Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  How vain’s that hope in cleric’s heart

  Who still pursues th’ adult’rous art,

  Cocksure that rusty gown of his

  Will make fair Sue forget his phiz!

  Tame Schwipps. Blessed Marguerite Moses! I hope they threw away the mould, or else we’ll have Ballshossers and Sourdamapplers with their medical assassiations all over the place. But hold hard till I’ve got my latchkey vote and I’ll teach him when to wear what woman callours. On account of the gloss of the gleison. Hasaboobrawbees isabeaubel. And because, you pluckless lankaloot, I hate the very thought of the thought of you and because, dearling, of course, adorest, I was always meant for an engindear from the French college to be musband, nomme d’engien, when we do and contract with encho tencho solver when you are married to reading and writing which please business now won’t be long for he’s so loopy on me and I’m so leapylike since the day he carried me from the boat, my saviored of eroes, to the beach and I left on his shoulder one fair hair to guide hand and mind to its softness. Ever so sorry! I beg your pardon, I was listening to every treasuried word I said fell from my dear mot’s tongue, otherwise how could I see what you were thinking of your granny? Only I wondered if I threw out my shaving water. Anyway, here’s my arm, pulletneck. Gracefully yours. Move your mouth towards minth, more, preciousest, more on more! To please me, treasure. Don’t be a, I’m not going to! Sh! Nothing! A cricri somewhere: Buybuy! I’m fly! Hear, pippy, under the limes. You know bigtree are all against gravstone. They hisshistenency. Garnd ond mand! So chip chirp chirrup, cigolo, for the lug of Migo! The little passdoor, I go you before, so, and you’re at my apron stage. Shy is him, dovey? Musforget there’s an audience. I have been lost, angel. Cuddle, ye divil ye! It’s our toot-a-toot. Hearhere! Sensation! Let them, their whole four courtships! Let them! Bigbawl and his boosers’ eleven makes twelve territorials! The Old Sots’ Hole that wants wide streets to commission their noisense in, at the Mitchells v. Nicholls. Aves Selvae Acquae Valles! And my waiting twenty classbirds, sitting on their stiles! Let me finger their eurhythmytic. And you’ll see if I’m selfthought. They’re all of them out to please. Wait! In the mane of the mistle and if Sent Yves and all the holly. Hoost! Ahem! There’s Ada, Bett, Celia, Delia, Ena, Fretta, Gilda, Hilda, Ita, Jess, Katty, Lou (they make me cough as sure as I read them), Mina, Nippa, Opsy, Poll, Queenie, Ruth, Saucy, Trix, Una, Vela, Wanda, Xenia, Yva, Zulma, Phoebe, Thelma. And Mee! The reformatory boys is goaling in for the church so we’ve all comefeast like the groupsuppers and caught lipsolution from Anty Pravidance under penancies for myrtle sins. When their bride was married all my belles began to ting. A ring a ring a rosaring! Then everyone will hear of it. Whoses wishes is the farther to my thoughts. But I’ll plant them a poser for their nomanclatter. When they’re out with the daynurse doing Chaperon Mall. Bright pigeons all over the whirrld will fly with my mistletoe message round their loveribboned necks and a crumb of my cake for each chasta dieva. We keeps all and sundry papers. In th’ amourlight, O my dawrling! No, I swear to you by Fibs-burrow churchdome and Sainte Andrée’s Undershift, by all I hold secret from my world and in my underworld of nighties and naughties and in all the other wonderwearlds! Close your, notmust look, now open, pet, your lips, pepette, like I used my sweet parted lipsabuss with Don Holohan of facetious memory taught me after the flannel dance, with the proof of love, up Smock Alley, the first night he smelled pouder and I coloured beneath my fan, pipetta mia, when you learned me the linguo to melt. Wholoham would have ears like ours, the blackhaird! Do you adore that, silenzioso? Are you enjoying, this same little me, my life, my love? Why do you like my, whispme? Is it not divinely deluscious? But in’t it baffoyou? Misi, misi! Tell me till my thrillme comes! I will not break the seal. I am enjoying it still, I swear I am! Why do you prefer its in these dark nets, if why may ask, my sweetykins? Shsh! Longears is flying. No, sweetissest, why would that ennoy me? But don’t! You want to be slap well slapped for that. Your delighted lips, love, be careful! Mind my duvetyne dress above all! It’s golded silvy, the newest sextones with princess effect. For Rutland blue’s got out of passion. So, so, my precious! O, I can see the cost, chara! Don’t tell me! Why, the boy in sheeps’ lane knows that. If I sell whose, dears? Was I sold here’s, tears? You mean those conversation lozenges? How awful! The bold shame of me! I wouldn’t, chickens, not for all the juliettes in the twinkly way! I could snap them when I see them winking at me in bed. I didn’t did so, my intended, or was going to or thinking of. Shshsh! Don’t start like that, you wretch! I thought ye knew all and more, ye aucthors, to explique to ones the significat of their exsystems with your nieu nivulon lead. It’s only another queer fish or otther in Brinbrou’s damned old trouchorous river again, Gothewishegoths bless us and spare her! And gibos rest from the bosso! Excuse me for swearing, love, I swear to the sorrasims on their trons of Uian I didn’t mean to, by this alpin armlet! Did you really never in all our cantalang lives speak clothse to a girl’s before? No! Not even to the charmermaid? How mawfellous! Of course I believe you, my own dear doting liest, when you tell me. As I’d live to, O, I’d love to! Liss, liss! I muss whiss! Never that ever or I can remember dearstreaming faces, you may go through me! Never in all my whole white light of my matchless and pair! Or ever for bitter be the frucht of this hour! With my whiteness I thee woo and bind my silk breasths I thee bound! Always, Amory, amor andmore! Till always, thou lovest! Shshshsh! So long as the lucksmith. Laughs!

  11. If you met on the binge a poor acheseyeld from Ailing,

  when the tune of his tremble shook shimmy on shin,

  while his countrary raged in the weak of his wailing,

  like a rugilant pugilant Lyon O’Lynn;

  if he maundered in misliness, plaining his plight,

  or played fox and lice, picking and dropping hips teeth,

  or wringing his handcuffs for peace, the blind blighter,

  praying Dieuf and Domb Nostrums foh thomethinks to eath;

  if he weapt while he leapt and guffalled quith a quhimper,

  made cold blood a blue mundy and no bones without flech,

  taking kiss, kake or kick with a suck, sigh or simper,

  a diffle to larn and a dibble to lech;

  if the fain shinner pegged you to shave his immartial,

  wee skillmustered shoul with his ooh, hoodoodoo!

  broking wind that to wiles woemaid sin he was partial,

  we don’t think, Jones, we’d care to this evening, would you?

  ANSWER: No, blank ye! So you think I have impulsivism? Did they tell you I am one of the fortysixths? And I suppose you heard I had a wag on my ears? And I suppose they told you too that my roll of life is not natural? But before proceeding to conclusively confute this begging question it would be far fitter for you (if ye dare!) to hasitate to consult with and consequentially attempt at my disposals of the same dime-cash problem elsewhere, naturalistically, of course, from the blinkpoint of so eminent a spatialist. From it you will here notice, Schott, upon my for the first remarking you that the sophology of Bitchson while driven as under by a purely dime-dime urge is not without his cash-cash characktericksticks, borrowed for its nonce ends from the fiery goodmother Miss Fortune (who the lost time we had the pleasure we have had our little recherché brush with, what, Schott?) and as I further could have told you, as brisk as your D.B.C., behaviouristically pailleté with a coat of homoid icing which is in reality only a done by chance ridiculisation of the whoo-whoo and where’s hairs theorics of Winestain. To put it all the more plumbsily, the speechform is a mere sorrogate whilst the quality and tality (I shall explex what you ought to mean by this with its proper when and where and why and how in the subsequent sentence) are alternativomentally harrogate and arrogate, as the gates may be.

  Talis is a word often abused by many passims (I am working out a quantum theory about it for it is really a most tantumising state of affairs). A pessim may frequent you to say: Have you been seeing much of Talis and Talis those times?, optima
tely meaning: Will you put up a three of irish? Or a ladyeater may perhaps have casualised to you as you temptoed her à la sourdine: Of your plates, is Talis de Talis, the swordswallower, who is on at the Craterium the same Talis von Talis, the penscrusher (no funk you!), who runs his duly mile? Or this is a perhaps cleaner example. At a recent postvortex piece infustigation of a determinised case of chronic spinosis an extension lecturer on The Ague who out of matter of form was terging his seesers, Dr ’s Het Ubeleeft, borrowed the question: Why’s which Suchman’s talis qualis? To whom, as a fatter of macht, Dr Gedankje of Stoutgirth, who was wiping his whistle, toarsely retoarted: While thou beast one zoom of a whorl! (Talis and Talis originally mean the same thing, hit it’s: Qualis.)

  Professor Loewy-Brueller (though, as I shall promptly prove, his whole account of the Sennacherib as distinct from the Shalmaneser sanitational reforms and of the Mr Shekels and Dr Hydes problem in the same connection differs toto coelo from the fruit of my own investigations—though the reason I went to Jericho must remain for certain reasons a political secret especially as I shall shortly be wanted in Cavantry, I congratulate myself, for the same and other reasons—as being again hopelessly vitiated by what I have now resolved to call the dime and cash diamond fallacy) in his talked off confession which recently met with such a leonine uproar on its escape after its confinement, Why am I not born like a Gentileman and why I am now so speakable about my own eatables (Feigenbaumblatt and Father, Judapest, 5688, A.M.), wholeheartedly takes off his gabbercoat and wig, honest draughty fellow, in his public interest, to make us see how, though, as he says, “by Allswill”, the inception and the descent and the endswell of Man is temporarily wrapped in obscenity. Looking through at these accidents with the faroscope of television (this nightlife instrument needs still some subtractional betterment in the readjustment of the more refrangible angles to the squeals of his hypothesis on the outer tin sides) I can easily believe heartily in my own most spacious immensity as my ownhouse and microbemost cosm when I am reassured by ratio that the cube of my volumes is to the surfaces of their subjects as the sphericity of these globes (I am very pressing for a parliamentary motion this term which, under my guidance, would establish the deleteriousness of decorousness in the morbidisation of the modern mandaboutwoman type) is to the feracity of Fairynelly’s vacuum. I need not anthropologise for any obintentional (I must here correct all that school of neoitalian or paleoparisien schola of tinkers and spanglers who say I’m wrong parceqeue out of revolscian from romanitis I want to be) downtrodding on my foes, Professor Levi-Brullo F.D. of Sexe-Weiman-Eitelnakt finds, from experiments made by hinn with his Nuremberg eggs in the one hands and the watches cauldron apan the oven, though it is astensably a case of Ket’s rebollions cooling the Popes back, because the number of squeer faiths in weakly circulation will not be appreciably augmended by the netherslogging of my cupolar clods. What the romantic in rags pines after like all tomtompions haunting crevices for a deadbeat escapement and what he importunes our Mitleid for in accornish with the Mortadarthella taradition is the poorest commononguardiant waste of time. His everpresent toes are always in retaliessian out through his overpast boots. Hear him squeak! Teek heet to that looswallawer how he bolo the bat! Tyro a toray! When Mullocky won the couple of colds, when we were stripping in number three, I would like the neat drop that would malt in my mouth but I fail to see when. (I am purposely refraining from expounding the obvious fallacy as to the specific gravitates of the two deglutables implied nor to the lapses lequor asousiated with the royal gorge, though students of mixed hydrostatics and pneumodipsics will after some diffculties grapple away with my meinungs.) Myrrdin aloer! as old Marsellas Cambriannus puts his. But, on Professor Llewellys ap Bryllars F.D. Ph.Dr’s showings, the plea, if he pleads, is all posh and rabbage on a melodeontic scale since his man’s when is no otherman’s quandom (mine, dank you!) while (for aught I care for the contrary?) the all is where in love as war and the plane where me arts soar you’d aisy rouse a thunder from and where I cling true ’tis there I climb tree and where Innocent looks best (pick!) there’s holly in his ives.

  As my explanations here are probably above your understandings, lattle-brattons, though as augmentatively uncomparisoned as Cadwan, Cad-wallon and Cadwalloner, I shall revert to a more expletive method which I frequently use when I have to sermo with muddlecrass pupils. Imagine for my purpose that you are a squad of urchins, sniffynosed, goslingnecked, clottyheaded, tangled in your lacings, tingled in your pants, etsitaraw etcicero. And you, Bruno Nowlan, take your tongue out of your inkpot! As none of you knows javanese I will give all my easyfree translation of the old fabulist’s parable. Allaboy Minor, take your head out of your satchel! Audi, Joe Peters! Exaudi facts!

  THE MOOKSE AND THE GRIPES

  Gentes and laitymen, fullstoppers and semicolonials, hybreds and lubberds!

  Eins within a space and a weary wide space it wast ere wohned a Mookse. The onesomeness wast alltolonely, archunsitslike, broady oval, and a Mookse he would a walking go (My hood! cries Antony Romeo), so one grandsumer evening, after a great morning and his good supper of gammon and spittish, having flabelled his eyes, pilleoled his nostrils, vacticanated his ears and palliumed his throat, he put on his impermeable, seized his impugnable, harped on his crown and stepped out of his immobile De Rure Albo (socolld becauld it was chalkfull of masterplasters and had borgeously letout gardens strown with cascadas, pintacostecas, horthoducts and currycombs) and set off from Ludstown a spasso to see how badness was badness in the weirdest of all pensible ways.