All the odd things people pick up for food. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters’ claws. Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach’s Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O’Gaunt. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild’s filly, with wadding in her ears. I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before. Zinfandel’s the favourite, lord Howard de Walden’s, won at Epsom. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. I wouldn’t do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off. Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. I’m off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup? And here’s himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.ĭavy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders.
For near a month, man, before it came off. Hope that dewdrop doesn’t come down into his glass. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me… He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Who is this was telling me? Isn’t Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?Ī warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom’s heart. Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. She’s engaged for a big tour end of this month. Quite well, thanks… A cheese sandwich, then. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. What is home without Plumtree’s potted meat? Incomplete. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there. I’ll take a glass of burgundy and… let me see. Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Teeth getting worse and worse.Īfter all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Then who’d wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Never know whose thoughts you’re chewing. City Arms hotel table d’hôte she called it. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Father O’Flynn would make hares of them all. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans’ dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother’s son don’t talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Had a good breakfast.Įvery fellow for his own, tooth and nail.
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