha p75): "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."


High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silk webs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world.



A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

(surrendering finally to his masochism)
Molly: "if he wants to kiss my bottom Ill drag open my drawers and bulge it right out in his face as large as life"

>

mysteries: better vid of Meyerbeer


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Page 159 (8.562-599) "His lids... soda would do"

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His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.



He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.

1893 or 1894


Now that I come to think of it, that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door.

36yo in 1901

Ah.


His hand fell to his side again.



Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas, then solid, then world, then cold, then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I believe there is.



He went on by la Maison Claire.



Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming: the young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Molly's version:
"the night Boylan gave my hand a great squeeze
going along by the Tolka
in my hand there steals another [sheetmusic]
I just pressed the back of his like that with my thumb
to squeeze back
singing the young May Moon shes beaming love
because he has an idea about him and me
hes not such a fool"


 lyrics


Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.



Mr Bloom, quick breathing, slowlier walking, passed Adam court.

just visible on 1909 map


With a keep quiet relief, his eyes took note: this is street here middle of the day Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M'Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year sober as a judge.

sloping bottle shoulders

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do

>

mysteries: pic of Maison Claire


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Page 158 (8.525-561) "And there he... glasses by."

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And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time. Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent poet Mr Geo Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A.E: what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman in literary work.

(contrast his systematic work on "A.E." vs none on "u.p.")
AE was a printer's misreading of Æ which was short for Æon which was (briefly) AE's mystical self-name


His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier. Wind and watery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night.

"high figure" (how tall was AE?) he'd been married for 6yrs and had 2 sons [cite]
Joyce had recently had mock turkey at a vegetarian restaurant [cite]
the consensus is that "Bad as a bloater" refers to cattle flatulence, but from the context a salted herring sounds likelier (cf FW305.16 "if you're not your bloater's kipper")

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless, Those literary ethereal people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood.

Padraic Colum guessed the loose-stockings woman would more likely have been Susan Langstaff Mitchell (1866-1926, poet and subeditor at Irish Homestead, author of "George Moore" &c, 44yo in 1911, 34yo in 1901) not 'fastidious' Lizzie Twigg [reg req]

The dreamy cloudy gull
Waves o'er the waters dull.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses, six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloak rooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's bag and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.

Grafton: StreetView now, 1909 map
StreetView north towards bank roof

1907

Gifford says Yeates was on the west side of Grafton, but he sometimes gets these backwards
six guineas in 1904 = $800 now

70yo w/30yo wife in 1901

Morris's daughter Lizzie may have married the painter Wm Sinclair and borne a junior Wm who was a wellmannered 19yo Protestant art student in 1901 but later a 29yo Jewish art dealer (middle name Abraham) in 1911 (but this is speculative)

train route via Limerick junction

>

mysteries: pix of Twigg, Mitchell, Yeates, Morris's


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