Ulysses page-by-page: Page 121 (7.301-336) "J.J. O'Molloy strolled... Daw! he cried."

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J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back the pink pages of the file.

Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment.

80yo in 1901

Myles Crawford = 42yo Patrick John Meade 1901, 1911

Ellmann: "Joyce calls him in Ulysses Myles Crawford, and the name suggests that of the editor of the Evening Telegraph in 1904, Morris Cosgrave. The personality of Crawford is not that of Cosgrave, however, but of Mead, in 1904 only sub-editor, but now [1909] editor. Pat Mead, like most of the staff in 1909, was about fifty years old. A big, stout man, with red hair and a red face, he dressed like a dandy, and was invariably clean shaven with a flower in his buttonhole, although he had usually spent most of the previous night drinking. He was a widower with a daughter and two sons. Mead had a terrible temper, but was basically kind and probably an 'easy touch'; in Ulysses, however, the barrister O'Molloy fails to 'raise the wind' with him. While the description in Ulysses of Mead as Crawford is mostly literal, Joyce has inflated him somewhat as god of the winds of news. Mead was never guilty of either profanity or obscenity, but Joyce heightens his irascible temper in Ulysses with frequent oaths, and makes him say, 'Kiss my royal Irish arse.' Mead never said this, but Joyce did not invent it either. It was said by John Wyse Power, who was famous at the Evening Telegraph offices for the expression."

— Ah, listen to this for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks...

— Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag!

— Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were...

— Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it?

— As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio, unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight...

— The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.

Hamlet I.i

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HIS NATIVE DORIC

— That mantles the vista far and wide and wait till the glowing orb of the moon shines forth to irradiate her silver effulgence...

— O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and onions! That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.

He took off his silk hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers.

'Welsh comb' = using your fingers as a comb

Ned Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled face.

"blackspectacled" (p125 will clarify these are "blackrimmed" meaning black Bakelite frames rather than blindman's black lenses.)