Pincushions.  I’m a long time threatening to buy one.  Sticking them all over the place.  Needles in window curtains.

He bared slightly his left forearm.  Scrape:  nearly gone.  Not today anyhow.  Must go back for that lotion.  For her birthday perhaps.  Junejulyaugseptember eighth.  Nearly three months off.  Then she mightn’t like it.  Women won’t pick up pins.  Say it cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

Useless to go back.  Had to be.  Tell me all.

High voices.  Sunwarm silk.  Jingling harnesses.  All for a woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa.  Agendath Netaim.  Wealth of the world.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain.  His brain yielded.  Perfume of embraces all him assailed.  With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

Duke street.  Here we are.  Must eat.  The Burton.  Feel better then.

He turned Combridge’s corner, still pursued.  Jingling, hoofthuds.  Perfumed bodies, warm, full.  All kissed, yielded:  in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

—­Jack, love!

—­Darling!

—­Kiss me, Reggy!

—­My boy!

—­Love!

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant.  Stink gripped his trembling breath:  pungent meatjuice, slush of greens.  See the animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches.  A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin.  New set of microbes.  A man with an infant’s saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet.  A man spitting back on his plate:  halfmasticated gristle:  gums:  no teeth to chewchewchew it.  Chump chop from the grill.  Bolting to get it over.  Sad booser’s eyes.  Bitten off more than he can chew.  Am I like that?  See ourselves as others see us.  Hungry man is an angry man.  Working tooth and jaw.  Don’t!  O!  A bone!  That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne.  Wonder what he was eating.  Something galoptious.  Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity.  Couldn’t swallow it all however.

—­Roast beef and cabbage.

—­One stew.

Smells of men.  Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men’s beery piss, the stale of ferment.

His gorge rose.

Couldn’t eat a morsel here.  Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles.  Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud.  Before and after.  Grace after meals.  Look on this picture then on that.  Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread.  Lick it off the plate, man!  Get out of this.