“With our best youlldied greedings to Pep
and Memmy and the old folkers below and
beyant, wishing them all very merry Incar-
nations in this land of the livvey and plenty
of preprosperousness through their coming
Sunday, June 16, 2019
—There must be a new moon out, she said. He’s always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?
Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.
—What? Mr Bloom asked.
Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
—Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
—Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
—The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.
She took a folded postcard from her handbag.
—Read that, she said. He got it this morning.
—What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U. P.?
—U. p: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It’s a great shame for them whoever he is.
—Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.
She took back the card, sighing.
—And now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s office. He’s going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.
She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.
Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.
See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
|Loud, graciously hear us!|
|Now have thy children entered into their habitations. And|
|nationglad, camp meeting over, to shin it, Gov be thanked! Thou|
|hast closed the portals of the habitations of thy children and thou|
|hast set thy guards thereby, even Garda Didymus and Garda|
|Domas, that thy children may read in the book of the opening of|
|the mind to light and err not in the darkness which is the after-|
|thought of thy nomatter by the guardiance of those guards which|
|are thy bodemen, the cheeryboyum chirryboth with the kerry-|
|bommers in their krubeems, Pray-your-Prayers Timothy and|
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Monday, April 8, 2019
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
The Ondt, that true and perfect host, a spiter aspinne, was
making the greatest spass a body could with his queens lace-
swinging for he was spizzing all over him like thingsumanything
in formicolation, boundlessly blissfilled in an allallahbath of
houris. He was ameising himself hugely at crabround and mary-
pose, chasing Floh out of charity and tickling Luse, I hope too,
and tackling Bienie, faith, as well, and jucking Vespatilla jukely
by the chimiche. Never did Dorsan from Dunshanagan dance it
with more devilry! The veripatetic imago of the impossible
Gracehoper on his odderkop in the myre, after his thrice ephe-
meral journeeys, sans mantis ne shooshooe, featherweighed
animule, actually and presumptuably sinctifying chronic's de-
spair, was sufficiently and probably coocoo much for his chorous
of gravitates. Let him be Artalone the Weeps with his parisites
peeling off him I'll be Highfee the Crackasider. Flunkey Footle
furloughed foul, writing off his phoney, but Conte Carme makes
the melody that mints the money. Ad majorem l.s.d.! Divi gloriam.
A darkener of the threshold. Haru? Orimis, capsizer of his ant-
boat, sekketh rede from Evil-it-is, lord of loaves in Amongded.
Be it! So be it! Thou-who-thou-art, the fleet-as-spindhrift,
impfang thee of mine wideheight. Haru!