Thursday, September 11, 2014

Page 161 (8.640-679) "Duke street... of his nose."

editions: [1922] [html] [archv]
notes: [Th] [G&S] [Dent] [wbks] [rw] [images] [hyper]
Delaney: [317] Useen: [] [cp] maps: [path] [other] [*]
fd: [316]


Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

StreetView now

in 1901 (and still today) the numbering seems to have gone from #2 on Bloom's left (the Bailey bar/restaurant, ignored by Joyce) up the left side of the street to ~#11, and back down the right side to the Burton Hotel at #18 and Davy Byrne's at #21, opposite the Bailey. (George Moore's literary circle, including Gogarty and excluding Joyce, met at the Bailey thruout the decade.)

Combridge Ltd on right

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

— Jack, love!

— Darling!

— Kiss me, Reggy!

— My boy!

— Love!

his surrendering now threatens to overwhelm him with random images of lust...?


His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See the animals feed.

a few doors down on the right, 18 Duke street in 1901

whatever overwhelmed him now turns his stomach

Men, men, men.

(is it Boylan who really disgusts him?)

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne. Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however.

— Roast beef and cabbage.

— One stew.

Smells of men. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.

(why should Byrne's be any different?)

His gorge rose.

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! Get out of this.

"tootles" = teeth?

Hamlet III.iv "Look here upon this picture, and on this" (good vs evil)
"Get out of this" echoes commands to animals in ch3 and ch6

fd: [317]
He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his nose.

cf 'snooty'


mysteries: pix of Burton, Combridge's

[DD 02:23-03:33]
[DD 00:00-02:48]

[IM 47:12-50:03]

[LV1 02:33-05:13]

[LV2 23:49-26:45]

lestrygonians: 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175

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