of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He
eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled
up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a
wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college.
Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on
hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr
Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather.
Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here.
Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare
street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line.
And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor.
Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the
stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle
tepid stream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow:
his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush
floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands,
a languid floating flower.


* * * * * * *


Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the creaking
carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after
him, curving his height with care.

--Come on, Simon.

--After you, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:

Yes, yes.

--Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to
after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm
through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at
the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping.
Nose whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed
over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go
we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in
corners. Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it
ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more
to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead.
Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit
in an envelope. Grows all the same after. Unclean job.

All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am
sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip pocket. Better shift
it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front, turning: then
nearer: then horses' hoofs. A jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking
and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds
of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.
At walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were
passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels
rattled rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook
rattling in the doorframes.

--What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.

--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

--That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by
passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother
road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in
mourning, a wide hat.

--There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.

--Who is that?

--Your son and heir.

--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

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.
Mr Dedalus fell back, saying:



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