Ulysses/Lestrygonians

Lestrygonians is a food chapter. Personally, it's one of my favorites.

This episode takes place around 1 PM.

Chapter 8 Lestrygonians

Gilbert Scheme

Scene: The Lunch

Hour: 1 PM

Organ: Esophagus

Symbol: Constables

Art: Architecture

Technic: Peristaltic

Odyssey Parallels

In Greek mythology, the Laestrygonians were a tribe of man-eating giants who sprang from Laestrygon, son of Poseidon.

The giants ate many of Odysseus's men, destroyed 11 of his 12 ships by launching rocks from high cliffs. Odysseus's ship was not destroyed because it was hidden in a cove near shore.

This chapter is, accordingly, filled with language of food - particularly, carnivorous language. Cannibalism takes many other forms in the chapter, down to the very phrases Joyce uses ("Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off his white hat. His parboiled eyes.")

A blind prophet also makes an appearance, as does Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitsmaurice Tisdall Farrell (Endymion).

Knives (the scene in Burton's restaurant), blood ("Hot fresh blood they prescribe for descline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts." - an obvious and direct reference to the Hades scene in the Odyssey, where the blood is mixed with honey, and the ghosts that feed upon this blood can recognize Odysseys), meat ("Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuicde, slop of greens. See the animals feed." "Potted meats. What is a home without Plumtree's potted meat? ...Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice.") and mixed sexual/carnivore language make other appearances int he chapter - it is full of Bloom's thought of Molly, nearly all of which are sexual in nature (Bloom's thoughts cover "Molly tasting it, her veil up," "Molly got over her [childbirth] lightly," his letter from earlier that morninng, "you poor little naughty boy," the silk stockings and petticoats on display at stores, "creaking beds," the "colour of [Molly's] new [purple] garters," etc.)

When Bloom goes into the Burton restaurant for lunch but leaves in disgust instead, it's like the culminating scene in The Odyssey where the Lestrygonians, steeped in the colors of their trade, are impinged upon inadvertently by Odysseus and his crew. They're all in the midst of a horrible feast, one that nearly causes Bloom (who shows signs of being somewhat OCD) to lose his appetite.

Later in the chapter: "tour round the body, changing biliary duct, spleen squirting liver, gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes."

Summary

In Lestroygonians, Bloom takes another walk.

Bloom has left the newspaper office from Chapter 7 Ulysses/Aeolus, where he was placing an ad for a client to put into the paper (House of Keys). Bloom will eventually head to the library to find material from an old newspaper for the client's ad in Chapter 9 Ulysses/Scylla and Cherybdis, but first, lunchtime.

Mr. Bloom is on a walk through Dublin looking for a place to eat on his way to the library. He meets and sees a few Dublin characters, including Mrs. Breen, who mishears Beaufoy as Purefoy, a slight mistake which ends up setting a new course for the entire latter portion of the novel.

—Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.

—Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers’ Club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.

—Yes.

—I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She’s in the lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She’s three days bad now.

The Holles Street hospital is where Chapter 14 takes place, the scene where a group of men await Mina Purefoy's giving birth to a child at the hospital.

Mr. Bloom stumbles into one establishment (Burton's restaurant) that's overwhelming to his senses, and he continues to Davy Byrne's tavern, where he meets Nosey Flynn and a few more people who bet on horse races (incl. Lenahan, who he gave a horse tip to).

Mr Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again.

While in the restaurant Mr. Bloom ponders how people discovered foods for the first time (try it on the dog), when he leaves the restaurant he helps a blind stripling across the street (who is a piano tuner and will come back up in Chapter 10 Ulysses/The Wandering Rocks and Chapter 11 Ulysses/Sirens) and launches into pondering about what it would like to be blind.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn’t that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos.

The conclusion of Chapter 8 is a bit curious - if you aren't paying close attention, it seems like Mr. Bloom suddenly becomes paranoid for no reason. Joyce only gives a one sentence clue (emphasis mine):

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won’t look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn’t see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No. Didn’t see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

Who wears a straw hat? tan shoes? turnedup trousers?

Blazes Boylan.

We have already been introduced to Boylan, who wrote a letter to Bloom's wife that Bloom delivered (and Molly hid under her pillow) in Chapter 4 Ulysses/Calypso, and we'll see Boylan again in Chapter 10 Ulysses/The Wandering Rocks as he prepares for his afternoon "visit" with "Mrs. Marion Bloom", and we see Bloom get trapped again by Boylan in Chapter 11 just as he's departing to (jingle jingle) make the (jingle jingle) Blooms' bed jingle jingle.

Major Themes

Lestrygonians is an excellent chapter to jump to, because of the way it weaves together so many different things that make Ulysses groundbreaking: the parallels with the Odyssey are easy to understand, the action is understandable and easy to follow, and Bloom's internal stream of consciousness touches on virtually every important theme in the book. Additionally, this chapter gives us some useful information about Bloom (for example, that he is a Freemason).

Spilled food and bread crumbs make an appearance, as they did in Chapter 6 (the crumbs under Martin Cunningham's lap, in the carriage, the "black ship," on the way to the funeral, the "underworld"). This time, they're on Mrs. Breen's clothing (she is an old girlfriend of Bloom's and his preoccupation with her body and appearance draws his attention to the crumbs). The blind man crossing the street: "Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different for him. Have to be spoonfed first."

Like Chapter 4 Ulysses/Calypso and Chapter 5 Ulysses/Lotus Eaters, Bloom is on a walk, and preoccupied with his thoughts, which continually return to his wife Molly:

• Thoughts of Molly as mother
  • Rudy, Milly, bath time
  • Childbirth, nursing, rearing
• Thoughts of Molly as wife
  • Sexual nature, garters, fantasies
  • Other women, filling Molly's role

• Thoughts of a jealous/paranoid husband
  • Penrose - looking in on Molly while she was nursing
  • Blazes Boylan (brought up by Nosey Flynn, Nosey numskull, fitting name)

• Cyclical
  • Each leads into the other
  • His fantasy of particular night leads to memories of family leads to anxieties leads to escape through fantasy

Note also that Bloom thinks of the passing of time at several points during the chapter, anxiously anticipating an impending visit by Boylan.

Quotes

Part 1

Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

Lemon platt is a candy made from barley sugar and lemon flavoring, and it has a plaited (braided?) texture.

Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall, hanging. Pepper’s ghost idea. Iron Nails Ran In.

Pepper's Ghost is an illusion effect that uses mirrors to make a ghost-like projection appear. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pepper's_ghost

As he set foot on O’Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.

Bloom is crosing the River Liffey via the O'Connell Bridge, and passing by Trinity College on his way to The Burton and Davey Byrne's (before he gets to the National Library at the conclusion of the chapter).

Puke like a Christian is slang for not backing down from holding your own with other heavy drinkers.

They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.

He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin’s King picked it up in the wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.

See Ulysses/Words/Elijah - callback to the name he saw on a poster at the beginning of the chapter.

Bloom throws a crumpled paper ball into the river, and watches it fall, thinking "thirtytwo feet per sec" - short for thirty two feet per second per second, the acceleration of an object due to gravity. "The ball bobbed unheeded" means the gulls knew, when he threw it, that it wasn't food. "Live by their wits" - their ability to differentiate food from not-food.

Part 2

Wait. Those poor birds.

He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.

Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose.

Manna is a reference to Exodus 16, when the Israelites are wandering the desert, and God sends manna (a miraculous bread) to feed them.

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about that. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball’s. Parallax. I never exactly understood. There’s a priest. Could ask him. Par it’s Greek: parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her about the transmigration. O rocks!

The "parallax" word is a rich source of insight. See Ulysses/Words/Parallax.

"Met him pike hoses" is a reference to Ulysses/Words/Metempsychosis

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She’s right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound. She’s not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking. Still, I don’t know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you’d think he was singing into a barrel. Now, isn’t that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.

The O Rocks in this and the prior quote are callbacks to Ulysses/Calypso (Chapter 4), where Molly asks Leopold about the word "Metempsychosis"

(From Chapter 4 Calypso)

—Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

—Metempsychosis?

—Yes. Who’s he when he’s at home?

—Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It’s Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls.

—O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.

Part 3

—You’re in black, I see. You have no...

—No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who’s dead, when and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny.

Now that’s quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.

—And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn’t lost them anyhow.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison’s. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom’s gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or they’d taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the table.

—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.

Indiges.

—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.

Part 4

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:

—Mind! Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

—Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!

—Who is he if it’s a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

—His name is Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said smiling. Watch!

—He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days.

Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell was a real character in Dublin, referred to in newspaper clippings and other books besides Ulysses. The book As I Was Going Down Sackville Street by Oliver St. John Gogarty renders his name "James Boyle Tisdell Burke Stewart Fitzsimmons Farrell."

Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison’s hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

Meshuggah. Off his chump.

As fans of the Swedish heavy metal band Meshuggah, we were hoping that this is where the inspiration for their band name came from. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meshuggah

In fact, it turns out that the word Meshuggah is Yiddish for "crazy or eccentric".

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval. A sixpenny at Rowe’s? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way.

Bloom's experience at Burton's ends up being an assault on his senses, similar to the way, in The Odyssey, Odysseus's visit to the Lestrygonians ended up being an assault on their fleet.

Part 5

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here’s good luck. Must be thrilling from the air.

This little tangent might just be one of my favorite passages in all of Ulysses. Not only does it foreshadow the way that Joyce extends the stream of consciousness technique to other non-Bloom, non-Dedalus characters (see Ulysses/The Wandering Rocks), but here Joyce deftly and subtly extends the stream of consciousness technique to a flock of common city pigeons deciding on whom to poop after a hearty lunch.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman’s lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.

This passage always makes me think of giant ladles of soup poured into a policeman's uniform.

Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he’s in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy.

A little preview of Ulysses/Oxen of the Sun, in which Bloom eventually visits Mrs. Purefoy in the hospoital. The "Holles street" is a foreshadowing of the opening lines of Ulysses/Oxen of the Sun: "Deshel Holles eamus!"

You must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Or gas about our lovely land. Gammon and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company’s tearoom. Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government. That the language question should take precedence of the economic question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here’s a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule sun rising up in the northwest.

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity’s surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

A depressingly existential mathematical reduction of life and death to an algebraic balance. X born, X die, everything balances. maaaaaaaaa.

This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton’s window by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.

There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that’s a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don’t meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a corporation meeting today.

Part 6

His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don’t eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it’s healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

Part 7

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge’s corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See the animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant’s saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser’s eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don’t! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn’t swallow it all however.

—Roast beef and cabbage.

—One stew.

Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spat-on sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarettesmoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men’s beery piss, the stale of ferment.

Couldn’t eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! Get out of this.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his nose.

—Two stouts here.

—One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his mouth. That’s witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:

—Not here. Don’t see him.

Out. I hate dirty eaters.

He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne’s. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

—Roast and mashed here.

—Pint of stout.

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff.

He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill!

Part 8

He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral pub. He doesn’t chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

—Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

—Hello, Flynn.

—How’s things?

—Tiptop... Let me see. I’ll take a glass of burgundy and... let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree’s potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam’s potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow’s digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry. Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mity cheese.

—Have you a cheese sandwich?

—Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

—No. O, that’s the style. Who’s getting it up?

The curate served.

—How much is that?

—Seven d., sir... Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrigger. Easier than the dreamy creamy stuff. His five hundred wives. Had the time of their lives.

—Mustard, sir?

—Thank you.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

—Getting it up? he said. Well, it’s like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits.

—Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn’t Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom’s heart. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal.

—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. By God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me...

Hope that dewdrop doesn’t come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

—That so? Davy Byrne said...

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages.

—I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh.

Part 9

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I’m not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o’clock I can. Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She...

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters’ claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn’t know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats, then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The élite. Crème de la crème. They want special dishes to pretend they’re. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls’ kitchen area. Whitehatted chef like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage à la duchesse de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you’ve eaten. Too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards’ desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn’t mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. Du de la is French. Still it’s the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes’ gills can’t write his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Part 10

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don’t care what man looks. All to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods’ food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I’ll look today. Keeper won’t see. Bend down let something fall see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

—What is this he is? Isn’t he in the insurance line?

—It’s not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan’s wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She’s well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

—He doesn’t buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of that.

—How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked.

—He’s in the craft, he said.

—Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

—Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He’s an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a—well, I won’t say who.

—Is that a fact?

—O, it’s a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you’re down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they’re as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

—Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

—There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes:

—And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him—you know, over the line.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat.

—Day, Mr Byrne.

—Day, gentlemen.

They paused at the counter.

—Who’s standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

—I’m sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered.

—Well, what’ll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

—I’ll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

—How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God’ sake? What’s yours, Tom?

—How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.

—Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

—Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

—Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I’m standing drinks to! Cold water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg. He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

—So long! Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

—That’s the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered.

—Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we’ll take two of your small Jamesons after that and a...

—Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

—Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Part 11

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars:

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco

M’invitasti.

Via wikibooks Ulysses (annotations): "These words are spoken by the statue of the Commendatore in the final scene of Mozart's opera Don Giovanni. In the opening scene of the opera, Don Giovanni kills the Commendatore, who is trying to protect his daughter Donna Anna from the Don's attempted rape. In Act II, Scene 3, the Don comes across a statue of the Commendatore in a graveyard, and he mockingly invites it to dinner."

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library now I must.

Dutch courage refers to courage gained from intoxication with alcohol. The popular story dates the etymology of the term Dutch courage to English soldiers fighting in the Anglo-Dutch Wars (1652–1674) and perhaps as early as the Thirty Years' War (1618–1648). (wikipedia article: Dutch courage)

During the Anglo-Dutch Wars between England and the Netherlands in the 17th century, the English language gained an array of insults (including "Dutch uncle"), such as dutch courage, dutch wife, dutch comfort, dutch metal, dutch treat, dutch oven. [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dutch_uncle (wikipedia article: Dutch uncle)

—A cenar teco.

What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.

"a cenar teco" is Italian for "to dine with you." The "teco" in Italian means "with you."

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters.

Molly's garters are purple.

Against John Long’s a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything.

Calling back to the themes of the chapter, the cannibalistic gargantuan Lestrygonians who will "eat anything"

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross.

—Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly.

—You’re in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There’s nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom’s eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks’ van drawn up before Drago’s. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John Long’s. Slaking his drouth.

—There’s a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it’s not moving. I’ll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

—Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

—Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward.

Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common remark.

—The rain kept off.

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Tastes all different for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child’s hand, his hand. Like Milly’s was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse’s legs: tired drudge get his doze. That’s right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.

—Thanks, sir.

Knows I’m a man. Voice.

—Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark. Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn’t that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.

The appearance of a blind man, whom Bloom helps across the street, is a reference to the many non-visual sensory aspects of this chapter - the smells and sounds of the sounds, tastes, sounds

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People ought to help. Workbasket I could buy for Molly’s birthday. Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can’t taste wines with your eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.

Another hat-tip to the smells and other extra-sensory aspects of the chapter.

Part 12

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw.

Allusion to the straw hat that's about to appear - Blazes Boylan's straw hat

Karma they call that transmigration for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can’t cotton on to them someway.

Another appearance of "transmigration of souls" - callback to the metempsychosis conversation from Ulysses/Calypso

(From Chapter 4, Calypso)

—Here, she said. What does that mean?

He leaned downward and read near her polished thumbnail.

—Metempsychosis?

—Yes. Who’s he when he’s at home?

—Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It’s Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls.

—O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons’ hall. Solemn as Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he’d turn up his nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder’s court. Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J a great strawcalling. Now he’s really what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won’t look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.

Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn’t see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No. Didn’t see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking.

He thrust back quick Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman. Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse. Where?

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.

Safe!

As mentioned in the summary, Bloom here suddenly seems to become extremely paranoid, but the clue to why lies in the straw hat that he sees - Blazes Boylan. The soap he's been carrying, which he purchased in Ulysses/Calypso and which turned up in Ulysses/Hades makes another appearance here: " His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate."

Links

Yale Modernism page: https://modernism.courseresource.yale.edu/2017/07/13/lestrygonians/

Michael Groden page: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/open08.html

• thoughts and questions: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/qstns08.html
• comments by joyce: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/jj08.html
• joyce schema: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/schema08.html
• homeric parallel: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/homer08.html
• details: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/details08.html

map: https://www.michaelgroden.com/notes/map.html

Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell: The Back-Story: https://www.deepdyve.com/lp/james-joyce-research-center-university-college-dublin/cashel-boyle-o-connor-fitzmaurice-tisdall-farrell-endymion-the-back-aOIVlBenTZ