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The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor little Willy, poor little Paddy Dignam. And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven. Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door. Come in, come on, he won't eat you, says the citizen.

Marshall's dark horse Sir Hugo captured the blue ribband at long odds. New York disaster. Thousand lives lost. Foot and Mouth. Funeral of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. So to change the subject he read about Dignam R. I. P. which, he reflected, was anything but a gay sendoff. Or a change of address anyway.

Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave. Corpus paradisum. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get tired. Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All the year round he prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top of them: sleep. On Dignam now. In paradisum. Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody.

What was that boy's name again? Dignam. Yes. Vere dignum et iustum est. Brother Swan was the person to see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time. A onelegged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his crutches, growled some notes.

His dachshund coat becomes a brown mortuary habit. His green eye flashes bloodshot. It was my funeral. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to the disease from natural causes. PADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List, list, O list! BLOOM: The voice is the voice of Esau. FIRST WATCH: It is not in the penny catechism. PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks.

And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence: Who said Christ is good? I beg your parsnips, says Alf. Is that a good Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam? Ah, well, says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles. But Bob Doran shouts out of him.

Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and after hard drought, please God, rained, a bargeman coming in by water a fifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the seed won't sprout, fields athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the quags and tofts too. Hard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed without sprinkle this long while back as no man remembered to be without.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're... 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?

Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes.