Episode 11: Sirens (Literary technique: Fuga per canonem (fugue or polyphony by rule: weaving of various voices and motifs in counterpoint to one another). Art: Music. Time: 38 40 pm. Place: Ormond Hotel

Style 29: In the style of John Ruskin

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Style 29: In the style of John Ruskin.
Mark this farther and remember. The end comes suddenly. Enter that

antechamber of birth where the studious are assembled and note their

faces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietude of

custody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilant

watch of shepherds and of angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda long

ago. But as before the lightning the serried stormclouds, heavy with

preponderant excess of moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended,

compass earth and sky in one vast slumber, impending above parched field

and drowsy oxen and blighted growth of shrub and verdure till in an

instant a flash rives their centres and with the reverberation of the

thunder the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and not otherwise was the

transformation, violent and instantaneous, upon the utterance of the

Style 30: In the manner of Thomas Carlyle. Stephen leads the group to Burke’s pub at 17 Holles St., on the corner of Denzille (now Fenian) Street.
Burke's! outflings my lord Stephen, giving the cry, and a tag and bobtail

of all them after, cockerel, jackanapes, welsher, pilldoctor, punctual

Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear, ashplants, bilbos,

Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocks and what not. A dedale of

lusty youth, noble every student there. Nurse Callan taken aback in the

hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeon coming downstairs with news

of placentation ended, a full pound if a milligramme. They hark him on.

The door! It is open? Ha! They are out, tumultuously, off for a minute's

race, all bravely legging it, Burke's of Denzille and Holles their

ulterior goal. Dixon follows giving them sharp language but raps out an

oath, he too, and on. Bloom stays with nurse a thought to send a kind

word to happy mother and nurseling up there. Doctor Diet and Doctor

Quiet. Looks she too not other now? Ward of watching in Horne's house has

told its tale in that washedout pallor. Then all being gone, a glance of

motherwit helping, he whispers close in going: Madam, when comes the

storkbird for thee?
The air without is impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence

celestial, glistening on Dublin stone there under starshiny COELUM. God's

air, the Allfather's air, scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe

it deep into thee. By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty

deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor barring

none in this chaffering allincluding most farraginous chronicle.

Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which

thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her!

Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all

Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping

under thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not

thine!) in the countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt

gather thy homer of ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy

Darby Dullman there with his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed curdog

is all their progeny. Pshaw, I tell thee! He is a mule, a dead

gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth a cracked kreutzer.

Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's slaughter of the

innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and sterile

cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary

pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,

bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious

attacks, gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and

trentals and jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty

years of it, regret them not. With thee it was not as with many that will

and would and wait and never--do. Thou sawest thy America, thy lifetask,

and didst charge to cover like the transpontine bison. How saith


DES EUTERS [You are milking your cow [named]Affliction. Now you are drinking the sweet milk of her udder.]. See! it displodes for thee in abundance. Drink, man, an

udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human kin, milk too of

those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour, punch milk,

such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of madness,

the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough, what? Ay, but

her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this but thick rich

bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! PER DEAM PARTULAM ET PERTUNDAM

NUNC EST BIBENDUM![By the goddesses Partula and Pertunda now must we drink]
Style 31: Style breaks into fragments of dialect and slang, as Joyce described it, “a frightful jumble of pidgin English, nigger English, Cockney, Irish, Bowery slang and broken doggerel.”
All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street. Bonafides.

Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole Billyo.

Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's sawbones

and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward to the

ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the drunken

minister coming out of the maternity hospal! BENEDICAT VOS OMNIPOTENS

DEUS, PATER ET FILIUS. A make, mister. The Denzille lane boys. Hell,

blast ye! Scoot. Righto, Isaacs, shove em out of the bleeding limelight.

Yous join uz, dear sir? No hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee

samee dis bunch. EN AVANT, MES ENFANTS! Fire away number one on the gun.

Burke's! Burke's! Thence they advanced five parasangs. Slattery's mounted

foot. Where's that bleeding awfur? Parson Steve, apostates' creed! No,

no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead. Keep a watch on the clock.

Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? MA MERE M'A MARIEE. British

Beatitudes! RETAMPLATAN DIGIDI BOUMBOUM. Ayes have it. To be printed and

bound at the Druiddrum press by two designing females. Calf covers of

pissedon green. Last word in art shades. Most beautiful book come out of

Ireland my time. SILENTIUM! Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest

canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the

boys are (atitudes!) parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs

battleships, buggery and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer,

beef, trample the bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers.

Thunderation! Keep the durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops

boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger. Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my

tootsies! You hurt? Most amazingly sorry!
Query. Who's astanding this here do? Proud possessor of damnall. Declare

misery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not a red at me this week

gone. Yours? Mead of our fathers for the UBERMENSCH. Dittoh. Five number

ones. You, sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the cabby's caudle. Stimulate

the caloric. Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never to go again when

the old. Absinthe for me, savvy? CARAMBA! Have an eggnog or a prairie

oyster. Enemy? Avuncular's got my timepiece. Ten to. Obligated awful.

Don't mention it. Got a pectoral trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Got bet be a

boomblebee whenever he wus settin sleepin in hes bit garten. Digs up near

the Mater. Buckled he is. Know his dona? Yup, sartin I do. Full of a

dure. See her in her dishybilly. Peels off a credit. Lovey lovekin. None

of your lean kine, not much. Pull down the blind, love. Two Ardilauns.

Same here. Look slippery. If you fall don't wait to get up. Five, seven,

nine. Fine! Got a prime pair of mincepies, no kid. And her take me to

rests and her anker of rum. Must be seen to be believed. Your starving

eyes and allbeplastered neck you stole my heart, O gluepot. Sir? Spud

again the rheumatiz? All poppycock, you'll scuse me saying. For the hoi

polloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc? Back fro Lapland? Your

corporosity sagaciating O K? How's the squaws and papooses? Womanbody

after going on the straw? Stand and deliver. Password. There's hair. Ours

the white death and the ruddy birth. Hi! Spit in your own eye, boss!

Mummer's wire. Cribbed out of Meredith. Jesified, orchidised, polycimical

jesuit! Aunty mine's writing Pa Kinch. Baddybad Stephen lead astray

goodygood Malachi.
Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw

Hielentman's your barleybree. Lang may your lum reek and your kailpot

boil! My tipple. MERCI. Here's to us. How's that? Leg before wicket.

Don't stain my brandnew sitinems. Give's a shake of peppe, you there.

Catch aholt. Caraway seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence. Every

cove to his gentry mort. Venus Pandemos. LES PETITES FEMMES. Bold bad

girl from the town of Mullingar. Tell her I was axing at her. Hauding

Sara by the wame. On the road to Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me had

left but the name. What do you want for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen.

Smutty Moll for a mattress jig. And a pull all together. EX!
Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet your boots on. Stunned like,

seeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble? He've got the chink

AD LIB. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said war hisn. Us come

right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the oof. Two bar

and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy bilks? Won't wash

here for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise de cutest colour coon

down our side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou. We're nae tha fou.

Au reservoir, mossoo. Tanks you.
'Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you, shir. Bantam,

two days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine. Garn! Have a glint, do.

Gum, I'm jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full for words. With a

railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he'd like? Rose of Castile. Rows of

cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers.

Gemini. He's going to holler. The colleen bawn. My colleen bawn. O,

cheese it! Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the winner

today till I tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of Stephen

Hand as give me the jady coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wire

big bug Bass to the depot. Shove him a joey and grahamise. Mare on form

hot order. Guinea to a goosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal

diversion? I think that yes. Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the

harman beck copped the game. Madden back Madden's a maddening back. O

lust our refuge and our strength. Decamping. Must you go? Off to mammy.

Stand by. Hide my blushes someone. All in if he spots me. Come ahome, our

Bantam. Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget the cowslips for hersel.

Cornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock. Of John Thomas, her

spouse. No fake, old man Leo. S'elp me, honest injun. Shiver my timbers

if I had. There's a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me tell? Vel, I

ses, if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha mishinnah.

Through yerd our lord, Amen.
You move a motion? Steve boy, you're going it some. More bluggy

drunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander permit one stooder of

most extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious thirst to terminate

one expensive inaugurated libation? Give's a breather. Landlord,

landlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to pree. Cut

and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. NOS OMNES BIBERIMUS


Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you say onions? Bloo? Cadges

ads. Photo's papli, by all that's gorgeous. Play low, pardner. Slide.

BONSOIR LA COMPAGNIE. And snares of the poxfiend. Where's the buck and

Namby Amby? Skunked? Leg bail. Aweel, ye maun e'en gang yer gates.

Checkmate. King to tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help yung man hoose frend

tuk bungellow kee tu find plais whear tu lay crown of his hed 2 night.

Crickey, I'm about sprung. Tarnally dog gone my shins if this beent the

bestest puttiest longbreak yet. Item, curate, couple of cookies for this

child. Cot's plood and prandypalls, none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust

syphilis down to hell and with him those other licensed spirits. Time,

gents! Who wander through the world. Health all! A LA VOTRE!
Golly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes. Peep at

his wearables. By mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by

James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the

Richmond? Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis.

Trumpery insanity. Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a

prosperous cit. Man all tattered and torn that married a maiden all

forlorn. Slung her hook, she did. Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh

of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in. Schedule time. Nix for the hornies.

Pardon? Seen him today at a runefal? Chum o' yourn passed in his checks?

Ludamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou'll no be telling me thot, Pold veg!

Did ums blubble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney was took off in black

bag? Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I never see the like

since I was born. TIENS, TIENS, but it is well sad, that, my faith, yes.

O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axle drives are souped. Lay

you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow. Jappies? High angle

fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse for him, says he, nor any

Rooshian. Time all. There's eleven of them. Get ye gone. Forward, woozy

wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soul this night

ever tremendously conserve.
Your attention! We're nae tha fou. The Leith police dismisseth us. The

least tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwell in his abominable

regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my own love. Ook.
Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she goes.

Brigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not

come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap!
Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o' me. Denzille lane this way. Change here for

Bawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the kips where shady Mary is.

Righto, any old time. LAETABUNTUR IN CUBILIBUS SUIS. You coming long?

Whisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds? Hush! Sinned

against the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall come to

judge the world by fire. Pflaap! UT IMPLERENTUR SCRIPTURAE. Strike up a

ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy.

Christicle, who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion hall?

Elijah is coming! Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you

winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existences! Come on, you dog-

gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed

fourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple

extract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie, that's my name, that's

yanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach to Vladivostok.

The Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that He's on the

square and a corking fine business proposition. He's the grandest thing

yet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. You'll need

to rise precious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle the

Almighty God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got a coughmixture with a punch in

it for you, my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on.
The chapter draws its title from the sacred oxen of the sun, symbols of fertility in the Odyssey. Odysseus warns his men against killing them for food since they are sacred to the gods, but the men disobey and are later struck by a thunderbolt which Odysseus alone survives. The parallel between Odysseus’s crew and the blaspheming medical students here is immediately apparent. The episode is a tour de force of sex, fertility, procreation, and the birth process, punctuated by the irreverence of the drunken medical students. Bloom alone remains sober and watchful, a modern-day Odysseus.
A major theme of the chapter, allied to fertility, birth, and gestation, is the development of language through the manipulation of the narrative point of view. This begins with a Latin, English, and Celtic invocation to the Holles Street Hospital and proceeds through a paragraph of Anglo-Saxo and an ancient midwife’s cry before launching out on an anglicized medicinal Latin tract on child welfare, all in the first ten lines. These parody styles then evolve into imitations of period writers from Old English through contemporary argot. The imitated styles are in chronological sequence to represent the development of the English language, like the development of the embryo and fetus through gestation.
Each of the imitated styles espouses a point of view that while it purports to tell the whole truth sees things from only one perspective. Each parody in itself is only a part of the truth. Only the sum of these perspectives, for a distanced reader, renders a close approximation of the facts. In this respect, “Oxen of the Sun” is a microcosm of the multiple narrative perspectives of Ulysses, each with its incomplete addition to an overall truth that constitutes the novel.
The chapter, therefore, deals with coition, gestation, birth, and development in both language and people. The shifting narrative points of view treat our perception of reality in relation to the conception or birth of the word and its development in language and literature, revealing the tensions that exist between that language and literature, the realities that gave the images impetus, and the realities that those images attempt to describe. As the narrative point of view shifts throughout the course of the chapters, the revelers assume different forms in the narrators’ eyes. This provides a linguistic counterpart to the consubstantiality-metempsychosis themes, a parallax of narrative perceptions.
As in all the chapters associated with Stephen, it is difficult, with the difficulty arising less from ideas than from language itself. Comparatively little happens in the chapter: A baby is born to Mrs. Purefoy while Bloom and the drunken medical students loudly discuss procreativity and are admonished by a nurse to be quieter. Eventually, they retire to Burke’s pub, where they drink some more and are eventually turned out at closing time. The action is given dramatic import by the ever-shifting montage of styles and philosophical significance by the analogy between the natural processes of reproduction and the birth of the word and linguistic reproduction of reality.

In this tour de force of fertility and the development of language, Mrs. Purefoy gives birth and the word is born. The gestation process terminates, not in universal harmony after the birth of the word, but in a chaotic argot of contemporary language and the cheap promises of a common evangelist using language to sell religion like cough medicine. The difficulties of the chapter lie in its ingeniousness, which gives rise to the old argument about language as communication versus language as an expression of art. Joyce couches his discussion of language in terms that themselves obfuscate even as they exemplify. Nevertheless, the chapter does contain the first extended conversation between Bloom and Stephen—the birth of their relationship—no matter how short-lived. As a literary treatise on fertility, art, language, and reality it is unparalleled in English literature since Tristram Shandy.

Notes on Ulysses: Wanderings of Ulysses—Episode 15

Episode 15: Circe (Literary technique: Hallucination). Art: Magic. Time: 11.10pm-12.40 am. Place: Nighttown.
According to Ellmann, Joyce in 1904 got in a fight over a comment made to a passing girl and was escorted home by a certain Albert Hunter, who was rumored to be Jewish and to have an unfaithful wife: core incident that gave birth to Ulysses.
The route of Circe is from Westland Row station to Amiens Street station, walking to Bella Cohen’s brothel at No. 82 Lower Tyrone St., down Talbot St., right into Mabbot St. (Corporation St.), and finally right again into Tyrone St. (Railway St.) Bloom follows first jumping into the first class part of the train, misled by the train’s pushing engine, and inadvertently goes to the next stop at Killester. Returning to Amiens St. presumably by the next incoming train. Leaving Bella’s Stephen and Bloom go down Beaver St., cross Montgomery St. (Foley St.) and turn left to Amiens St., Store St. and Beresford Place to the cab man’s shelter under the loopline bridge.
Nighttown=Joyce’s coinage. Dublin’s red-light district universally known as “Monto,” an abbreviation of Montgomery Street (Foley St.), which was its heart. Bloom follows the same route taken by Stephen and Lynch (down Talbot St., up Mabbot St. (Corporation St.), into Tyrone St.:
Bloom passes Gillen’s the hairdresser’s (64 Talbot St.); enters Rabaiott’s (65 Talbot St.), buys his crubeen and sheep’s trotter at Olhausen’s (72 Talbot St.), and at Thomas Cormack’s pub (74 Talbot St.), on the corner of Mabbot St. he stands looking at the light of the fire south of the river in Mount St. Bloom sees a sinister figure against “O’Beirne’s wall” (O’Beirne Bros., pub/grocer, 62 Mabbot St.) where hallucinations begin. Bella Cohen’s address at 82 Lower Tyrone St. (Railway St.) is given as No. 81, possibly to avoid reference to the year of his birth: 1882.

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