This eBook is designed and published by Planet pdf. For more free

Ulysses 

204 

of

 1305 

Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the 

other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. 

Time of the plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. 

Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is 

that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, 

water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your 

whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. 

Can’t bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. 

Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is 

let down. Underground communication. We learned that 

from them. Wouldn’t be surprised. Regular square feed 

for them. Flies come before he’s well dead. Got wind of 

Dignam. They wouldn’t care about the smell of it. 

Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw 

white turnips. 

The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the 

world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer 

every time. Last time I was here was Mrs Sinico’s funeral. 

Poor papa too. The love that kills. And even scraping up 

the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to 

get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running 

gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to 

you after death. You will see my ghost after death. My 

ghost will haunt you after death. There is another world 

---

Ulysses 

205 

of

 1305 

after death named hell. I do not like that other world she 

wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. 

Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their 

maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings. 

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. 

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking 

gravely. 

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John 

Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. 

Dignam used to be in his office. Mat Dillon’s long ago. 

Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl, cigars, the 

Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got 

his rag out that evening on the bowlinggreen because I 

sailed inside him. Pure fluke of mine: the bias. Why he 

took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly 

and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. 

Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by. 

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably. 

—Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them. 

They stopped. 

—Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing. 

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant 

without moving. 

---

Ulysses 

206 

of

 1305 

—There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. 

John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge 

and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He 

clapped the hat on his head again. 

—It’s all right now, Martin Cunningham said. 

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in 

acknowledgment. 

—Thank you, he said shortly. 

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, 

chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear. 

Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind a 

sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his 

seeing it. 

Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when 

it dawns on him. Get the pull over him that way. 

Thank you. How grand we are this morning! 

 

* * * * *  

IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN 

METROPOLIS 

Before Nelson’s pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed 

trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, 

---

Ulysses 

207 

of

 1305 

Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park and 

upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, 

Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold’s Cross. The 

hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company’s timekeeper 

bawled them off: 

—Rathgar and Terenure! 

—Come on, Sandymount Green! 

Right and left parallel clanging ringing a doubledecker 

and a singledeck moved from their railheads, swerved to 

the down line, glided parallel. 

—Start, Palmerston Park! 

THE WEARER OF THE CROWN 

Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks 

called and polished. Parked in North Prince’s street His 

Majesty’s vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the 

royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, 

postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, 

provincial, British and overseas delivery. 

GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS 

Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of 

Prince’s stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. 

---

Ulysses 

208 

of

 1305 

On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled 

by grossbooted draymen out of Prince’s stores. 

—There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes. 

—Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I’ll take 

it round to the Telegraph office. 

The door of Ruttledge’s office creaked again. Davy 

Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat 

crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers 

under his cape, a king’s courier. 

Red Murray’s long shears sliced out the advertisement 

from the newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and 

paste. 

—I’ll go through the printingworks, Mr Bloom said, 

taking the cut square. 

—Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said 

earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one. 

—Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I’ll rub that in. 

We. 

WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF 

OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT 

Red Murray touched Mr Bloom’s arm with the shears 

and whispered: 

—Brayden. 

---