Homer's clashing rocks are a single binary peril: two cliffs, one ship, instant destruction. Joyce keeps the geometry and dissolves the scale — a whole city of small near-collisions: a priest's walk crossed by a sailor's crutch, a daughter's errand crossed by her father's drink, a viceroy's carriage crossed by every other plot in the book. The threat is no longer death; it is the slow attrition of being one of many.
Through the dark streets they hurried, past the rocks of dark stone.
