It is naught if not Walpurgisnacht, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea.
The following culled from an extraordinarily readable critique:
James Joyce: The First Forty Years
Herbert S. Gorman, 1924
"Stephen Dedalus retains his entity throughout but Bloom, more incoherent in his cerebral adjustions and weaker in intellectual intensity and concentration, time after time changes into visualizations of the thoughts which rush across his befuddled mind. All that he has desired or dreaded or dreamt or been fascinated or revolted by takes him and colors him chameleon-like. He becomes a squire of dames, a prisoner in court, Lord Mayor of Dublin, an Emperor, an Irish emigrant, a woman, anything that pops into his mind, anything that is suggested by the most chance remark or situation. The whole day rushes back across his helpless mind, all the people he has met, all the gossip he has heard, all the thoughts which had passed his consciousness. In astonishing garb and blasphemous attitudes all these half-digested morsels of observation and subconscious reception out of his brain, spurting about like bits of colored glass from a smashed kaleidoscope. Part of this is occasioned by the same pathological principle which causes a victim of delirium tremens to see snakes."
"Yet they stand in the silence of kinship a moment at the door before they part while the bells of St. George ring out."--Herbert S. Gorman, 1924
"What echoes of that sound were by both and each heard?
Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet.
Jubilantium te virginum. Chorus excipiat.
--James Joyce, Ulysses