Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

  Unbeknownst to you would ire turn o’er see, a nuncio would I return here. How (from the sublime to the ridiculous) times out of oft, my future, shall we think with deepest of love and recollection by introspection of thee but me far away on the pillow, breathing fondly o’er my names all through the empties, whilst moidhered by the rattle of the doppeldoorknockers. Our homerole poet to Ostelinda, Fred Wetherly, puts it somewhys better. You’re sitting on me style, maybe, whereoft I helped yous ore. Littlegame rumilie from Liffaslidebankum (Toobliqueme!) but a big corner fill you do in this unadulterated seat of our affections. Aerwenger’s my breed so may we uncreepingly multipede like the sands on Amberham! Sevenheavens, O heaven! Iy waount yiou! Yore ways to melittleme were wonderful so Ick am purseproud in sending yum loveliest pansiful thoughts touching me dash in-you through wee dots Hyphen, the so pretty arched godkin of bedding-nights. If I’ve proved to your sallysfashion how I’m a man of Armor let me so, let me sue, let me see your isabellis. How I shall, should I survive, as, please the uniter of U.M.I. hearts, I am living in hopes to do, replacing mig wandering handsup in yawers, so yeager for mitch, positively cover the two pure chicks of your comely plumpchake with zuccherikissings, hong, kong, and so gong, that I’d scare the bats out of the ivfry one of those muggy mornings, honestly, by my rantandog and daddyoak, I will, become come coming when, upon the mingling of our meeting waters, wish to wisher, like massive mountains to part no more, you will there and then, in those happy moments of ouryour soft accord, rainkiss on me back, for full marks with shouldered arms, and in that united I.R.U. state when I come (touf! touf!) wildflier’s fox into my own green geese again, swap sweetened smugs, six of one for half a dozen of the other, till they’ll bet we’re the cuckoo derby when cherries next come back to Ealing as come they must, as they musted in their past, as they must for my pressing season, as hereinafter must they chirrywill immediately suant on my safe return to ignorance and bliss in my horseless Coppal Poor, through suirland and noreland, kings country and queens, with my ropes of pearls for gamey girls the way ye’ll hardly. Knowme.

  Slim ye, come slum with me and rally rats’ roundup! ’Tis post purification we will, sales of work and social service, missus, completing our Abelite union by the adoptation of fosterlings. Embark for Euphonia! Up Murphy, Henson and O’Dwyer, the Warchester Warders! I’ll put in a shirt time if you’ll get through your shift and betwine us in our shared slaves, brace to brassiere and shouter to shunter, we’ll pull off our working programme. Come into the garden guild and be free of the gape athome! We’ll circumcivicise all Dublin country. Let us, the real Us, all ignite in our pre-purgatory grade as aposcals and be instrumental to utensilise our Jakeline sisters clean out the hogshole and generally ginger things up. Meliorism in massquantities, raffling receipts and sharing sweepstakes till navel, spokes and felloes hum like hymn. Burn only what’s Irish, accepting their coals. You will soothe the cokeblack bile that’s Anglia’s and touch Armourican’s iron core. Write me your essayest, my vocational scholars, but cursorily, dipping your nose in it, for Henrietta’s sake, on mortinatality or the life of jewries and the sludge of King’s at its height, running boulewards over the whole of it. I’d write it all by mownself if I only had here of my jolly young watermen. Bear in mind, by Michael, all the provincials’ bananas and elacock eggs making drawadust jubilee along Henry, Moore, Earl and Talbot Streets. Luke at all the memmer manning he’s dung for the prey of birds, our priest-mayor-king-merchant, strewing the Castleknock Road and drawing manure upon it till the first glimpse of Wales and from Ballses Breach Harshoe up to Dumping’s Corner with the Mirist fathers’ brothers versus White Friars elevens out on a rogation stag party. Compare them caponchin trowlers otiosely with the Bridges of Belches in Fairview, noreast Dublin’s favourite souwest wateringplatz, and ump as you lump it. What do you mean by Jno Citizen and how do you think of Jas Pagan? Compost liffe in Dufblin by Pierce Egan with the baugh in Baughkley of Fino Ralli. Explain why there is such a number of orders of religion in Asea! Why such an order number in preference to any other number? Why any number in any order at all? Now? Where is the greenest island off the black coats of Spaign? Overset into universal: I am perdrix and upon my pet ridge. Oralmus! Way, O way for the autointaxication of our town of the Fords in a huddle! Hailfellow some wellmet boneshaker or, to ascertain the facts for herself, run up your showeryweather once and trust and take the Drumgondola tram and, wearing the midlimb and vestee endorsed by the hierarchy fitted with ecclastics, bending your steps, pick a trail and stand on, say, Aston’s, at, suppose, the hoyth of number eleven, let us say, Kane or Keogh’s, along quayth a copy of the Seeds and Weeds Act, when you have procured one for yourself, and I advise you strongly to take a good longing gaze into any nearby shopswindow you may select and in the course of about thirtytwo minutes’ time proceed to turn aroundabout on your hee-hills towards the previous causeway and I shall be very cruelly mistaken indeed if you will not be jushed astonushed to see how you will be meanwhile durn well topcoated with kakes of slush occasioned by the mush jam of the cross and blockwalls traffic in transit. See Capels and then fly. Show me that complaint book here. Where’s Cowtends Kateclean, the woman with the muckrake? When will the W.D. face of our sow muckloved D’lin, the Troia of towns and Carmen of cities, crawling with mendiants in perforated clothing, get its wellbelavered whitewish like L’pool and M’chester? When’s that grandnational goldcapped dupsydurby houspill coming with its vomitories for our mothers-in-load and stretchers for their devitalised males? I am all of me for freedom of speed but who’ll disasperaguss Pope’s Avegnue or who’ll uproose the Opian Way? Who’ll brighton Brayhowth and bait the Bull Bailey and never despair of Lorcansby? The rampant royal commissioners! ’Tis an ill weed blows no poppy good. And this labour’s worthy of my higher. Oil for meed and toil for feed and a walk with the band for Job Loos. If I hope not charity what profiteers me? Nothing! My tippers of flags are knobs of hardshape for it isagrim tale, keeping the father of curls from the sport of oak. Do you know what, liddle giddles? One of those days I am advised by the smiling voteseeker who is now snoring elected to positively strike off hiking for good and all, as I bldy well bdly ought, until such temse loiter on as some mood is made under privy-sealed orders to get me an increase of automoboil and footwear for these poor discalced and a bourse from Bon Somewind for a cure at Bad Anyweir (though where it’s going to come from this time …) as I sartunly think now, honest to John, for an income plexus that that’s about the sanguine boundary limit. Amean.

  Sis dearest, Jaun added with voise somewhit murky, what though still high fa luting, as he turned his dorse to her to pay court to it and ouver-leaved his booseys to give the note and score, phonoscopically incuriosited and melancholic this time, whiles, as on the fulmament he gaped in wulderment, his onsaturncast eyes in stellar attraction followed swift to an imaginary swellaw, O, the vanity of Vanissy! All ends vanishing! Pursonally, Grog help me, I am in no violent hurry. If time enough lost the ducks, walking easy found them. I’ll nose a blue fonx with any tristys blinking upon this earthlight of all them that pass by the way of the deerdrive, conconey’s run or wilfrid’s walk, but I’d turn back as lief as not if I could only spoonfind the nippy girl of my heart’s appointment, Mona Vera Toutou Ipostila, my lady of Lyons, to guide me by gastronomy under her safe conduct. That’s more in my line. I’d ask no kinder of fates than to stay where I am, with my tinny of brownie’s tea, under the invocation of Saint Jamas Hanway, servant of Gamp, lapidated, and Jacobus A’Pershawm, intercissous, for my thurifex, with Peter Roche, that frind of my boozum, leaning on my cubits, at this passing moment by localoption in the birds’ lodging, me pheasants among, where I’ll dreamt that I’ll dwealth mid warblers’ walls when throstles and choughs to my sigh hiehied, with me hares standing up well and me longlugs dittoes, where a maurdering row (the fox!) has broken at the coward sight, till well on into the beausome of the exhaling night, pinching stopandgo jewels out of the hedges and catching dimtop brilliants
on the tip of my wagger, but for that owled clock (fast cease to it!) has just gone twoohoo the hour and yen breezes zipping round by Drumsally do be devils to play fleurt. I could sit on safe side till the bark of Saint Grouse’s for hoopoe’s hours, till heoll’s hoerrisings, laughing lazy at the sheep’s lightning, and turn a widamost ear dreamily to the drummling of snipers, hearing the wireless harps of sweet old Aerial and the mails across the nightriver (peepet! peepet!) and whippoorwilly in the woody (moor park! moor park!), as peacefed as a philopotamus, and crekking jugs at the grenoulls, leaving tealeaves for the trout and belleeks for the wary, till I’d followed through my upfielded neviewscope the rugaby moon cumuliously goarolling himself westasleep amuckst the cloud-scrums for to watch how carefully my nocturnal goosemother would lay her new golden sheegg for me down under in the shy orient. What wouldn’t I poach—the rent in my riverside, my otther shoes, my beavery, honest!—ay, and melt my belt, for a dace feast of grannom with the finny ones, those happy guppies in their minnowahaw, flashing down the swansway, leaps ahead of the Swift MacEels, the big Gillaroo redfellows and the pursewinded carpers, rearin antis rood perches astench of me, or, when I’d like own company best, with the help of a norange and bear, to be reclined on my logansome by the lasher, my g.b.d in my f.a.c.e, solfanelly in my shellyholders and lov’d Latakia, the benuvolent, for my nosethrills, with the jealosomines wilting away to their heart’s deelight and the king of saptimber letting down his humely odours for my consternation, dapping my griffeen, burning water in the spearlight or catching trophies of the king’s royal college of sturgeons by the armful for to bake pike and pie while, O twined me abower in L’Alouette’s Tower, all Adelaide’s naughtingerls juck-jucking benight me, I’d gamut my twittynice Dorian blackbudds the chthonic solphia off my singasongapiccolo to pipe musicall airs on numberous fairyaciodes. I give, a king, to me, she does, alone, up there, yes see, I double give, till the spinney all eclosed asong with them. Isn’t that lovely though? I give to me alone I trouble give! I may have no mind tamagnage the forte bits like the pianage but you can’t cadge me off the key. I’ve a voicical lilt too true. Nomario! And bemolley and jiesis! For I sport a whatyoumacormack in the latcher part of my throushers. And the lark that I let fly (olala!) is as cockful of funantics as it’s tune to my fork. Naturale you might lower register me as diskrecordant, but I’m athlone in the lilla-billing of killarnies. That’s flat. Yet ware the wold, you! What’s good for the gorse is a goad for the garden. Lethals lurk hemlocked in logans. Loathe laburnums. Dash the gaudy deathcup! Bryony O’Bryony, thy name is Belladama! But enough of greenwood gossip. Birdsnests is birdsnests. Thine to wait but mine to wage. And now play sharp to me. Doublefirst I’ll head foremost through all my exam hoops. And what sensitive coin I’d be possessed of at Latouche’s, begor, I’d sink it sumtotal, every dolly farting, in vestments of subdominal poteen at prime cost and I bait you my chancey oldcoat against the whole ounce you half on your backboard (if madamaud strips mesdamines may cold strafe illglands!) that I’m the gogetter that’d make it pay like cash registers as sure as there’s a pot on a pole. And, what with one man’s fisch and a dozen men’s poissons, sowing my wild plums to reap ripe plentihorns mead, lashings of erboale and hydromel and bragget, I’d come out with my magic fluke in close time, fair, free and frolicky, zooming tophole on the mart as a factor. And I tell you the Bectives wouldn’t hold me. By the unsleeping Solman Annadromous, ye god of little pescies, nothing would stop me. Not the Ulster Rifles and the Cork Milice and the Dublin Fusees and Connacht Rangers ensembled! For money makes multimony like the brogues and the kishes. I’d axe the channon and leip a liffey and drink annyblack water that rann on me way. Yip! How’s that for scats, mine shatz, for a lovebird? To funk is only peternatural, it’s daring feers divine. Bebold! Like Varian’s, balaying all behind me. And, zoom, before you knew where you weren’t, I stake my ignitial’s divy, cash-and-cash-can-again, I’d be staggering humanity and loyally rolling you over, my sow white spouse, in tons of red clover, nighty nigh to the metronome, fiehigh and fiehigher and fiehighest of all! Holy petter and pal, I’d spoil you altogether, my sumptuous Sheila! Mumm all to do but frull up fizz and unpop a few shortrusians or shake a pail of sparkling ice. Hear it swirl, happy girl! Not a spot of my hide but you’d love to seek and scan again! There’d be no standing me, I tell you. And, as gameboy as my pagan name K.C. is what it is, I’d never say let fly till we shot that blissup and swumped each other, manawife, into our sever nevers where I’d plant you, my Gizzygay, on the electric ottoman in the lap of lechery, simpringly stitchless with admiracion, among the most uxuriously furnished compartments with sybarate chambers, just as I’d run my shoestring into near a million or so of them as a firstclass dealer and everything. Only for one thing, that howover famiksed I would become I’d be awful anxious, you understand, about Shoepisser Pluvius and in assideration of the terrible luftsucks woabling around with the hedrolics in the coold amstophere till the bording that would perish the Dane and his chapter of accidents to be atramental to the better half of my alltoolyrical health, not considering my capsflap, and that’s the truth now out of the cackling bag, for truly sure for another thing I never could tell the leest falsehood that would truthfully give sotisfiction. I’m not talking apple sauce eithou. Or up in my hat. I earnst. Fschue!

  Sissibis dearest, as I was reading to myself not very long ago in Tennis Flonnels MacCourther, his correspondence, besated upon my tripos, and just thinking like thauthor how long I’d like myself to be continued at Hothelizod, peeking into the fuocus and pecking at thumbnail reveries, pricking up ears to my phono on the ground and picking up airs from th’other over th’ether, ’tis tramsported with grief I am by this night sublime, as you may see by my size and my brow that’s all forehead, to go forth, frank and hoppy, to the tune the old plow tied off, from our nostorey house upon this benedictine errand, but it is historically the most glorious mission, secret or profund, through all the annals of our—as you so often term her—efferfreshpainted livy, in beautific repose, upon the silence of the dead, from Pharoph the nextfirst down to Ramescheckles the lastbust thing. The Vico road goes round and round to meet where terms begin. Still, onappealed to by the cycles and unappalled from by the recoursers, we feel all serene, never you fret, as regards our dutyful cask. Full of my breadth from pride I am (breezed be the healthy same!) for ’tis a grand thing (superb!) to be going to meet a king, not an everynight king, nenni, by gannies, but the overking of Hither-on-Thither Erin himself, pardee, I’m saying. Before there was a patch at all on Ireland there lived a lord at Lucan. We only wish everyone was as sure of anything in this watery world as we are of everything in the newlywet fellow that’s bound to follow. I’ll lay you a guinea for a hayseed now. Tell mother that. And tell her tell her old one. ’Twill amuse her.

  Well, to the figends of Annamneses with the wholeabuelish business! For I declare to Jeshuam I’m beginning to get sunsick! I’m not half Norawain for nothing. The fine ice so temperate of our, alas, these times are not so far off as you might wish to be congealed. So now, I’ll ask of you, let ye create no scenes in my poor primmafore’s wake. I don’t want yous to be billowfighting your biddy moriarty duels, gobble gabble, over me till you spit stout, you understand, after soused mackerel, sniffling clambake to hering and imputent barney, braggart of blarney, nor your ugly lemoncholic gobs o’er the hobs in a sewing circle, stopping oddments in maids’ costumes at sweeping reductions, wearing out your ohs by sitting around on your ahs, making areekaransy round where I last put it, with the painters in too, curse me luck, with your rags up, exciting your mucuses, turning breakfarts into lost soupirs, nor your flabbies on your groaning chairs for flapjack and salonthay over Bollivar’s troubles of a bluemoondag, steaming your damp ossicles, praying Holy Prohibition and Jaun Dyspeptist while Ole Clo goes through the wood with Shep togather, touting in the chestnut burrs for Goodboy Sommers and Mistral Blownowse hugs his kindlings, when voiceyversey it’s my gala benefit, robbing leaves out of my ta
letold book. May my tunc fester if ever I see such a miry lot of maggalenes! Once upon a drunk and a fairly good drunk it was and the rest of your blatherumskite! Just a plain shays by the fire for absenter Sh the Po and I’ll make ye all an eastern hummingsphere of myself the moment that you name the way. Look in the slag scuttle and you’ll see me sailspread over the singing, and what do ye want trippings for when you’ve Paris inspire your hat? Sussumcordials all round, let ye alloyiss and ominies, while I stray and let ye not be getting grief out of it, though blighted troth be all bereft, on my poor headsake, even should we forfeit our life. Lo, improving ages wait ye! In the orchard of the bones. Some time very presently now when yon clouds are dissipated after their forty years’ shower, the odds are, we shall all be hooked and happy, communionistically, among the fieldnights elycean, élite of the elect, in the land of lost of time. Johannisburg’s a revelation! Deck the diamants that never die! So cut out the lonesome stuff! Drink it up, ladies, please, as smart as you can lower it! Out with lent! Clap hands, postillion! Fastintide is by. Your sole and myopper must hereupon part company. So for e’er now fare thee welt! Parting’s fun. Take thou, the wringle’s thine, love. This dime doth trost thee from mine alms. Goodbye, swisstart, goodbye! Laugh! Sure, treasures, a letterman does be often thought reading ye between lines that do have no sense at all. I sign myself. With much leg. Inflexibly yours. Ann Posht the Shorn. To be continued. Huck!