Textual development Typescript to Errata

Compiled by Danis Rose and John O'Hanlon

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By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed (3crusher crusher's3), the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the (3quay quayside3) and walked through Lime street. |7By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl |9with scars of eczema on her forehead9| eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.7| |8Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses.º8| |9Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da.9| Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, (3passing passed3) the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the (3undertaker undertaker's3). At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged (3the that3) job for O'Neill's. (5Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom |8tooraloom8| tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycallº. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.5)

In Westland (3Row row3) he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly (5inhaling his hairoil5) and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow
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of the leather headband inside his high grade |9hat ha9|. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and readº again: choice
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blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. |8The far east.8| Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves |7to float about on, cactuses7|, (5flowery meads,5) snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing (3about around3) in the sun |8in dolce far niente8|, notº doing a (5damn tap hand's turn5) all day. |7Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel.7| Influence of the climate. |6Lethargy.6| (5Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. |8Sensitive plants.8| Waterlilies. |7Petals too tired to.7| Sleeping sicknessº in the air. |7Walk on roseleaves.7| Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel.5) Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah (3yes3), in the dead sea(3,3) floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what?º Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. |6Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum.6| What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per secondº per second. Law of falling bodies: per secondº per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. |8How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something.8| As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per secondº per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the (3post office postoffice3). (5Too late box. Post here.5) No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

— Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the
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recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked (3herº3) and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flowerº Esq,

c/o P.O. Westland Row,

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Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? |7Castoff soldier.7| (3There:3) bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. (3That's it There he is3): royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. |7Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill.7| Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. |7Mark time.7| (5Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.5)

He strolled out of the (3post office postoffice3) and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, (3tearing ripping3) it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter (3the letter3) and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned (3to the letter on3): photo perhaps. (3Hair: no. Hair? No.3)

M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. |6Take me out of my way.6| (5Hate company when you.5)

— Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

— Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

— How's the body?

|8Well Fine8|. How are you?

— Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he (3said asked3) with (3soft low3) respect:
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— Is there any … no trouble I hope? I see you're …

— O(3,3) no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

— To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.º

(3Eeleven E … eleven3), Mr Bloom answered.

— I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

— I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her(3,3) searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like (3blanket cloth blanketcloth3). Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch
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. (5Like that haughty creature at the polo match. |7Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield.7| The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.5)

— I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran(3,3) Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums. |7Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps.7| Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she get up?

— And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foosteringº over that change for? (5Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. |6Two strings to her bow.6|5)
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Why? I said. What's wrong with (3him, him?3) I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute.

What's wrong with him?º he said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. |7Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri.7| Always happening like that. The very moment. (5Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you |7looking gaping7| at?5)

— Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

— One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick.
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— Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

— O(3,3) yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without
Plumtree's Potted Meat?
With it an abode of bliss.

— My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.

Valise tack again. |6By the way no harm.6| I'm off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes (3in with3) unhasty (3surprise, friendlily: friendliness.º3)

— My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster (3Hall hall,3) Belfast(3,3) on the twentyfifth.
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— That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. |6Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and.6| No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. (3Letter.3) Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Comes lo-ove'sº old …º

— It's a kind of a tour, don't you see(3,?3) Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. (3Sweeeet song Sweeeet song3). There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.

M'Coy nodded, picking (3at3) his moustache stubble.

— O(3,3) well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

— Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

— Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. |9There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down |10if the body is found10|.9| You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you?
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— I'll do that, Mr Bloom (3said3), moving |6to get off6|. That'll be all right.

— Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. (3Well. Tolloll. Well, tolloll.3) Just C.P. M'Coy will do.

— That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't |6come off catch me napping6| that wheeze. |6The quick touch. Soft mark.6| (5I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. |8Bob Cowley lent him
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his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.8|5)

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. (5Cheeseparing nose.5) Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you (3know: in know? In3) the same boat. |7Softsoaping.7| Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference? |6Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow.6| Thought that Belfast would fetch him. |9I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again.9| Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's|9.9| Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's (3Summer Sale summer sale3). No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight(3.:3) Mrs (3Bandman Bandmannº3) Palmer. Like to see her (3again in that in that again3). (5|7Hamlet Hamlet7| she played last night. Male impersonator.5) |7Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide|11.?11|7| Poor papa! How he used to talk (3of about3) Kate Bateman in that(3.!3) Outside the Adelphi in London (3waiting waited3) all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the (3right3) name is? By Mosenthal it is. (3Rachel Rachelº3), is it? No. The scene he (3spoke of was always talking about3) where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.

(3º3) Nathan's voice! His (3father's son's3) voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die (3in my hands3) of grief and misery (3in my arms3), who left the house of his father and (3left3) the God of his father.

(3So Every word is so3) deep, Leopold. (3Every word.3)

Poor (3Papa papa3)! Poor man! I'm gladº I (3never looked at his face after he did it didn't go intoº the room to look at his face3). That day! O(3,3) dear! O(3,3) dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was (3the3) best for him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping |7horses nags7| of the hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.
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|88| He came nearer and heard (3the a3) crunching of |s10the gildeds10| oats, (3their the3) gently
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champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by|7, amid the sweet oaten reek of |atheir urine horsepissa|7|. |8Their Eldorado.8| Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. |6Too full for words.6| Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. |7Still their neigh can be very irritating.7|

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He |7hummed, passing passed7| the cabman's shelter(5. Curious the life of drifting cabbies|10,10| |7allº weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. |9Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass.9| He hummed7|5):

Là ci darem la mano
La la lala la la.

He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. (5Piled balks.5) Ruins and tenements. (5With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court |6with its forgotten pickeystone6|. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. |10A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her.10| Open it. |9When And once9| I played marbles when |8I8| went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr?5) He opened the letter within the newspaper.

A flower. |7I think it's a.7| A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?

Dear Henryº

I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please
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tell me what is the real
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meaning of that word(3?.3) Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not (5write wrote5). O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling(3,.3) I have such a bad headache(3.3) today(3.3) and write |8soon by return8| to your longing(3.3)


P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.º

|44| |4X X X X4|

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold|7,º smelt its almost no smell7| and placed it in his heart pocket. |7Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down.7| Then(3,3) walking slowly forward(3,3) he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. |7Angry tulips. with you darling manflower punish your |alianas cactusa| if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon |9anemone9| meet all naughty nightstalk wife |9Martha Martha's9| perfume.7| Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. |9Wonder did she wrote it herself.9| Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after (5mass the rosary5). Thank you: not having any. |7Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic.7| Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words|6,6| of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes
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somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. (5No roses without thorns.5)

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain|6:.6|
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|8O,8| (3Mairy lost the pin of her drawers Mairy lost the pin of her drawers|6.6|3)
(3She didn't know what to do She didn't know what to do3)
(3To keep it up, To keep it up,º3)
(3To keep it up. To keep it up.3)

It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her |7monthlies roses7| probably. (5Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves.5) What perfume does your wife use(3.?3) Now could you make out a thing like that?º

(3To keep it up. Toº keep it up.3)

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now |6old master or faked for money6|. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

(3To keep it up. Toº keep it up.º3)

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. |7Forget.7| Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one|9,9| |6jar on her head|9,9|6| was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of (3a the3) well,º |6things like that stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown6|. |6Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches.6| She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter(3,3) then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a (5sevenfigure5) cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. (10Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or
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.10) A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.
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He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver (3S.J.º3) and the African (3Mission mission3).º |9Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. |aThe protestants are the same. Convert Dr Williamº J. Walshº D.D. to the true religion.ºa|9| |7Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. |9|aCelestials. |bAll Rankb| heresy for them.ºa| Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. |10Josssticks burning.10| Not like Ecce Homoº. Crown of thorns and cross.9| Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks.?7| Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: (3distinguishedlooking distinguished looking3). |10Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that.10| He's not going out (5in bluey specs |7withº the sweat rolling off him7|5) to baptise blacks, is he? |9The glasses would take their fancy, flashing.9| Like to see them sitting round in a |6circle ring |7with blub lips7|, entranced6|, listening. |7Still life.7| Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He |7trod the worn steps,7| pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the (3sideway rereº3).
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Something going on: some sodality. |7Nice Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next |aa somea| girl. |aWho is my neighbour?a| Jammed by the hour wi to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven.7| Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the (3altarrails altar rails3). The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. (3Then the next one. Her hat sank at once.3) Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. (5Shut your eyes and open your mouth.5) What? (3Corpus: body. Corpus. Body.3) Corpse. |6Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first.6| (5Hospice for the dying.5) They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. (3Strange Rum3) idea: eating bits of a corpse.º |6Whyº the cannibals cotton to it.6|

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. |9These pots we have to wear. We ought
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to have hats modelled on our heads.9| They were about him here and there, (3their with3) heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened |9bread shewbread9|(3, same thing3). Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. |7Lollipop.7| It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind (3that it3), kind of (3heavenly inside |7heavenly feel inside kingdom of God is within you feel7|3). |6First communicants.6| (5Hokypoky penny a lump.5) Then feel all like one family |6party, same in the theatre6|, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. |6In our confraternity. |7Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam.7|6| Thing is if you really believe in it. |9Lourdes |10water cure cure, waters of oblivion10|, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding.9| (5Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. |6Hence those snores.6| Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.5)

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it(3,3) showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. |7Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't
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know what to do to.7| |9Bald spot behind.9| Letters on his back:º |7I.N.R.I? No:7| I.H.S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered|6,6| it is. |9And the other one? Iron nails ran in.9|

Meet one Sunday after (5mass the rosary5). Do not deny my request. (5Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her.5) She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter Carey(3, yes3). No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. (5Wife and six children at home.5) And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something (3shifty looking shiftylooking3) about them. They're not straight men of business either. O(3,3) no(3,3) she's not here: the flower: no, no. By the way(3,3) did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. |7|9Elixir of life. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic).9|7| Doesn't give them any of |9the it: |errshow shewº14|9| wine: only the other. (5Coldº comfort.5) |6Quite Pious fraud but quite6| right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. (5Spoil Queer5) the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.
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Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty (3pound pounds3) a year they say he had (3in Gardiner street3). Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. |9Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. |10Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop.10|9| I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full,º the people looking up:

Quis est homo.º
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Some of that old sacred music isº splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth mass: theº Gloria in that. Those old popes wereº keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too.º They had a gay old time while it lasted. |6Healthy too,º chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs.º |9Benedictine. Green Chartreuse.9|6| Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear |9after their own strong basses9|. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh(3,3) don't they? |6Gluttons|9, tall, long legs9|.6| Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr (3Bloom3) glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the (3rising risen3) hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back (3back3) quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

(55) O God(3,3) our refuge and our strength|6. …6|

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. |6English. Throw them the bone.6| (5I remember slightly. How long since your last mass?5) Gloriousº and immaculate virgin. Joseph(3,3) her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. (5Confession. |6Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. |9Penance.9| Punish me, please.6| Great weapon in their hands. |6More than doctor or solicitor.6| Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? |10And why did you? Look down at her ring to find |aana| excuse.10| Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. |6God's little joke.6| Then out she comes. |6Repentance skindeep.6| Lovely shame. Pray at an altar.
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|9Hail Mary and Holy Mary.9| Flowers, incense, candles melting. |6Hide her blushes.6| |9Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord.9|5) Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they
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rake in the money (3too3)? Bequests (3too also3): to |6say so many masses the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents6|. The priest in (3that the3) Fermanagh will case in the witnessboxº. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

— Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him|6,6| we humbly pray(3!3)): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. (5Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. |6Pay your Easter duty.6|5)

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time?º (5(errWoman Womenºerr) enjoy it.º Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. |6Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me before.º6| |10Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon.10| Still like you better untidy. |6Good job it wasn't farther south.6|5) He passed(3,3) discreetly (3buttoning,3) down the aisle and out through the main door into theº light. |9He stood a moment unseeing by the cold |10stone stoup black marble bowl10| while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water.9| Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks(3,:3) a widow in her weeds. |6Notice because I'm in mourning myself.6| He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that (3facewash lotion3) made up. Where is this? (3ah Ah3) yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln (3Place place3). |6|aChemists rarely move.a| |10Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to |amove stira|.10| |9Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood.9| Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.6|
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He walked southward along Westland row. But the (3prescription recipe3) is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait.
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I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O(3,3) he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have.º |9Shrunken skull.9| (5And old. |12Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists.12| Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night.5) |12Gradually changes your character.12| Living all the day among herbs|6and,6| ointments|6, disinfectants6|. |9All his alabaster lilypots. |10Mortar and pestle.10| Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. |11Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell.11| Doctor Whackº. |10he He10| ought to |10physick physic10| himself a bit.9| |11Electuary |12or emulsion12|.11| The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. |10Simples.10| Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to (5send you off |6put you to sleep chloroform you6|5). |6Test: turns blue litmus paper red.6| (5|9Opium Chloroform9|. |9Overdose of laudanum.9| Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. |9Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.9|5)

— About a fortnight ago, sir?

— Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling (3slowly3) the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges |9and loofahs9|. |6Lot of time taken up telling your |10ailments aches and pains10|.6|

— Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water …

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

— And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, |6Spanish,6| (5smelling herself,5) when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: |9strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater:9| oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. |6Skinfood. |9One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. |10Leopold, yes.10| Three we have. Warts, bunions and
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pimples to make it worse.9|6| But you want a perfume too. |6What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne.6| That orangeflower waterº is so fresh. (5Pure curd soap.º5) Nice smell these soaps have. Time to get a bath round the corner. (5Hammam. Turkish. |9Massage. |12Dirt gets rolled up in your navel.12| Nicer if a nice girl did it.9| Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in |6the6| bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage.5) Feel fresh then all (3the3) day. Funeral be rather glum.

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?
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— No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of (3these those3) soaps. How much are they?

— Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

— I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

— Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay (3altogether all together3), sir, when you come back.

— Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the |10cool wrappered coolwrappered10| soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

— Hello, Bloom(3?(5.,º what's the best news?5)3) Is that today's? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. |6Younger than I am.6|

Bantam (3Lyons's Lyons'3) yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too(3.3) (5Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap|err.?ºerr| Dandruff on his shoulders. |6Scalp wants oiling.6|5)

— I want to see about that French horse that's running today, (3Bantam3) Lyonsº said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. |9Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair.9| Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.

— You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.
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Ascot. Gold cup. Wait(3:, Bantam3) Lyons muttered. (5Half a mo.5) Maximum the second.

— I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

— What's that? (3he said sharply his sharp voice said.3)

— I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom (3answered3). I was going to throw it away that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.

— I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway's corner. (5God speed scut.5)

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. |11Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey.
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Your Christmas dinner for threepence. |12Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.12|11|

|1111| He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque,º redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the (3horsehoe horseshoe3) poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. |6Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Buller broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave.6| Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer thaaanº them all.
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Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. (5This is my body.5)

|66| He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, |9in a womb of warmth,9| oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: |9his navel, bud of flesh:9| (5and5) saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around (5the limp father of thousands,5) a languid floating flower.