He kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each plump melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation

What, reduced to their simplest reciprocal form, were Bloom's thoughts about Stephen's thoughts about Bloom and Stephen's thoughts about Bloom's thoughts about Stephen? He thought that he thought that he was a jew whereas he knew that he knew that he knew that he was not.

He reflected that the progressive extension of the field of individual development and experience was regressively accompanied by a restriction of the converse domain of interindividual relations.

All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his (Bloom’s) busy brain.

It’s a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular, so to speak.

- Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom ventured to plausibly suggest to break the ice, it occurs to me you ought to sample something in the shape of solid food, say a roll of some description.

It has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents.

(Bloom holds his high grade hat over his genital organs.)

THE SOAP We're a capital couple are Bloom and I / He brightens the earth, I polish the sky.

On the farther side under the railway bridge Bloom appears flushed, panting, cramming bread and chocolate into a side pocket.

The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence celestial, glistering on Dublin stone there under starshiny coelum. God’s air, the Allfather’s air, scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe it deep into thee.

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood.

But by and by, as said, this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in the west, biggish swollen clouds to be seen as the night increased and the weatherwise poring up at them and some sheet lightnings at first [1/2]

Send us, bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.

Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow? Bat probably. Thinks I’m a tree, so blind. Have birds no smell?

Moonlight silver effulgence.

Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet shirt. O Lord, that little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy

And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lovely!

The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace.

—What is your nation if I may ask, says the citizen. —Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland. —And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among nations. —But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse. —Yes, says Bloom. —What is it? says John Wyse. —A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place.

—But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere? I mean wouldn't it be the same here if you put force against force?

—That’s your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the earth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God’s earth and their land in the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons.

—Save them, says the citizen, the giant ash of Galway and the chieftain elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole and an acre of foliage. Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

—Those are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the country with bugs. So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking with Joe telling him he needn’t trouble about that little matter till the first but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford.

I heard that from the head warder that was in Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the invincible. He told me when they cut him down after the drop it was standing up in their faces like a poker.

Begob he was what you might call flabbergasted.

Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to lick flow, invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.

He read the other title: Sweets of Sin. More in her line.

Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred

Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts. Ah, I’m hungry. He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral pub.

Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo.

He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne’s. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast. —Roast and mashed here. —Pint of stout.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I?

The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession.

..peerless panorama of Ireland’s portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight

And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everyone else.

Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head it simply swurls.

Then begin to get black, treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure, bones, flesh, nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink. decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker’s prosperous bulk.

Makes them feel more important to be prayed over in Latin.

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is.

Dark poplars, rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the air.

A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window.Couldn’t they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention?

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels.