By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane,
Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too.
And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and
walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of
offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her
forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he
won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da
home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend
street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past
Nichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged
the job for O'Neill's. Singing 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
tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my
tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
In Westland row 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 inhaling his hairoil
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 of the leather headband inside his
high grade ha. 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 read again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon
brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to
float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like
that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in DOLCE FAR NIENTE, not doing a
hand's turn all day. 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.