Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms， hising up their petticoats， in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day： night by night： lifted， flooded and let fall. Lord， they are weary： and， whispered to， they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it， sigh of leaves and waves， waiting， awaiting the fullness of their times， diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. To no end gathered： vainly then released， forth flowing， wending back： loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers， lascivious men， a naked woman shining in her courts， she draws a toil of waters.
Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one he said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble， fanshoals of fishes， silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow， bobbing landward， a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.
Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows， fat of a spongy titbit， flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe， tread dead dust， devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave， his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.
A seachange this， brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath， mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris： beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.
Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere， are there？ Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls， proud lightning of the intellect， Lucifer， dico， qui nescit occasum. No. My cockle hat and staff and his my sandal shoon. Where？ To evening lands. Evening will find itself.
He took the hilt of his ashplant， lunging with it softly， dallying still. Yes， evening will find itself in me， without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it？ Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year， mother， the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson， gentleman poet. Già. For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont， gentleman journalist. Già. My teeth are very bad. Why， I wonder？ Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist， I wonder， with that money？ That one. Toothless Kinch， the superman. Why is that， I wonder， or does it mean something perhaps？
My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up？
His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No， I didn't. Better buy one.
He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock， carefully. For the rest let look who will.
Behind. Perhaps there is someone.
He turned his face over a shoulder， rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster， her sails brailed up on the crosstrees， homing， upstream， silently moving， a silent ship.
Calypso
MR LEOPOLD BLOOM ATE WITH RELISH THE INNER ORGANS OF BEASTS and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup， nutty gizzards， a stuffed roast heart， liver slices fried with crustcrumbs， fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly， righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter： three， four： right. She didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray， lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there， dull and squat， its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high.
-- Mkgnao！
-- O， there you are， Mr Bloom said， turning from the fire.
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table， mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously， kindly， the lithe black form. Clean to see： the gloss of her sleek hide， the white button under the butt of her tail， the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her， his hands on his knees.
-- Milk for the pussens， he said.
-- Mrkgnao！ the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower？ No， she can jump me.
-- Afraid of the chickens she is， he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.
Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it.
-- Mrkrgnao！ the cat said loudly.
She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes， mewing plaintively and long， showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser， took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him， poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor.
-- Gurrhr！ she cried， running to lap.
He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why？ They shine in the dark， perhaps， the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark， perhaps.
He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs， no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday： not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter， a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower， then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough？ To lap better， all porous holes. Nothing she can eat？ He glanced round him. No.
