0 Ulysses
and syllabax. This searching ordeal. It has been an unusu-
ally fatiguing day, a chapter of accidents. Wait. I mean,
wartsblood spreads warts, you said ...
VIRAG: (Severely, his nose hardhumped, his side eye
winking) Stop twirling your thumbs and have a good old
thunk. See, you have forgotten. Exercise your mnemotech-
nic. La causa è santa. Tara. Tara. (Aside) He will surely
remember.
BLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you to say or
willpower over parasitic tissues. Then nay no I have an in-
kling. The touch of a deadhand cures. Mnemo?
VIRAG: (Excitedly) I say so. I say so. E’en so. Technic.
(He taps his parchmentroll energetically) This book tells you
how to act with all descriptive particulars. Consult index
for agitated fear of aconite, melancholy of muriatic, priapic
pulsatilla. Virag is going to talk about amputation. Our old
friend caustic. They must be starved. Snip off with horsehair
under the denned neck. But, to change the venue to the Bul-
gar and the Basque, have you made up your mind whether
you like or dislike women in male habiliments? (With a dry
snigger) You intended to devote an entire year to the study
of the religious problem and the summer months of 1886 to
square the circle and win that million. Pomegranate! From
the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. Pyjamas, let us
say? Or stockingette gussetted knickers, closed? Or, put we
the case, those complicated combinations, camiknickers?
(He crows derisively) Keekeereekee!
(Bloom surveys uncertainly the three whores then gazes at
the veiled mauve light, hearing the everflying moth.)