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

Bloom responds to the song by accompanying it on the rubber band he twists round his fingers

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Bloom responds to the song by accompanying it on the rubber band he twists round his fingers.
Love that is singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly

the elastic band of his packet. Love's old sweet SONNEZ LA gold. Bloom

wound a skein round four forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound it

round his troubled double, fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast.
Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at

his feet. When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He

can't sing for tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him.

What perfume does your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look

at mirror always before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you?

I do well. There? What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in her

satchel. Yes? Hands felt for the opulent.
Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining, proud.
Glorious tone he has still. Cork air softer also their brogue. Silly man!

Could have made oceans of money. Singing wrong words. Wore out his

wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the two themselves. If he doesn't

break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His hands and feet sing too.

Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing. Jenny Lind soup:

stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat.

Ha, give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect.
Words? Music? No: it's what's behind.
Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded.
Bloom. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in

music out, in desire, dark to lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her

tapping her topping her. Tup. Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the

feel the warm the. Tup. To pour o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush,

flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now! Language of love.
-- ... RAY OF HOPE IS ...
Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse

unsqueaked a ray of hope.
MARTHA it is. Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely

name you have. Can't write. Accept my little pres. Play on her

heartstrings pursestrings too. She's a. I called you naughty boy. Still

the name: Martha. How strange! Today.
The voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to

Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to

wait. How first he saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part,

how look, form, word charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.
Bloom’s thoughts turn from Martha to Molly.
Wish I could see his face, though. Explain better. Why the barber in

Drago's always looked my face when I spoke his face in the glass. Still

hear it better here than in the bar though farther.
--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.

Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All looked. Halt. Down she

sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
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.
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.

Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!
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!
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 MJiss Mina.
Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.

Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,

reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now. Atrot,

in heat, heatseated. CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. Slower the mare

went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan,

blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.
An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider

drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of

two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving,

coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.
--Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd

sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina

Kennedy served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia,

admired, admired. But Bloom sang dumb.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He

remembered one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang 'TWAS

RANK AND FAME: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his

life a note like that he never did THEN FALSE ONE WE HAD BETTER PART so

clear so God he never heard SINCE LOVE LIVES NOT a clinking voice lives

not ask Lambert he can tell you too.
Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the

night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang 'TWAS RANK AND FAME.
He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr

Bloom, of the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND

FAME in his, Ned Lambert's, house.
Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the

lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The

night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more

than all others.
That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after

you feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.
Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with slack fingers plucked

the slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz, it twanged. While

Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan,

harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to listening

Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played. While

big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he

smoked, who smoked.
Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom stretched his

string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.

Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head. Outtohelloutofthat.

Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five bob I gave.

CORPUS PARADISUM. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup. Gone.

They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get tired.

Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her

wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d.
Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not

happy in your? Twang. It snapped.
Jingle into Dorset street.
Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
--Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted.
George Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe.
First gentleman told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so.

And second tankard told her so. That that was so.
Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy, Mina, did not

believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the first: gent

with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the

Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He

went. A pad to blot. He heard, deaf Pat.
--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut line. It certainly is.

Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid music is. Who is

this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet notepaper,

envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic.
--Grandest number in the whole opera, Goulding said.
--It is, Bloom said.
Bloom asks Pat for pen, ink, and blotter to write his reply to Martha Clifford, while thinking about the nature of music.
Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two

divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two

plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find

out this equal to that. Symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my

mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think

you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like: Martha,

seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on

account of the sounds it is.
Instance he's playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till

you hear the words. Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear

chords a bit off: feel lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels,

through wirefences, obstacle race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood

you're in. Still always nice to hear. Except scales up and down, girls

learning. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos

for that. BLUMENLIED I bought for her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl,

night I came home, the girl. Door of the stables near Cecilia street.

Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I mean.
Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite

flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went.
It was the only language Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a

boy in Ringabella, Crosshaven, Ringabella, singing their barcaroles.

Queenstown harbour full of Italian ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the

moonlight with those earthquake hats. Blending their voices. God, such

music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole.
Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips that cooed

a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar, replying.
Down the edge of his FREEMAN baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye,

scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick.

Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking ...
Bloom writes to Martha.
Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his FREEMAN.

Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear

sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I put?

Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline IMPOSS. To write today.
Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am just reflecting

fingers on flat pad Pat brought.
On. Know what I mean. No, change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres

enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five Dig. Two about here. Penny the

gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is eight about. Say half a

crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write me a long. Do you

despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call me naught?

You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today. Yes, yes,

will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other world she

wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe. Believe.

The tank. It. Is. True.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their

wives. Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young.

If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless

pain. If they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's marriage does, their

wives. Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must. Keep young.

If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all. Useless

pain. If they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander.
A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of

number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young

gentleman, stylishly dressed in an indigoblue serge suit made by

George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of number five Eden quay, and

wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John Plasto of number one

Great Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle that joggled and

jingled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath trotted a

gallantbuttocked mare.
--Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom.
--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect.
Bloom mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You

know how. In haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he

playing now? Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will

you pun? You punish me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want

to. Know. O. Course if I didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off

there sad in minor. Why minor sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end.

P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad today. La ree. So lonely. Dee.
He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address. Just copy out of

paper. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited. Henry wrote:

Miss Martha Clifford

c/o P. O.

Dolphin's Barn Lane


Blot over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit.

Something detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea

per col. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U. P:

Too poetical that about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms.

Shakespeare said. Quotations every day in the year. To be or not to be.

Wisdom while you wait.
In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is

all. One body. Do. But do.
Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk

now. Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job.
House of mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is.
Car near there now. Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins.

Lot of ground he must cover in the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd

be two. Wish they'd sing more. Keep my mind off.
Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter hard of

his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee hee. He

waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He waits

while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait.

Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait.
Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and rose.
She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely

shell she brought.
To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and winding

seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear.
--Listen! she bade him.
Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.

Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband

took him by the throat. SCOUNDREL, said he, YOU'LL SING NO MORE LOVESONGS.

He did, faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back.
Ah, now he heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard.
Wonderful. She held it to her own. And through the sifted light pale gold

in contrast glided. To hear.
Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard

more faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for

other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar.
Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, they listened.
Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there. Been to the seaside.

Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on coldcream first

make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't forget. Fever

near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell with

seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the

mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No

admittance except on business.
The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar. The blood it is. Souse

in the ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle islands.
Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,

hearing: then laid it by, gently.
--What are the wild waves saying? he asked her, smiled.
Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.
By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and

Boylan turned.
From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting.

No, she was not so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know.

Walks in the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly

answered: with a gentleman friend.
Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again. The

landlord has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he

played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and

smiling, and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one,

one, one: two, one, three, four.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket,

cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere.

Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of DON GIOVANNI

he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers

dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating

dockleaves. Nice that is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you

look at us.
That's joyful I can feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other

joy. But both are joys. Yes, joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you

are. Often thought she was in the dumps till she began to lilt. Then

M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife. Squealing cat. Like tearing silk.

Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a bellows. They can't manage

men's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me. I'm warm, dark, open.

Molly in QUIS EST HOMO: Mercadante. My ear against the wall to hear. Want

a woman who can deliver the goods.
Jog jig jogged stopped. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks

skyblue clocks came light to earth.
Lydia Douce has a seashell which she has Lidwell listen to, as the sound of blind piano tuner’s cane (Tap) combines with the jingle of Boylan’s progress to Eccles St.
O, look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on

that. It is a kind of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is.

Tinkling. Empty vessels make most noise. Because the acoustics, the

resonance changes according as the weight of the water is equal to the law

of falling water. Like those rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed.

Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now.

Maybe now. Before.
One rapped on a door, one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul

de Kock with a loud proud knocker with a cock carracarracarra cock.


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