Ulysses by James Joyce Chapter 10 Page 49

a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously. He’s not one of your common or garden... you know... There’s a touch of the artist about old Bloom.

* * *

Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then of Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Crooked botched print. Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.

He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.

That I had, he said, pushing it by.