Sunday, January 11, 2015

Page 464 (15.1735-1766) "THE VEILED SIBYL (Enthusiastically... odd pieces of fat.)"


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THE VEILED SIBYL

(Enthusiastically.) I'm a Bloomite and I glory in it. I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest man on earth.




BLOOM

(Winks at the bystanders.) I bet she's a bonny lassie.




THEODORE PUREFOY

(In fishingcap and oilskin jacket.) He employs a mechanical device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature.




THE VEILED SIBYL

(Stabs herself.) My hero god! (She dies.)



(Many most attractive and enthusiastic women also commit suicide by stabbing, drowning, drinking prussic acid, aconite, arsenic, opening their veins, refusing food, casting themselves under steamrollers, from the top of Nelson's Pillar, into the great vat of Guinness's brewery, asphyxiating themselves by placing their heads in gas ovens, hanging themselves in stylish garters, leaping from windows of different storeys.)




ALEXANDER J. DOWIE

(Violently.) Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to christian men. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. A worshipper of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his nostrils. The stake faggots and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban!




THE MOB

Lynch him! Roast him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox!



(Mother Grogan throws her boot at Bloom. Several shopkeepers from upper and lower Dorset street throw objects of little or no commercial value, hambones, condensed milk tins, unsaleable cabbage, stale bread, sheep's tails, odd pieces of fat.)







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