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Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. 

Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. 

The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. 

Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping 

sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to 

eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that 

picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea 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? Or is it the volume is equal to the 

weight? It’s a law something like that. Vance in High 

school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college 

curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really 

when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per 

second. Law of falling bodies: per second 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. How 

did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. 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 second per second. Per second for 

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every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a 

keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late 

box. Post here. 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 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 her and glanced rapidly at 

the typed envelope. 

Henry Flower Esq, 

c/o P. O. Westland Row, 

City. 

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his 

sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. 

Where’s old Tweedy’s regiment? Castoff soldier. There: 

bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he’s a grenadier. 

Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. 

Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go 

after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud 

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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. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: 

ed. The King’s own. Never see him dressed up as a 

fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes. 

He strolled out of the postoffice 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, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay 

a lot of heed, I don’t think. His fingers drew forth the 

letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. 

Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No. 

M’Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my 

way. Hate company when you. 

—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to? 

—Hello, M’Coy. Nowhere in particular. 

—How’s the body? 

—Fine. How are you? 

—Just keeping alive, M’Coy said. 

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low 

respect: 

—Is there any ... no trouble I hope? I see you’re ... 

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—O, 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. 

—E ... eleven, 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, searched his pockets 

for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm 

for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of 

her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that 

haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste 

till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. 

Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus 

is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out 

of her. 

—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. 

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Doran 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. 

Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight 

perhaps. 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 

foostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out 

for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her 

bow. 

—Why? I said. What’s wrong with him? 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? 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, 

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