Page 266 (11.787-823) "of the night he... It certainly is."

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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 cords. Wonderful, more than all others.


'We never speak as we pass by' jump to 1:45:

where could LB have gotten the adjective "silky"? (is it even accurate?)


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 buzzed, 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.

"catgut" is from cattle, not cats

61yo 'Professor of Singing' in 1901

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 tank.



Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.

(people chewed shared pens?!)


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 fine. It certainly is.

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