Friday, May 30, 2014

Page 69 (5.29-64) "blend... City."

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Delaney: [195] [196] [197] Useen: [] [*]
Delaney: [194]

blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east.

Delaney: [195]
Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy.

Delaney: [196]
Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. 

Hours of Idleness
recipe (cf Stephen's mou en civet)

Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.


Delaney: [197]
He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something.

cf Stephen p42 "Whom were you trying to walk like?"

As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see.

(p.o. entrance where?)

StreetView now

Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.
He handed the card through the brass grill.
— Are there any letters for me? he asked.
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.
The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower, Esq,
c/o P.O. Westland Row,

cf 1915
a Dublin policeman named Henry Flower had been acquitted of murdering a girl in 1900, so this is very creepy [more]

Joyce uses the word 'curbstone' a lot: does it mean more than 'curb'?



[DD 03:30-05:55]
[DD 00:00-01:39]

[IM 02:44-05:47]

[LV1 03:11-06:39]

[LV2 02:49-05:35]

lotus: 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

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