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Updated: May 10, 2025
Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard. Mr Dedalus! Running after me. No more letters, I hope. Just one moment. Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath. I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No.
Cowley sang: M'appari tutt'amor: Il mio sguardo l'incontr... She waved, unhearing Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding sail, return. Go on, Simon. Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben... Well... Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting, touched the obedient keys. No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the original. One flat.
He had soon given in to them and allowed them to sweep across and abase his intellect, wondering always where they came from, from what den of monstrous images, and always weak and humble towards others, restless and sickened of himself when they had swept over him. Ay, bedad! And there's the Groceries sure enough! cried Mr Dedalus. You often heard me speak of the Groceries, didn't you, Stephen.
Do right to hide them. Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty. Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young. Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless. Strongly. Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled.
Hail fellow well met the next moment. Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks... Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag! Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were... Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it?
He stood beside them beaming, on them first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow. Bad luck to the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he's not paid yet. And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.
Mr Dedalus rooted with the carvers at the end of the dish and said: There's a tasty bit here we call the pope's nose. If any lady or gentleman... He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying: Well, you can't say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it myself because I'm not well in my health lately.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock. Tap. Qui sdegno, Ben, said Father Cowley. No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric. Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true. Do, do, they begged in one. I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay.
Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said. What is it? Mr Bloom asked. A recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land. Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply. Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an accent on the whose. Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said. Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked. Ned Lambert nodded.
The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of Parkgate. I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said. The lacquey banged loudly. Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing mincing mouth gently: The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do anything! O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!
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