Umpteen scholars have tried to read the mind of Leopold Bloom. The man himself speaks through Eileen Battersby
Another day, another day. It's hot though and my suit will stick to me. Black always shows up the dirt and the sweat. The waistband's got tight. Poor Paddy, gone for good, how will she manage with all those children? I wonder do my feet smell? Will I change my socks. I've an almighty pain in my. There's the cat up on the kitchen table again. Poor puss don't walk in the butter, she did. Herself might be getting up, I hear the bed shaking. Maybe she's only turning over.
What has her so tired, it's not from cleaning the house. I'm not complaining, she does her best. Not much interest now with Milly up and gone, for the better though at the moment. She looks lovely when she sings, Madam Marion. Never that robust, she only looks well put together. Still the girl I married, well no she's not, but then I'm not. . .
Here puss leave go of my leg, that hurts. Don't be using me for a scratching post. Pussens, pussens, ouch that's my finger. God it's bleeding, the blood looks red in the milk. No puss stop, that's bold, I can't stay up here on the chair all day.
She's gone vicious, cats go like that, it's nature coming through. I want a kidney, I need a kidney. "I am going around the corner. Be back in a minute. You don't want anything for breakfast?" The hat's well marked by sweat. "White slip of paper" Where's the key? Into the sun. "Black conducts, reflects (refracts is it?)
Smell the fresh bread. "Makes you feel young." "Night sky moon, violet colour of Molly's new garters." Sad about poor Dignam. School room "brats' clamour" How about boys' chanting? Slieve Bloom like the sound. "A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned plate: the last".
My finger is still pouring blood, cat's gone mad. There's that maid from next door. Last seen "whacking a carpet on the clothesline". Mighty haunches. Enter the livestock into the cattlemarket. "flop and the fall of dung." Walked right into it, all over my boots, and splash onto the trouser leg. Bad luck, oopos onto my face. Give me the goddamn kidney. Gotcha.
Home again, home again. "Two letters and a card lay on the halldoor". One from Milly, the other from that swine, want to keep it, no I'll hand it over. Tea for herself, shift that mountain of underthings out of the way. "Scald the teapot". Maybe if I gave the cat the kidney she'd stop attacking me. Better not, she might get used to blood, could really hurt me the next time.
Boylan wrote the letter. Say nothing. Wants me to explain Metempsychosis, you know the rest. Back downstairs to the kettle and the cat - put her in cage - the kidney already on fire. What's a man to do? Read my daughter's letter, almost grown up, feel even older. Time to visit the lav. The cat's covered in blood. What's she killed. Oh only licking the butcher's paper, at least it's not my leg. Hurry to the lav, down the path. The door is stuck. Do you mind? Slam the door.
Back in business, feeling better. "By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly." Check the post. Here is it Henry Flower Esq. Not much of a lie, still a bloom, not yet a "boom" those newspapers and their typos.
Buy the lemon soap and the lotion. Lotion ready later, will be back. Bantam Lyons. Check the nags. Throw it away, become Throwaway. Time for a bath.
All clean for the funeral. Hardly knew the poor fellow, still. The gossip in the carriage, not fair about my father. Still no traffic jams. Trams still. Haven't begun building the Luas - won't be finished for 100 years. Maybe longer. "Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is." scenes of what's to come, the Dublin traffic, damn the Luas. Poor Dignam, poor me. Who is Mr Macintosh? "How grand we are this morning!" Newspaper headlines - pages of it - pack of lies. Into the office.
Near meeting with Stephen, what's the fuss, I am the star of the book - not that young whinger. See his sister, Simon Dedalus's daughter outside the auctioneers. "Must be selling off old furniture." There's Mrs Breen. I'm "remembering her laughing in the wind." "Two large eyes." Hopeless husband. Mina Purefoy having trouble delivering the baby. "Poor Mrs Purefoy. Methodist husband. Method in his madness." Keep walking. Need some lunch.
"See the animals feed . . . swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging." Flee the sight.
More digs about the wife. Head for the library. Ask "Whose land?" The professor sees the point. There's that young Stephen. Second sighting, second speechless encounter. Forget about the father/son. My son was Rudy, always thought Stephen was a bit of a pain. Hey ho, all that reading made him unhappy.
Fun's about to start. Far more interested in that Blazes fellow than I am in Stephen, let him head off to exile, he's no friend. But you'd feel sorry for him. Head for the Ormond Bar. Listen to the Croppy Boy, Think about having another son? Thinking, Thinking.
All the madness and all the rhetoric, the Citizen makes a stand and finds a target - me, the Jew. Makes me think about that referendum. So much for Universal Love. "I'm talking about injustice." Lots of shouting, I'll stand my ground. The Citizen is crazy, tries to kill me with a flying biscuit tin. That filthy dog of his is as vicious as my cat. I'm off, having experienced an encounter best described as a clash of cultures in the company of all that is bad in the country. And me with a wayward wife to contend with.
Worse is to follow. The whores, the temptation, the chaos. That Bella Cohen is a dangerous woman, or man, or whatever. Sure, I wasn't that sure of myself for a bit, shaking in my skirts I was. Come on Stephen, leave the drink and the women. Safety is to be found in a cup of cocoa. James Joyce wrote a book about me, and climbed into my mind, but he left me my spirit and my sense of wonder. I'm trying to sleep but the wife's still talking to herself or is it to me, "yes I will Yes".