Page 168 (8.910-949) "Pebbles... the day before"

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Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

nannies are female but may have horns

'currants'

"nun's veiling" = technical term for sheer soft plain white fabric (doesn't veil face)

she was 17, he was 21 or 22 [bio]


Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.



His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All to see. Never speaking, I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods, golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar, imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Lovely forms of woman sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something fall see if she.

"tanner" = 6d

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.



When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

politely waits till LB is out of earshot
petty cash book


— What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

— He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the Freeman.

Drimmie's, 1896-97


— I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

Byrne didn't greet Bloom on p163 but if he remembers about Drimmie's then LB must have been coming in for 8yrs


— Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

— I noticed he was in mourning.

— Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by God. So he was.

— I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.

(remarkable emphasis on Byrne's morals)


— It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before

>

mysteries:


[DD 02:04-05:09]
[DD 00:00-01:38]

[IM 1:06:58-1:10:11]

[LV1 23:03-26:17]

[LV2 09:18-12:52]


lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

Page 167 (8.872-909) "Or who was... willing eyes."

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Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course, aristocrats. Then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de la crème. They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon. High sheriff, Coffey the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten. Too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. Du, de la, French. Still it's the same fish, perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money, hand over fist, finger in fishes' gills, can't write his name on a cheque, think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

"scruff" = dandruff

49yo in 1901

ptarmigan

46yo in 1901, father of Killiney misses

son 34yo in 1911?

"A Kish of Brogues" ebook


Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

flypaper as sexual metaphor



Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping: sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes.

cf p67: "Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night."

"Pillowed on my coat she had her hair,
earwigs in the heather scrub [ie, because she feared them]
my hand under her nape"

heather scrub

Molly's version: "we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head... the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth... leading him on till he asked me to say yes... and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

Howth couple video

>

mysteries: MickeyH in 1901?


[DD 02:45-05:49]
[DD 00:00-02:04]

[IM 1:03:28-1:06:58]

[LV1 19:23-23:03]

[LV2 05:25-09:18]


lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

[Greeting to new visitors, 16 Sept 2014]

This blog is an experiment using Google's free blogging tools to compile a new hypermedia edition of James Joyce's Ulysses using only free online resources, but aiming to link as many such resources as possible.

Unlike the parallel Finnegans Wake, this edition isn't trying to keep up a breakneck one-page-a-day schedule, but we expect to move a little faster than Frank Delaney's very leisurely page-a-month podcasts (which we'll continue to embed in our text). (He had a 3-year's headstart and is currently nearing the end of episode 5 (Lotus-eaters) as we're starting to work through episode 8 (Lestrygonians).)

The Blogger toolkit insists that all pages be arranged in reverse chronological order, with limited 'cheating' permitted, so if you want to start at the beginning (preliminaries, general themes, ch1 overview, page 3) the navigation is regrettably clumsy and takes getting used to.

The searchbox in the upper left is a quick way to find all pages with a particular searchpattern. Another navigation aid is via Blogger's tags, called 'Labels': Telemachus, Nestor, Proteus, Calypso, Lotus-eaters, Hades, Eolus, episodes, motifs, riddles, characters, Joyce, reference, editing, blogging

If instead you want to browse, you can try this 'special pages index' (mostly Finnegans-Wake stuff now) or the 'Blog Archive' in the upper right margin of each page. The page-pages have widely varying quantities of images, videos, links, maps and annotations. Four audiobook editions are also embedded at the bottom of each page, with time-indexes. (You can suggest additions or report broken links in the comments.)

Popular recent 'special' Ulysses pages have discussed a possible boardgame and/or VR game. And theme park.

If you want to help, there are some mostly-FW-related special projects suggested here.

(We'll assume that you know how to do your own one-click Google searches by highlighting phrases and right-clicking them, then selecting 'search' from the popup menu. This is a necessary basic skill.)

Page 166 (8.834-871) "He went towards... Habsburgs?"

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He went towards the window and, taking up the petty cash book, scanned its pages.



— I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.

accurate except colt not filly

St Amant

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.

fluted tumbler

— Ay, he said, sighing.



Mr Bloom, champing standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly beards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

p123: "Who wants a dead cert for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up."

not really big at all

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six, six. Time will be gone then. She...



Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters? Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old fish at table. Perhaps he young flesh in bed. No. June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it. No. Yes, or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs?

Johnny Magories (aka rosehips) are edible

Red Bank p89

conventionally repunctuated: 'Was he...? oysters...? old fish...? at table...? Perhaps he...? young flesh...? in bed...?'

'century' egg

>

mysteries:


[DD 02:09-04:17]
[DD 00:00-02:45]

[IM 1:00:14-1:03:28]

[LV1 16:05-19:23]

[LV2 01:33-05:25]



lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

Page 165 (8.795-833) "He smellsipped... Byrne said."

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He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down.



— Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.



No fear: no brains.

Bloom reassures himself that NF isn't malicious


Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.



— He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxing match Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me...

Jack Mooney in Dubliners

18yo 'Myles' was a barber in 1901 (there are several other Keoghs named Myles and Miles but no Myler's in 1901 or 1911)
actual date: 29 April 1904


Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.



— For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.



Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the parsnips.

"tuckstitched" refers to the fabric not the hem

so Bloom can't see the rest of the tuckstitched shirt? (if Joyce just wrote 'in shirtsleeves' it might suggest he's underdressed)

so the moral DavyB has been eating or drinking... but so what?

maybe from 'it would make a red herring blush'? (it sounds more like the smile of the vanishing Cheshire cat)

"Whose smile..." ♬ (see also p83) mawkishly sentimental
"such and such" = 'truthfulness'

'too much butter on the parsnips' would logically imply not enough kind words (which could have substituted for some of the food)??? but the song lyric is quite the opposite

(Joyce is probably intentionally disguising some meaning here, lost in Bloom's poor memory for sayings)


— And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup?

"pepper on him" puns full-of-energy with having-apparently-just-eaten


— I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse.



— You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.



Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off.

LB trusts DavyB washed his hands first? (Joyce needs to warn us that LB's disgust is not directed towards DavyB)


Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there.

(the bar is marble now)


— I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man the same horses.



Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.



— True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

Zinfandel: 5 to 4
Sceptre: 7 to 4
Maximum II: 10 to 1
Throwaway: 20 to 1 [p82]

St Amant had won the Derby on 2 June, but was not running in the Cup
bettors happily delude themselves with such "could have"s


— That so? Davy Byrne said.

>

mysteries:


[DD 03:22-04:28]
[DD 00:00-02:09]

[IM 57:56-1:00:14]

[LV1 13:36-16:05]

[LV2 35:41-37:26]
[LV2 00:26-01:33]



lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

Page 164 (8.757-794) "Yes, sir... longingly. Wine."

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— Yes, sir.

(how often does Bloom drink wine there with lunch?)


Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy: take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber. Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.



— Wife well?



— Quite well, thanks... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

— Yes, sir.


Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.


— Doing any singing those times?



Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match. Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no harm. Free ad.



— She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard perhaps.



— No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?



The curate served.



— How much is that?



— Seven d, sir... Thank you, sir.

pronounced 'pence'?
$3.79 in 2014 (amazing deal)


Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrigger. Easier than the dreamy creamy stuff. His five hundred wives. Had the time of their lives.



— Mustard, sir?



— Thank you.



He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.



— Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits.



— Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?



A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

the clock expresses bad temper


His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly.



Wine.

(Bloom nudges himself to drink, to soothe his mood)

>

mysteries:


[DD 00:03-03:22]

[IM 55:46-57:56]

[LV1 11:19-13:36]

[LV2 33:19-35:41]



lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

[Future pix]

I need a place to stash pix I come across that won't be useful until future episodes...


Amiens

Nighttown: pic

Ithaca: Sinbad


Chapelizod: pic

Leeson street gate: pic

Hole in the Wall: pic

Phoenix park races: pic

Strawberry Beds: pic



Jeyes fluids (FW)