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Updated: May 10, 2025
A priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is wrong. Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying: For pity sake and for pity sake let us have no political discussion on this day of all days in the year. Quite right, ma'am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's quite enough now. Not another word now. Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly.
The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy baggy eyes, rather bunged up from excessive use of boose, preferably good old Hollands and water. You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length. I've heard of him, Stephen said. Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently eavesdropping too.
He uncovered the dish boldly and said: Now then, who's for more turkey? Nobody answered. Dante said: Nice language for any catholic to use! Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop now. Dante turned on her and said: And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being flouted?
Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush out. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain. From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling off some old furniture.
Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as they don't meddle in politics. The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they must be obeyed. Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may leave their church alone. You hear? said Dante, turning to Mrs Dedalus. Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now. Too bad!
He entered softly. The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane. Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly: Agonising Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?
Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General chorus off for a swill to wash it down. Glad I avoided. Come on, Ben, Simon Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you were. Better, said Tomgin Kernan.
Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of guts up in Armagh? Respect! Princes of the church, said Mr Casey with slow scorn. Lord Leitrim's coachman, yes, said Mr Dedalus. They are the Lord's anointed, Dante said. They are an honour to their country. Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome face, mind you, in repose.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after Irish? I don't know, faith. Is she, Simon? Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling. Buccinator muscle is... What?... Bit rusty... O, she is... My Irish Molly, O. He puffed a pungent plumy blast. From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club toff had it probably.
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