"The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter." (U6.787)
"The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way." (U6.789)
"Gravediggers in Hamlet." (U6.792)

[Bloom may have just glanced at the grave of Barry Sullivan (1821 - 1891). Sullivan was a famous Irish stage actor who was active in England, Ireland and Australia. He was born in Birmingham but his parents were from Cork. The statue shows him in character as Prince Hamlet].
"Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Go out of mourning first." (U6.792)

[Bloom misquotes the Latin phrase De mortuis nihil nisi bonum = Of the dead, [say] nothing but good. This mortuary aphorism states that it is inappropriate to speak ill of the dead as they are unable to justify or defend themselves. The phrase was coined by Chilon of Sparta, ca. 600 BC.]
"Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.
- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June.
He doesn't know who is here nor care." (U6.795)
"Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh?
Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of." (U6.805)
"A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead." (U6.807)
"Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
How could you possibly do so?" (U6.810)
"Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land." (U6.815)
"Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth." (U6.819)
"The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same idea." (U6.821)
"Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number." (U6.824)

A period photograph showing a similar scene at a gravesite. Please email me if you recognize the church (likely in Ireland).
"Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear." (U6.826)
"Silly superstition that about thirteen." (U6.827)
"Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge of purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.
The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.
If we were all suddenly somebody else." (U6.828)

[Note: This is not Ned Lambert]
"Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.
Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Wellcut frockcoat." (U6.837)