Homage to Catatonia

A Loving Catalog of Orphaned Ideas.

Happy Bloomsday! ReJoyce!

Happy Bloomsday! What am I talking about? Bloomsday is a celebration of Ulysses, James Joyce’s modern epic of everyday life, which takes place on June 16, 1904. Bloomsday is named for the novel’s main character, Leopold Bloom, a modern-day Odysseus who echoes that Homeric hero’s long journey home as he strolls the streets of Dublin.

Ulysses was published on 2 February 1922, Joyce’s birthday, but the impulse to celebrate the novel on June 16th seems to have been immediate (in a 1924 letter Joyce mentions “a group of people who observe what they call Bloom’s day—June 16”). In 1954 a group that included two Irish writers (novelist Flann O’Brien and poet Patrick Kavanagh) inaugurated the intention (if not the practice) of celebrating Bloomsday by retracing Bloom’s journey across Dublin and re-enacting events from the book—ultimately they settled for accomplishing the equally Joycean feat of getting drunk in a pub. In the ensuing decades, though, those intentions have been realized by Joyce admirers the world over in the form of festivals, walking tours, public readings, radio broadcasts, informal gatherings, and countless tributes on social media.

The Bloomsday Project is my own contribution. Beginning with Episode 1 in 2006, I have paid tribute to Ulysses every Bloomsday, one chapter at a time, by posting an excerpt prefaced by my own commentary and observations. My goal is to share some of the pleasures of Ulysses with family, friends, and whoever else might find their way here. All of my previous Bloomsday posts can be found in the archives.

This year we dip into the one-eyed world of Episode 12: the Cyclops.

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Cyclops (Episode 12)

I’ll begin with a digression. Check the writing credits for the Coen Brothers’ O Brother, Where Art Thou (2000) on IMDb and you’ll find three headshots: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen, and a bust of Homer. As the opening credits make clear, the misadventures of escaped convict Ulysses Everett McGill (George Clooney) across Depression-era Mississippi are modeled on Homer’s Odyssey. McGill and fellow escapees Pete and Delmar (John Turturro and Tim Blake Nelson) negotiate an obstacle course of Homeric correspondences including encounters with a blind prophet, the Sirens, and the Lotus-Eaters. The Coen brothers’ version of the cyclops, however, owes as much to James Joyce’s Ulysses as it does to Homer. In the Odyssey, Odysseus and his crew visit a land of one-eyed giants and become trapped in the cave of the cyclops Polyphemus. After Polyphemus eats two of his men, Odysseus manages to get the cyclops drunk on wine, then blind him with a burning stake. In O Brother the cyclops is a one-eyed Klansman named Big Dan Teague (John Goodman). When McGill and his companions don white sheets to infiltrate a KKK rally and prevent the lynching of their friend Tommy, Big Dan, wearing a white hood with one eyehole, recognizes the trio and exposes them. McGill and his friends manage to get away, covering their escape by cutting the suspension cords holding up a giant flaming wooden cross so that it falls on Big Dan and his fellow Klansman. Reimagining Homer’s gigantic one-eyed brute as a large one-eyed bully is natural enough. The decision to make him a member of the KKK is less obvious — unless you have read Ulysses.

The Cyclops episode in Ulysses takes place at 5:00 PM in Barney Kiernan’s Pub, a dark, cave-like nationalist pub frequented by heavy-drinking men embittered by English rule. There are several cyclopes here but a menacing figure (with a menacing dog) referred to only as “the citizen” is Joyce’s Polyphemus. As critic Harry Blamires explains, the citizen has a “one-eyed view, a fanatical, unreasoning nationalistic passion that makes him incapable of seeing any other side to a question.” (Blamires 112) In practice, the citizen (and the pub’s other regulars) mix valid, if shopworn, complaints about British rule with a maudlin idealizing of Irish culture and history that too often finds expression in xenophobia, homophobia, antisemitism, and misogyny. Over the course of the chapter, the citizen makes numerous anti-Semitic remarks (mostly at Bloom’s expense), complains about immigrants (“we want no more strangers in our house”), gossips that a married man is a “pishogue” (Irish for fairy), refers to Bloom as a “white-eyed kaffir” (among other slights and insults) and twice blames the inconstancy of women for “all [Ireland’s] misfortunes.” Even the citizen’s attacks on England are often small-minded and overblown. When Bloom quietly (and characteristically) tries to moderate the conversation with a platitude about English civilization, the citizen responds: “Their syphilisation, you mean . . . No music and no art and no literature worthy of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us.” Joyce, to be clear, was no supporter of British rule. At the same time, he was critical when he felt Irish nationalism deteriorated to little more than an imitation-by-inversion of English attitudes of racial and cultural superiority.

Fittingly, Joyce uses a first-person narrator — a sharp-tongued raconteur who never gives his name — to describe Bloom’s visit to this one-eyed world. The narrator’s version of events is brutally one-sided and we get a sense of just how brutal he can be when he looks at a newspaper photograph of a lynching in Georgia and thinks, “Gob, they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to make sure of their job.” From the moment Bloom “slopes in” looking for Martin Cunningham it is clear he is in unfriendly territory. The narrator disdains Bloom’s wary eyeing of the citizen’s dog even though, just a short while earlier, he had expressed his own wish that “someone would take the life of that bloody dog.’ Bloom’s attempts to join the conversation are seen as tedious and pompous: “if you took up a straw from the bloody floor and said to Bloom: Look at, Bloom. Do you see that straw? That’s a straw. Declare to my aunt he’d talk about it for an hour and talk steady.” When Bloom briefly excuses himself to check for Cunningham at the courthouse, annoyance darkens to anger as word spreads that “the courthouse is a blind.” Bloom, they believe, has bet on a tip he received that Throwaway would win the Gold Cup “and he’s gone to gather the shekels.” When Bloom returns but does not buy everyone a round of drinks with his winnings, the situation quickly deteriorates until he is forced to leave — but not before finally responding to the citizen’s antisemitic digs by saying, “your God was a jew. Christ was a jew like me.” The citizen, infuriated by Bloom’s this heresy yells “I’ll brain that bloody jewman for using the holy name. By Jesus, I’ll bloody crucify him” before throwing a biscuit tin at Bloom as he flees in a carriage.

“In the kingdom of the one-eyed, the two-eyed man is in considerable danger,” observes Declan Kiberd and Joyce heightens that sense of danger by omitting Bloom’s revealing interior monologues. Instead, the only distance we get from the narrator comes in the form of even greater hyperbole: thirty-three satirical interpolations woven throughout the chapter that, as Harry Blamires explains, are “inflated caricature[s] of the legal, the epic, the scientific, the journalistic . . . each a gigantic inflation of the one-eyed approach.” When the men talk about the citizen’s glory days as champion shot-putter, These parodies allow Joyce to use language to both mock self-important modes of writing and depict the cycloptic mentality. When, for instance, a barroom conversation about capital punishment turns to the lewd fact that a hanged man gets an erection, Bloom’s attempt to offer a scientific explanation for this phenomenon is mocked as pompous by the narrator (“then he starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon and the other phenomenon”) and then that dismissal is satirized in an interpolation written in the style of a scientific account: “The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumeduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae. . .”

Still, we know Bloom well enough from previous chapters to see how unfair the version of him we get in this chapter really is. We know for a fact that Bloom was oblivious to the Gold Cup and that the rumor he had inside information is based on a misunderstanding. The reader is left to wade through a sea of bluster, exaggeration, narrow-minded conjecture, and outright lies, not only to find the Bloom we already know but to understand how the noble goal of freedom could result in stunted men like the citizen. For all their narrow-mindedness, we occasionally hear echoes of lost potential in their voices. Throughout Ulysses Bloom struggles whenever he tries to express his nuanced ideas out loud. The citizen and the narrator have no such problem. While it is tempting to attribute the ease with which they speak their minds to their monolithic thinking, it would be unfair to overlook their skill and confidence. The name Polyphemus, it should be remembered, means “abounding in songs and legends.” There is real tragedy in these men who, like the chapter’s thirty-three interpolations, have been reduced to self-parody. “There’s no one as blind as the fellow who won’t see,” the citizen says to Bloom, “if you know what that means.” Ironically, it is the citizen who doesn’t understand his own words, who doesn’t see. It falls to the reader to see the citizen and his fellow pub-dwellers more fully than they see themselves. The cyclops may be a one-eyed creature but the reader of Ulysses cannot afford to be.

This year’s excerpt takes place during a heated exchange between Bloom and the citizen, an exchange that leads to Bloom’s passionate, if somewhat clumsy, expression of one of the novel’s central themes: the redemptive power of love. During an exchange about how to define the word “nation,” Bloom’s suggestion that a nation is “the same people living in the same place” is met with mockery. Inevitably, the citizen presses Bloom, asking “what is your nation?” to which Bloom, the son of Hungarian Jews, honestly answers, “Ireland . . . I was born here. Ireland.” The citizen’s only reply is to clear his throat and spit “a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.” We join the scene a few moments later when Bloom, after still more pints of Guinness have been distributed, resumes the topic and eventually makes his earnest but sentimental plea for a world ruled by love rather than hate. Bloom then excuses himself to look for Martin Cunningham at the courthouse and the citizen takes the opportunity to overtly cast aspersions on Bloom in his absence. A brief, one-paragraph, parody interpolation, reduces Bloom’s call for universal love to the sort of graffiti you’d find carved in a tree or scrawled inside a schoolbook. (The citizen’s odd pivot at the end of this excerpt from Bloom’s plea for love to the atrocities of Oliver Cromwell’s troops in Ireland may call to mind another character from a Coen brother’s film portrayed by John Goodman: Walker Sobchak from The Big Lebowski, who somehow manages to bring every topic back to the Vietnam War.)

As usual, I’ve included an audio clip of the excerpt from the 1982 RTÉ full-cast production of Ulysses. The distinctly Irish voices in this chapter are beautifully brought to life in this recording.

—Shove us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
—That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.
—And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.

—Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.
—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.

That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.

—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.

Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.

—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
—Well, says John Wyse, isn’t that what we’re told? Love your neighbours.
—That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love, Moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair genteman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

—Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power, citizen.
—Hurrah, there, says Joe.
—The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.

And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.

—We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible!

Detective Story #12 — The Parable of the Assassin

“A long time ago,” I began, “there was a man who so thoroughly despised one of his associates that he came to view him as an enemy and desire his death. With time, these dark feelings reached such a pitch that he approached a shady colleague who gave him the names of several assassins.”

Most versions of the parable specify the number of assassins (usually three) and many name the characters, especially the assassins. I’ve never seen the value of giving too many specifics when telling parables or jokes. It is impossible to know what associations a name will have for your readers or listeners. You also run the risk of inadvertently giving a character the same name as someone in your audience. The number of assassins is usually given as three in order to set up a Goldilocks scenario where the first two assassins describe methods and fees that are too extreme for the the man’s purpose in opposing ways. The first assassin, for instance, charges less but uses a gun or, worse still, a bomb; the second assassin, meanwhile, uses an untraceable poison but charges too much. This device has always struck me as old-fashioned and at odds with the essence of the parable.

“The man spoke to the assassins, asking about their fees and methods. He was not a wealthy man but he wanted the assassination to be subtle. The man’s hatred was deep but he wanted to escape punishment and any feelings of responsibility. Ideally, the death should appear natural. At the very least it should not be sordid. At last, he settled on the least expensive of the assassins who, despite charging much less than the others, guaranteed that the death would not raise suspicion. The assassin’s only condition was that he be allowed to set his own timeline. The man, who had achieved a certain satisfaction by acting on his wish to have his associate killed, did not especially care when the assassination occurred. ‘It will happen soon enough,’ the assassin promised.”

At this point many versions include some dialogue between the man and the assassin, the man asking what the assassin’s weapon will be and the assassin answering in the language of a riddle: “My weapon is quieter than a gun, sharper than a stiletto, subtler than poison, and more certain than all of these.” Or something along those lines. Another unnecessary flourish, in my opinion, that draws attention to a mystery that, if the story is told well,  should only be hinted at.

“The man waited but his enemy lived on. Months went by but the man’s enemy seemed to go on living his life in the usual way. Finally, the man contacted the assassin and asked whether he had made any progress (asking politely, of course, for it is best to be polite to assassins). The assassin answered that fulfillment of the contract was on schedule but did not offer any other details. Years passed and the man’s enemy — so it seemed to the man — not only continued to live but seemed to be thriving. But the man’s own life had improved as well and one day he realized that the anger he felt towards his old enemy had dissipated. He contacted the assassin again and, when they met, asked him to cancel the contract: ‘I no longer bear any ill will towards the man I hired you to kill. The offensive actions that prompted me to desire his death now seem mere trifles. Some have even proven to been to my benefit. I am asking you now to cancel our contract.’ The assassin said nothing.”

Here I decided to add an exchange my father always included when he told the parable as a sort of tribute to his mentor:

“‘I see now that this was the purpose behind your delay: you used myeagerness to see this man killed to force me to pay attention to his life. By delaying his death you forced me to appreciate his life and to understand that my own anger was fleeting and petty. You have saved me from the consequences of my own anger and I thank you. I would like to reward you with a bonus.’

“The assassin nodded but his eyes showed no sign of agreement. He said, ‘You mistake me, sir. I have not sought to teach you any lessons or reveal anything to you about your motives. The contract stands and will be fulfilled.’ The man was horrified and pleaded for the contract to be annulled but the assassin only rose from his seat and left. For a long time the man waited with a feeling of dread and guilt that his former enemy would die and that would be responsible. He considered warning his former enemy or alerting the authorities but he feared that violating his contract with the assassin would only lead to his own death. Besides he knew nothing of when or how the assassination was to take place and doubted that anyone would take him seriously. Gradually, he convinced himself to doubt that the assassination action would ever occur.

“Decades passed. The man had all but forgotten that he had once hired an assassin. Only occasionally did he remember and wonder if the contract had been fulfilled — the man he had wanted killed had moved to another city years before — or if the assassin himself was still alive. Then one afternoon as the man sat in his wheelchair in the flowering garden of a nursing home an orderly brought him an envelope. In it was an obituary cut from a newspaper published in another city. The obituary stated that the man’s former enemy had died in his sleep at the age of eighty-five. Attached to the obituary with a paper clip was a yellowing copy of his contract with the assassin that had been stamped with the words ‘Fulfilled.’

The man lived another four years before dying one morning at the age of 90 following a long battle with kidney disease.”

I paused and put my hands on the desk to signal that I was done. I had added the specifics in the last sentence (borrowed from my grandfather’s own death) myself. Usually the man’s death was simply attributed to “natural causes” but I preferred to end the story with these details to add some prosaic realism.

“Thank you,” my client said, raising his head from the listening posture it had assumed: shoulders hunched, chin tucked, left ear cheated in my direction. “You tell the story well, as I knew you would.”

Untitled

when we read a page of poetry
we read the dark
because poetry is darkness

a poem swallows you
and you find yourself in its shadows
you explore its inky murk
you collect its dust
until your coat shimmers
all around you with stars

you: the you
that anchors all your selves
down deep

deep:
I want to write that word in blacker ink
so that you can fathom it
so that you can hear in its echo
a million other words
so that by writing that word
(deep)
I can conjure enough darkness
to end this

but every poem fades to white



Portland, Oregon. September 2016 – May 2017

Detective Story #10—Terra Cognita

On days like today—lazy, quiet, empty days that settle like dust in corners—I can’t help but think of my teachers.

Professor Lu began the first lecture of his Business of Detection class by saying, “When you first open for business, you’ll have all the solitude you can bear. Waiting for that first client to come through the door is a unique form of loneliness. No matter how much confidence you have, no matter how carefully you have prepared, it will feel as though your success has become concentrated on the question of whether or not someone will discover a small point in space that only you know exists. You will feel powerless. Which is why this period of solitude and emptiness is the ideal time to start an investigation.”

The students, many of them still settling into their seats, fell into awkward silence. Professor Lu was elderly and during those first few classes many of us assumed (partly due to misinformation spread, with his encouragement, by former students) that he was a bit senile. “Investigating what?” some student asked, trying to conceal her irritation. Professor Lu looked perplexed. Later, after watching him deliver this same lecture many times, I came to see that this was all teacherly theater. After a pause he said: “Your next case, of course.” Slipping into the gentle condescension young people often use with the elderly, another student asked if it didn’t make more sense to wait for a specific client to arrive in order to avoid making assumptions. Professor Lu shrugged, saying, “What are you waiting for, exactly?” Then, in the tone of a man quoting himself, he went on: “All of life hangs together in once piece, everything is connected with everything else. Don’t you already have enough to get started? Don’t you always have enough to get started?”

His method was simple. We should sit in our bare offices and investigate whatever came to mind: “Spread your thoughts as wide as you can and dive as deep as possible.”

“Spread wide and dive deep,” a male student said in a lewd stage whisper.

Professor Lu didn’t acknowledge the joke but he didn’t ignore it either. With the timing of a comedian he held his delivery until the brief spell of tittering subsided. He showed no sign of disapproval or annoyance, only a gentle, subtle generosity that demonstrated his point: a skilled investigator allows for everything. “Start your investigation before your client comes through the door and you’ll already have some clues.”

He was right. There were many empty days when I first went into business, days when I had nothing but myself and the world around me to investigate—so that’s what I did. As if it were no small thing. At first, I stood at my casement windows and fixed my gaze towards Chao’s Restaurant across the street; watching the customers come and go, watching the passers-by pass by. It was too much. So I turned around and looked at my own office. I investigated everything that came to mind; every inch of the room around me. At least that’s how it felt at the time, though I’ve come to see how superficial those investigations actually were. Still, when my first client finally showed up—a middle-aged man trying to remember a pun he had thought of the previous day and then forgotten—I found that I already had some leads.

I also think of Professor Arkpafisto. I still listen to my recordings of her Art of Investigation lectures: “The unknown begins with the known. Think of old maps with large zones of empty space labeled Terra Incognita. Why in the world would a map include uncharted territory? What purpose can this serve? I can’t speak to what those old cartographers were thinking but I believe there is a beauty in marking the transition between the known and the unknown, in conceding that knowledge is bounded on all sides by frontiers of ignorance. Why does this matter to us? Because a detective is an explorer in the terra incognita of other people’s lives. When a new client first steps into your office you know nothing about them or their situation. Which begs the question: why do clients seek the assistance of someone who knows less about their problem than they do? Remember: people don’t hire detectives because of what they know—they hire us because we are comfortable navigating within the unknown. And that comfort only comes with practice.”

So, on empty days like this one, I chart the terra cognita of my office. I do this to prepare and to combat boredom—not only in the moment, but generally. If you see life and the world around you as a mystery, boredom is impossible. The flat, static, familiar objects you believe you already know become clues leading infinitely outward.

For a long time I worked with lists. I picked a spot in the office that felt unfamiliar and stood there, clipboard in hand, while I wrote out an inventory of every item in my office. I reflected on each item, considering where it came from, how long I had owned it, what purpose it served, until I became intrigued by some idea or question. Then I tried to follow that idea or question wherever it might lead, for as long as possible. It was rare for me to work through the entire inventory. Usually I became engrossed by a particular item. On one memorable occasion I got no further than my clipboard. Regardless, the process was time-consuming and resulted in some expensive phone bills and convoluted browser histories. But it worked: my metal filing cabinet lead me to the life of Sir Francis Bacon; my aspidistra directed me to a history of Japanese Bento boxes; the glass ashtray I keep as a decoration (smoking has never been allowed in my building) resulted in my reading a biography of Anton Chekhov; the armrests on my couch took me to the Levant States and the history of French Colonialism, while the upholstery pointed me to special effects in theatre. And, over the years, those same items have taken me in dozens of other directions.

Gradually, my interest shifted, became less literal. The inventory became an annotated list. Then I annotated my annotations. The objects were forgotten in favor of the list itself. Word-by-word, I consulted my reference books, noting each definition and listing synonyms. Using an X-Acto blade like a scalpel, I extracted each word, then sat at my desk and rearranged the cut-out slivers into poems and horoscopes. I made enlargements of each word so I could cut out individual letters to make new words; I made anagrams and palindromes. It wasn’t long before working with text began to feel too abstract and I shifted my focus back to objects. With the graphite pencils I had left over from my art course at the Academy, I made small line drawings on index cards of each object in my office. One day I laid these sketches side by side on my desk and stepped back to look at them. Laid out at random they looked like puzzle pieces and when I began to rearrange the cards to reflect the layout of the room, I saw that I had the beginnings of a map.

So now, on empty days, I draw maps of my office and annotate them. The maps have evolved—are evolving. The first maps were little more than floor plans with lists attached. As I’ve slowly taught myself to draw and paint, what began as an attempt to itemize a room and its contents has become an investigation in itself. With each map, I explore both the contents of the room and my experience of it. With pencil and ink I record the facts of the room and with brush and color I try to capture some of its essence.

Today:  


Note: Three mottos hang on the walls of my office. The most prominent, which I have already mentioned several times, hangs directly behind me: “Life is a mystery and these are the clues.” The second also hangs on the wall behind me but it is much smaller and less prominently placed.  They are Professor Lu’s words: “It’s all one case.” The third (and longest) motto hangs on a small patch of the opposite side of the room, blocked from view by the office door whenever it is open. This motto, a quotation my brother found and had printed and framed, is just for me:

Mystery is in the morning, and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery
is everywhere; but still the truth remains, that mouth and purse must be filled.


—Mark Winsome

*       *      *

Acknowledgements: For making Nadie’s map a reality, my sincere thanks to Acey Toothypegs, beloved sister and dearest friend. Lovely as it is, this map only hints at her creative talents. Take a moment to explore Acey’s work at www.toothypegsart.com.

Detective Story #11 – The Complemental Op

“Can I count on your discretion?”

His first words. Even before he introduced himself.

Not that an introduction was necessary. I already knew his name — we all did. He was a legend. 

This was my first time seeing him up close. His figure was slight but he didn’t seem small. He seemed economical: absent any extraneous details. His pants were perfectly cut; pressed without looking too crisp. His cream colored shirt looked so comfortable I wanted to wear it. His shoes were worn but clean and well-maintained.

I tilted an open hand toward the two chairs in front of my desk, a vague gesture that seemed to imply he was welcome to sit in both chairs simultaneously. He took a step forward but didn’t sit down right away. Instead he stood between the chairs, the fingers of his left hand grazing padded upholstery. 

I nodded.
“I prefer vocal confirmation,” he said. “I’m sure you understand.”

He waited, his body not so much still as it was neutral, like a car: engine running, gears disengaged.

“Yes, of course,” I said in a clear, deliberate voice. “You can absolutely rely on my honoring the code of confidentiality between detective and client.”

“Thank you,” he said. Then his body flowed into motion, stepping between the chairs, then easing himself into the chair on the right. Standing still he had seemed light on his feet but in motion he was so graceful that his movements nearly escaped notice. 

“How can I help you?” I asked, sitting back in my chair.

“I’m working on the wrong case,” he said.

I resisted the urge to nod. Most clients need to feel that I understand their problem right away and a quick nod, even if it is a little premature, can help. This situation called for something different. He was a veteran detective. I had studied several of his cases, attended his lectures. No professional tricks: that was the best way to proceed.

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant but he stopped me by raising a finger.

“I have several active cases. High-priority, paying cases. I have operatives helping me, of course, but there is an expectation — a perfectly reasonable expectation — that I will attend to each investigation personally, if not fully. My operatives are not intended to act as surrogates for me, they are surrogates for my time. They allow me to conduct more investigations than would otherwise be possible. Recently, however, I have become distracted by what I have come to realize is another case, a non-paying case.”

Now I nodded. This was a situation I could understand. 

“Do you know why I became a detective?” He asked.
I shook my head and said nothing. I make it a rule to never answer rhetorical questions.

“I became a detective,” he said, “because I wanted to see the sadness in all things.”

I raised my eyebrows. Many detectives leave the profession because they find it too depressing. We spend most of our time in the double darkness of our clients’ uncertainty and our own. Guiding people through the mysteries in their lives can be disheartening. I had never heard a detective cite sadness as their reason for joining the profession. No wonder he was such a natural.

“When I started out I understood my motivations quite differently,” he continued after a pause. “Over time I’ve come to better understand my own impulses. I thought I was seeking truth and beauty and all that abstract, philosophical silliness. But all I really wanted was to find the sadness that lies at the heart of some things and covers the rest like a veneer. Sadness is the truth and beauty of this life: it is the vessel of beauty and the marrow of truth; what isn’t born of sadness ends in sadness — and there is much that is sad through and through.”

I nodded, noting the melancholy his words had triggered in me. Sadness was the core, the marrow, of life. How any times had I been on the verge of having this same, lovely realization?

“And how do you find it?” I asked.

The question seemed to surprise him and he smiled. 

“It’s about how you approach cases, how you approach witnesses and clues.” He paused, then went on: “I’m sure you’ve already figured this out — that’s why I’ve come to you — but many of our colleagues approach everyone and everything they come across with so-called skepticism. Everyone is a liar until their story checks out, every clue might have been planted until you can confirm to your satisfaction that it wasn’t, every suspect is guilty until you have determined that they’re not (and even then they’re still guilty of something else). Tiresome nonsense. Skepticism is a fine approach for science but it makes for a hollow way of life. And, like living, investigation is an art. Each case is a work of art. The crime, if there is one, is a work of art, and so is our investigation.”

“And you don’t see a place for skepticism in approaching a work of art?”

“Of course not.” He said. “Art requires openness, a willingness to overcome your point of view. Skepticism, or what people call skepticism, is usually a withdrawing into one’s point of view based on the assumption that what has worked in the past is all the truth there is to find. We’re all chauvinists and if art has any value it’s enabling us to see and understand another point of view. Too often skepticism is an extension of anxiety. We fear being wrong, so we hedge our bets by being skeptical of everything — which usually just means being unwilling to accept the value of a new idea. Frankly, what most detectives characterize as their skepticism is only cynicism. Challenging and questioning during an investigation should open doors not close them. The jaded, trust-no-one, hard-boiled persona is a product of ego and there’s no place for ego in this busines.”

“That’s true,” I nodded. “Is that why you’re here?” I asked trying to bring the conversation back into focus. “Because your ego has gotten in the way of a case?”

“Not exactly. At least, I don’t think so. I’m here because I want you to investigate me and how I’m investigating a case.”

I raised my eyebrows again.

“I can see potential confidentiality issues. Has your client given his or her authority for this — or would I be retained as one of your operatives?”

“It’s not like that,” he said. “As I said, this is a non-paying case. In truth, this is a case without a client. No one has hired me, I’m not being paid, so there is no expectation of confidentiality.”

I waited.

“You use silence well,” he said, smiling. “I’ll explain.”

He lowered his eyes for a moment. 

“There is a hot dog vendor in front of my building. He’s been there for years. We’ve been on a first name basis for most of that time. He’s friendly and amiable and moves easily between conversations with his various customers. I’ve spoken briefly with him about the weather, sports, politics — all the standard, casual topics. I’ve also spoken with him about life, death, spirituality, philosophy, aesthetics. We’ve had chats that lasted twenty seconds and others that lasted twenty minutes. Lately, however — for about the last six weeks — I’ve been unable to focus on my work because of an ongoing conversation I’ve been having with him. We talk for long periods of time, sometimes more than an hour. I order a hot dog, we talk, then I wait when other people order and he and I continue talking whenever there is a lull or whenever he is able to do his job while also conversing with me. Sometimes I do most of the talking but sometimes I just listen. Increasingly, time I should be spending on my investigations is spent talking to this hot dog vendor. Whenever our conversations end, I feel a real sense of regret and often find myself going over them in my head, rehashing what each of us has said and rehearsing what I’ll say next time.”

“And you say this has been a single, ongoing conversation for the past six weeks?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“May I ask what the conversation is about?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He said and shrugged. “Besides, you’ll find out soon enough.”

I agreed to take his case. We spent fifteen or twenty minutes discussing terms. He wanted to waive the customary rate reduction within the trade but I was unwilling to charge my full rate to a colleague. After some pleasant back and forth we agreed that I would receive part of my payment in future referrals.
I expected him to leave after we had signed the contracts but once he had returned my pen and clipboard he settled back into his chair.

“Before I leave, I have a request.”

“Yes?”

“Whenever I work with another detective I ask them to tell me the Parable of the Assassin — I assume you know it?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’ve heard and read it many times. At the Academy, of course, and from my father before that.”

“Tell it to me,” he said, gently.

I took a deep breath and then began. 

Happy Bloomsday! ReJoyce!

Happy Bloomsday! What am I talking about? Bloomsday is a celebration of Ulysses, James Joyce‘s modern epic of everyday life, which takes place on June 16, 1904. Bloomsday is named for the novel’s main character, Leopold Bloom, a modern-day Odysseus who echoes that Homeric hero’s long journey home as he strolls the streets of Dublin.

Ulysses was published on 2 February 1922, Joyce’s birthday, but the impulse to celebrate the novel on June 16th seems to have been immediate (in a 1924 letter Joyce mentions “a group of people who observe what they call Bloom’s day—June 16”). In 1954 a group that included two Irish writers (novelist Flann O’Brien and poet Patrick Kavanagh) inaugurated the intention (if not the practice) of celebrating Bloomsday by retracing Bloom’s journey across Dublin and re-enacting events from the book—ultimately they settled for accomplishing the equally Joycean feat of getting drunk in a pub. In the ensuing decades, though, those intentions have been realized by Joyce admirers the world over in the form of festivals, walking tourspublic readings, radio broadcasts, informal gatherings, and countless tributes on social media.

The Bloomsday Project is my own contribution. Beginning with Episode 1 in 2006, I have paid tribute to Ulysses every Bloomsdayone chapter at a time, by posting an excerpt prefaced by my own commentary and observations. My goal is to share some of the pleasures of Ulysses with family, friends, and whoever else might find their way here. All of my previous Bloomsday posts can be found in the archives.

Sirens (Episode 11)

Ulysses is an uncommonly musical novel. Several characters, including Molly Bloom and her lover Blazes Boylan, are professional singers, while others, like Stephen Dedalus and his estranged father, Simon, are talented amateurs. Most of the rest, like Leopold Bloom himself, are music-lovers. This is only the beginning of musicality in Ulysses, however. The text itself is woven through with references and allusions to music of all kinds. More than three-hundred songs are listed in the index to Don Gifford’s Ulysses Annotated, a list that includes nursery rhymes and bawdy ballads; liturgical music and jingles; pop songs and rebel songs, earworms and arias. Some songs are used in passing, others recur as motifs or reveal a character’s state of mind (imagine how much more annoying that summer chart-topper would be if, like Bloom, you knew it was by your sexual rival). At least one song, a duet from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, subtly foreshadows the famous final line of the novel’s coda. The better we understand Joyce’s use of music in Ulysses, the deeper our understanding of the book as a whole. And nowhere in Ulysses is music more central than in Episode 11, where Joyce has set himself the seemingly impossible task of both writing about music and attempting to make music with his writing. Music is referenced throughout Ulysses but Episode 11 is music.

In Homer’s Odyssey the Sirens are two magical creatures who lure sailors to crash on the rocky shore of their small island by singing an irresistible song promising each listener gifts of wisdom and prophecy. Determined to hear the siren’s song without falling victim to it, Odysseus orders his men to tie him to the mast and plug their ears with wax so that he can listen while his men row on to safety.

In Ulysses, the Sirens episode is set in the Ormond Hotel bar, an actual location that was a well-known haunt for amateur musicians at the turn of the last century. The episode takes place around 4:00 PM, an hour that has particular importance to Bloom, who knows this is when his wife has arranged a rendezvous with her lover, Blazes Boylan. Bloom is surprised, then, when he sees Boylan’s car outside the Ormond Hotel, and decides to investigate under the guise of meeting with an acquaintance in the hotel saloon. Two barmaids, Miss Kennedy and Miss Douce, who idly flirt behind their reef-like bar, partially stand in for the sirens—though the closest they come to singing are peals of orgasmic laughter. (Miss Kennedy also makes a sort of music when she obliges a customer by snapping an elastic garter strap against her thigh). The singing is left to the male patrons, most significantly Simon Dedalus, Stephen’s father, a talented singer and raconteur who squanders his talents in pubs and bars while his family slips into poverty. Simon Dedalus and the other patrons take turns playing the piano and singing, while Leopold Bloom, ever the voyeur, looks on from his seat near the door, sometimes covertly joining in by strumming an elastic band of his own.

In Episode 7, Aeolus, Joyce displayed his tremendous command of language and rhetoric. Here he combines those skills with his understanding of music, which was formidable in its own right. Joyce was an accomplished tenor who considered a singing career (as Stephen Dedalus does in Episode 10). His knowledge of music was encylopedic and throughout his life he was known to give impromptu recitals at parties and literary events, accompanying himself on the guitar or piano. That same knowledge provides him with an arsenal of devices as he strives to make music with words.

Here are a few examples:

  • The episode, which Joyce described as a fugue, begins with what appears to be sixty-three lines of non-sequiturs, sentence fragments, and even meaningless strings of letters (“Imperthnthn thnthnthn”). In fact, as literary historian Kevin Birmingham writes in his excellent The Most Dangerous Book: The Battle for James Joyce’s Ulysses, those sixty-three lines are “an overture, an introduction to the musical sounds and phrases that would be repeated, contextualized and vested with meaning over the course of the chapter.” In context they make more sense: “Imperthnthn thnthnthn”  proves to be a barman’s juvenile mockery of Miss Douce’s haughty promise to report his “impertinent insolence.”
  • Throughout the episode, Joyce insinuates musical terminology into his writing with puns like “play on her heartstrings pursestrings too” and “if he doesn’t conduct himself.” In describing Miss Kennedy’s mouth with the phrase “coral lips” he simultaneously evokes the siren’s coral reef and vocal (choral) music.
  • Joyce also plays with sentence structure to bring a sense of music to his writing. Consider this three-sentence paragraph, which critic Declan Kiberd likens to “finger exercises in musical scales, ringing changes on the same set of words”: Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear.

So what temptation does Bloom, like Odysseus, experience without succumbing to its power? For the men and women in the Ormond Hotel bar, the camaraderie that comes of sharing songs is as important as the songs themselves. They are unified as much by the patter and banter surrounding the music as they are by each nostalgic, sentimental song. Even Bloom, the lurking outsider, experiences a moment of community in the section of Episode 11 I have chosen as this year’s excerpt. Bloom listens as Simon Dedalus performs a beautiful rendition of  M’Appari (“Come Thou Lost One”), an aria from Friedrich Von Flotow’s light opera Martha, in which Lionel, a successful farmer who has fallen in love with a Lady masquerading as a servant girl, laments her sudden disappearance. For nearly one-hundred lines, Joyce cuts between the text of the aria (Simon Dedalus sings a loosely translated version) and Bloom’s interior monologue as he responds to the words and music. The climax so moves Bloom that character, singer, and listener become entwined, an ecstatic state Joyce captures with the portmanteau word “Siopold!”—an exultant combination of Simon (singer), Lionel (character) and Leopold.

It is a powerful moment, one that has genuinely moved Bloom even though, true to his contemplative nature, he soon goes on to reflect: “Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. . . Do anything you like with figures juggling. . . And you think you’re listening to the etherial.” Still, music is important to Bloom. He takes an active part in his wife’s singing career and wonders why their daughter, Milly, has not inherited her parents’ discerning taste. As Kiberd suggests, “the beauty of good music is that you can hear it many times with added pleasure. . . At its best, it may evolve new forms, which work in surprising ways; but sentimental songs performed around the piano by tired men will not generate new meanings. These men want to retreat into a past which will allow them to forget the unhappy present.” When Bloom hears another talented singer (Ben Dollard) bringing another sentimental song (The Croppy Boy) to its tragic climax, he thinks it best to “get out before the end.” Tellingly, the song-forged trinity of performer-character-listener embodied by the one-line exclamation “Siopold!” has been replaced by passing uses of “Lionelleopold” and “Simonlionel”—a lingering trace of the character, Lionel, remains in both men but the connection between singer and listener has vanished. For Bloom, the community in the Ormond Hotel bar is an enticing trap that uses fetishizing the emotional power of music as a lure. “Better give way only half way,” he decides. So Bloom leaves the Ormond to continue his journey across Dublin having enjoyed some beautiful singing without falling victim to its charms. Outside, though, he makes a little music of his own, letting loose a noisy fart (“Pprrpffrrppffff“)—a residual echo (or, perhaps, a distillation) of the songs he heard in the Ormond.

Below is this year’s excerpt (the Siopold section described above). As usual, I’ve also included an audio clip of the excerpt from the 1982 RTÉ full-cast production of Ulysses. Given the musicality on display in the writing, more than ever I would encourage readers to play the clip and follow along.


Each graceful look

First night when first I saw her at Mat Dillon’s in Terenure. Yellow, black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the last. Fate. After her. Fate.

Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.

Charmed my eye

Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full, throat warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.

Martha! Ah, Martha!

Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For only her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.

Co-ome, thou lost one!
     Co-ome, thou dear one!

Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!

Come!

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness…

To me!

Siopold!

Consumed.

Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to him, to her, you too, me, us.

—Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank and bronze miss Douce and gold Miss Mina.

Happy Bloomsday! ReJoyce!

Happy Bloomsday! What am I talking about? Bloomsday is a worldwide celebration of Ulysses, James Joyce’s epic novel of everyday life which takes place on a single day: June 16, 1904. Ulysses, though set in 20th century Dublin, is loosely modeled on Homer’s Odyssey.

Around the world Joyce enthusiasts (and those willing to feign interest in order to get a free drink) attend readings, dramatizations, pub crawls, and other Ulysses-related events held around the world. Others stay at home to fix meals described in the book or simply read their favoite passages. The Bloomsday Project is my own small contribution to the celebration: every June 16th, one chapter per year (what was I thinking?!), I post an excerpt prefaced by some of my own observations in an attempt to share the pleasures of Ulysses with family, friends, and whoever else might find their way here.

A fuller explanation of Bloomsday and previous Bloomsday posts can be found in the archives. Enjoy!

Sincereley,

The Blooming Idiot

The Wandering Rocks (Chapter 10)

Unlike the other episodes in Ulysses, Chapter 10 (The Wandering Rocks) finds Joyce diverging significantly from the pattern of correspondences to Homer’s Odyssey. The Homeric basis for the episode is merely this: Odysseus is warned to avoid the Wandering Rocks because they are impossible to navigate without divine assistance, so he does. The Wandering Rocks takes place between 3:00 – 4:00 PM and is comprised of nineteen overlapping sections that feature virtually every character in the book, with accounts of two authority figures crossing Dublin acting as a frame: Father Conmee, a high-ranking Church official opens the chapter, while the Viceroy (the embodiment of English authority in colonial Ireland) closes it.

The range of characters in these sections is broad and includes our protagonists, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus, but also minor characters such as, to name but a few, Blazes Boylan (Molly Bloom’s would-be lover), Boylan’s secretary Miss Dunne, Stephen’s musically named music teacher Almidano Artifoni, and the young son of Paddy Dignam, whose funeral provided the setting of chapter 6 (Hades). The Wandering Rocks is not, however, strictly linear. In each section the narrative circles back on itself, referencing previous sections and foreshadowing future ones to locate each scene in the overall chronology of the chapter. We repeatedly glimpse, for instance, the moment Molly Bloom’s arm appears from her bedroom window to toss a coin to a begging sailor, and trace the progress of five sandwich-board-men, each bearing a different letter as they advertise H.E.L.Y.’S stationary store by walking together through the streets.

What do we make of this odd jigsaw of a chapter? Most often the Wandering Rocks is described by critics as a labyrinth or maze. This image certainly speaks to the experience of reading the chapter, with all its twists and turns, but critics tend to use the terms “labyrinth” and “maze” interchangeably, when there is actually an essential difference between the two. A labyrinth leads only (and inevitably) towards its own center, while a maze is designed to disorient, confuse, and trap (or, at least, delay) those who navigate it with false leads and dead-ends. When we solve a maze we do not reach its center, we emerge on the other side.

So, what has Joyce created here, a labyrinth or a maze? While we know labyrinths are important to Joyce (Stephen takes his last name from Daedalus, the inventor of the labyrinth) and while the chapter’s placement (chapter 10 of 18) makes it a center of sorts, the content of the chapter suggests the less determined structure of a maze. After spending much of the first eight episodes making us intimately familiar with Bloom and Stephen, Joyce pulls back to remind us that they are actually of little or no significance in the world they occupy. Since fiction typically offers an ordered vision of life where the importance of each character is consistent and clear, this shift is jarring. At the same time, this mixed sense of scale should be familiar to most of us: it is the maze of modern life. “Why is it all so complicated?” Irish critic Declan Kiberd asks in his chapter on the Wandering Rocks in Ulysses & Us. Because, he answers, “Joyce seeks to capture not just the openness but also the randomness of life, something which is almost impossible to do in a neat narrative.”

In The Faraway Nearby, her extended meditation on the value of storytelling, essayist Rebecca Solnit compares books to labyrinths: “A labyrinth is an ancient device that compresses a journey into a small space, winds up a path like thread on a spool. It contains beginning, confusion, perseverance, arrival, and return.” In this sense all books are certainly labyrinths: constructs designed to distract us until we arrive where their designers want us to go. Yet Solnit’s description of mazes sounds more like Ulysses: “a maze . . . has not one convoluted way but many ways and often no center, so that wandering has no cease or at least no definitive conclusion. A maze is a conversation.” So, perhaps Ulysses is both labyrinth and maze. “The world,” wrote philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, “is everything that is the case.” Books are not so limited. Like the puns Joyce loved, a book can be two (or more) things at once. After all, aren’t the best books—the books we return to again and again—both labyrinths and mazes? For while, like a labyrinth, a great book can lead us somewhere new; a great book can also, like a maze, offer us the freedom to become lost.

* * *

Excerpting Ulysses is never easy but excerpting a chapter that many see as a miniature of the novel as a whole is especially frustrating. How to capture its complex, overlapping interconnections? Ultimately, I settled on the final section (in its entirety) simply because it includes more characters than any other. Beginning with a straightforward account of the Viceroy and his wife (Earl and Lady Dudley) passing, king-like, across the chessboard that is Dublin, Joyce pointedly shows no interest in depicting the inner-life of these two figures. Instead, he gives us a litany of the ordinary people they pass in their carriage, each of whom reacts (or, mostly, doesn’t) to these high-ranking personages in different ways. As always, I encourage you to read along to the RTE full-cast performance of the excerpt provided below.

Until next year, then, when we look at the music-drenched Episode 10 (Sirens), I bid you adieu and wish you a happy Bloomsday!

 

William Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon from the viceregal lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs Paget, Miss de Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance.

The cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. The viceroy was most cordially greeted on his way through the metropolis. At Bloody bridge Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen’s and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley’s viceregal carriages passed and were unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside Mrs M. E. White’s, the pawnbroker’s, at the corner of Arran street west stroking his nose with his forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at Phibsborough more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the office of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by King’s windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. From its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan’s office Poddle river hung out in fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel, gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy’s head by Miss Douce’s head watched and admired. On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse for the subsheriff’s office, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. His Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus’ greeting. From Cahill’s corner the reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore rich advowsons. On Grattan bridge Lenehan and M’Coy, taking leave of each other, watched the carriages go by. Passing by Roger Greene’s office and Dollard’s big red printinghouse Gerty MacDowell, carrying the Catesby’s cork lino letters for her father who was laid up, knew by the style it was the lord and lady lieutenant but she couldn’t see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring’s big yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot’s from the shaded door of Kavanagh’s winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The Right Honourable William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson’s all times ticking watches and Henry and James’s wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the gentleman Henry, dernier cri James. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs quickly out of the pockets of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap to her. A charming soubrette, great Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G. Heseltine, and also upon the honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window of the D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In Fownes’s street Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal’s first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the glare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy’s horse pawed the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby’s corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted behind him, E.L.Y’S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite Pigott’s music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c, gaily apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. By the provost’s wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks with skyblue clocks to the refrain of My girl’s a Yorkshire girl.
Blazes Boylan presented to the leaders’ skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge. His hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he offered to the three ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. As they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing consort to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park. Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the cortège:

But though she’s a factory lass
And wears no fancy clothes.
Baraabum.
Yet I’ve a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for
My little Yorkshire rose.
Baraabum.

Thither of the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderly and W. C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding past Finn’s hotel Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons in the window of the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity’s postern a loyal king’s man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being given to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap with fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer’s hospital, drove with his following towards Lower Mount street. He passed a blind stripling opposite Broadbent’s. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy’s path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. At Haddington road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress without his golden chain. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two small schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired by the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince consort, in 1849 and the salute of Almidano Artifoni’s sturdy trousers swallowed by a closing door.