The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 066
without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in the
next garden : their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all though
are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung.
Best thing to clean ladies’ kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the
whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh
greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here
Whitmonday.
He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on
the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny, I don’t remember that. Hallstand
too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters. Drago’s shopbell
ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brilliantined hair over
his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this
morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens they
say. O’Brien.
Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agenda what is it? Now, my miss.
Enthusiast.
He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these
trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low
lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale
cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink
up at the nextdoor window. The king was in his counting house. Nobody.
Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages over on
his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit.
Our prize titbit. Matcham’s Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy,
Playgoers’ club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been
made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds
thirteen and six.
Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but
resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed
his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that
slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it’s not too big bring on
piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada.
Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick
and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above
his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by
which he won the laughing Witch Who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in
hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling