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Ulysses 

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All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. 

Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag 

crossed from Cassidy’s, clutching a naggin bottle by the 

neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the 

earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born 

everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. 

Dead: an old woman’s: the grey sunken cunt of the world. 

Desolation. 

Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his 

pocket he turned into Eccles street, hurrying homeward. 

Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age 

crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I 

am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong 

side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow’s 

exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick 

houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation 

is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, 

MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters 

on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of 

the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed 

flesh. Yes, yes. 

Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley 

road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening 

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footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair 

on the wind. 

Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped 

and gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened 

heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. 

—Poldy! 

Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and 

walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled 

head. 

—Who are the letters for? 

He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly. 

—A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a 

card to you. And a letter for you. 

He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near 

the curve of her knees. 

—Do you want the blind up? 

Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his 

backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it 

under her pillow. 

—That do? he asked, turning. 

She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. 

—She got the things, she said. 

He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled 

herself back slowly with a snug sigh. 

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—Hurry up with that tea, she said. I’m parched. 

—The kettle is boiling, he said. 

But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, 

tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the 

foot of the bed. 

As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: 

—Poldy! 

—What? 

—Scald the teapot. 

On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the 

spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in 

four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let the 

water flow in. Having set it to draw he took off the kettle, 

crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the 

lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the 

kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too 

much meat she won’t mouse. Say they won’t eat pork. 

Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her 

and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. 

Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from 

the chipped eggcup. 

Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page 

and over. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel 

picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan’s seaside girls. 

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The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, 

sham crown 

Derby, smiling. Silly Milly’s birthday gift. Only five she 

was then. No, wait: four. I gave her the amberoid 

necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper 

in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring. 

O, Milly Bloom, you are my darling. 

You are my lookingglass from night to morning. 

I’d rather have you without a farthing 

Than Katey Keogh with her ass and garden. 

Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still he 

was a courteous old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to 

bow Molly off the platform. And the little mirror in his 

silk hat. The night Milly brought it into the parlour. O, 

look what I found in professor Goodwin’s hat! All we 

laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she 

was. 

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: 

then fitted the teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he 

took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, 

spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs, his thumb 

hooked in the teapot handle. 

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Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the 

tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead. 

—What a time you were! she said. 

She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, 

an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her 

bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her 

nightdress like a shegoat’s udder. The warmth of her 

couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance 

of the tea she poured. 

A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the 

dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten 

the bedspread. 

—Who was the letter from? he asked. 

Bold hand. Marion. 

—O, Boylan, she said. He’s bringing the programme. 

—What are you singing? 

—La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love’s Old 

Sweet Song. 

Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that 

incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater. 

—Would you like the window open a little? 

She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking: 

—What time is the funeral? 

—Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn’t see the paper. 

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