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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
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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.
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—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,
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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.
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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.
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