Joyce’s Dublin is dire. The stink of refuse and discarded lives proliferates the streets, all soaked in the oppressive drink. The old wrappers, spit, piss, the ‘frowzy whore with a face like dip’, Paddy Dignam’s children left to perish -Pa, come home!-, the ubiquitous betting slip, all tell of decay… while the provost does his waving smiling rounds.
Like Stephen, I look on with ‘agenbite of inwit‘. It is unpleasant and familiar.