Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  Ah now, it was tootwoly torrific, the mummurrlubejubes! And then after that they used to be so forgetful, counting motherpeributts (up one up four) to membore her beaufu mouldern maiden name, for overflauwing, by the dream of woman the owneirist, in forty lands. From Greg and Doug on poor Greg and Mat and Mar and Lu and Jo, now happily buried, our four sisters. And there she was now right enough, that lovely sight enough, the girleen bawn asthore, as for days galore, of planxty Gregory. Egory. O bunket not Orwin! Ay, ay.

  But, sure, that reminds me now, like another tellmastory repeating yourself, how they used to be in lethargy’s love, at the end of it all, at that time (up) always, tired and all, after doing the mousework and making it up, over their community singing (up) the toploft of the voicebox of Mamalujo, like the senior follies at murther magrees, squatting round, two by two, the four confederates, with Caxon, the Coxswain, (up) the wet air register in Old Man’s House, Millenium Road, crowning themselves in lauraly branches, with their cold knees and their poor (up) quadrupeds, fast ovasleep, and all dolled up, for their blankets and materny mufflers and plimsoles and their bowl of brown schackle and milky and boterham clots, a potion apeace, a piece aportion, a lepel alip, alup a lap, for a cup of kindest yet, with hold take hand and nurse and only touch of ate, a lovely munkybown and for xmell and wait the pinch and prompt poor Mucus Lyons to be not beheeding the skillet on for the live of ghosses but to pass the teeth for choke sake, Amensch, when it so happen they were all sicamore and by the world forgot, since the phlegmish hoopicough, for all a possabed, after ete a bad cramp and johnny magories, and backscrat the poor bedsores and the farthing dip, their caschal pandle of magmegnousioum, and read a letter or two every night, before going to dodo sleep atrance, with their catkins coifs, in the twilight, a capitaletter, for further auspices, on their old one page codex book of old year’s eve 1132, M.M.L.J. old style, their Senchus Mor, by his fellow girl, the Mrs Shemans, in her summerseal house onsample, with the caracul broadtail, her totam in tutu, final buff noonmeal edition, in the regatta covers, uptenable from the orther, for to regul their reves by incubation, and Lally, through their gangrene spentacles, and all the good or they did in their time, the rigorists, for Roe and O’Mulconry a Conry ap Mul or Lap ap Morion and Buffler ap Matty MacGregory for Marcus on Podex by Daddy de Wyer, old bagabroth, beeves and scullogues, churls and vassals, in same, sept and severalty, and one by one and sing a mamalujo. To the heroest champion of Eren and his braceoleanders and Gowan, Gawin and Gonne.

  And after that now in the future, please God, after nonpenal death, all start repeating ourselves, in medios loquos, from where he got a useful arm busy on the touchline, due south of her western shoulder, down to death and the love embrace, with an interesting tallow complexion and all now united, sansfamillias, let us ran on to say oremus prayer and homeysweet homely, after fully realising the gratifying experience of highly continental evenements, for meter and peter to temple an eslaap, for auld acquaintance, to Peregrine and Michael and Farfassa and Peregrine, for navigants et peregrinantibus, in all the old imperial and Fionnachan sea and for vogue awallow to sing a lovasteamadorion to Ladyseyes, here’s Tricks and Doelsy, delightfully ours, in her doaty ducky little blue and roll his hoop and how she ran, when wit won free, the dimply blissed and awfully bucked, right glad we never shall forget, Miss Yiss, you fascinator, you, thoh the dayses gone still they loves young dreams, and old Luke with his kingly leer, so wellworth watching, and Senchus Mor, possessed of evident notoriety, and another more of the bigtimers, to name no others, of whom great things were expected in the fulmfilming department, for the lives of Lazarus and auld luke syne and she haihaihail her kobbor kohinor sehehet on the praze savohohole Shanghai.

  Hear, O hear, Iseult la belle! Tristan, sad hero, hear!

  The Lambeg drum, the Lombog reed, the Lumbag fiferer, the Limbig brazenaze!

  Anno Domini nostri sancti Jesu Christi

  Nine hundred and ninetynine million pound sterling in the blueblack bowels of the bank of Ulster.

  Braw bawbees and good gold pounds galore, my girleen, a Sunday’ll prank thee finely

  And no damn lout’ll come courting thee or by the mother of the Holy Ghost there’ll be murder!

  O, come all ye sweet nymphs of Dingle beach to cheer Brinabride queen from Sybil surfriding

  In her curragh of shells of daughter of pearl and her silverymoonblue mantle round her.

  Crown of the waters, brine on her brow, she’ll dance them a jig and jilt them fairly.

  Yerra, why would she bide with Sir Sloomysides or the grogram grey barnacle gander?

  You won’t need be lonesome, Lizzy my love, when your beau gets his glut of cold meat and hot soldiering

  Nor wake in winter, widow machree, but snore snug in my old Balbriggan surtout.

  Wisha, won’t you agree now to take me from the middle, say, of next week on, for the balance of my days, for nothing (what?) as your own nursetender?

  A power of highsteppers died game right enough—but who, acushla, ’ll beg coppers for you?

  I tossed that one long before anyone.

  It was of a wet good Friday too she was ironing and, as I’m given now to understand, she was always mad gone on me.

  Grand goosegreasing we had entirely with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow.

  By the cross of Cong, says she, rising up Saturday in the twilight from under me, Mick, Nick, or whatever the Maggot your name is, you’re the most likable lad that’s come my ways yet from the barony of Bohermore.

  Mattheehew, Markeehew, Lukeehew, Johnheehewheehew!

  Haw!

  And still a light moves long the river. And stiller the mermen ply their keg.

  Its pith is full. The way is free. Their lot is cast.

  So, to john for a john, johnajeams, led it be!

  III

  Hark!

  Tolv two elf kater ten (it can’t be) sax.

  Hork!

  Pedwar pemp foify tray (it must be) twelve!

  And low stole o’er the stillness the heartbeats of sleep.

  White fogbow spans. The arch embattled. Mark has capsules. The nose of the man who was nought like the nasoes. It is selftinted, wrinkling, ruddled. His kep is a gorsecone. He am Gascon Titubante of Tegmine-sub-Fagi whose fixtures are mobiling so wobiling befear my remembrandts. She, exhibit next, his Anastashie. She has prayings in lowdelph. Zeehere green eggbrooms. What named blautoothdmand is yon who stares? Gugurtha! Gugurtha! He has becco of wild hindigan. Ho, he hath hornhide! And hvis now is for you. Pensée! The most beautiful of woman of the veilch veilchen veilde. She would kidds to my voult of my palace with obscidian lupas, her aal in her dhove’s suckling. Apagemonite! Come not nere! Black! Switch out!

  Methought as I was dropping asleep somepart in nonland of where’s please (and it was when you and they were we) I heard at zero hour as ’twere the peal of vixen’s laughter among midnight’s chimes from out the belfry of the cute old speckled church tolling so faint a goodmantrue as nighthood’s unseen violet rendered all animated greatbritish and Irish objects nonviewable to human watchers save ’twere perchance anon some glistery gleam darkling adown surface of affluvial flowandflow as again might seem garments of laundry reposing a leasward close at hand in full expectation. And as I was jogging along in a dream as dozing I was dawdling, arrah, methought broadtone was heard and the creepers and the gliders and the flivvers of the earthbreath and the dancetongues of the woodfires and the hummers in their ground all vociferated, echoating, Shaun! Shaun! Post the post! with a high voice and, O, the higher on high the deeper and low. I heard him so! And lo, meseemed somewhat came of the noise and some-who might amove among allmurk. Now ’twas as clump, now mayhap. When, look, was light and now ’twas as flasher, now moren as the glaow. Ah, in unlitness ’twas in very similitude, bless me, ’twas his belted lamp! Whom we dreamt was a shaddo, sure he’s lightseyes, the laddo! Blessed momence, O romence, he’s growing to stay! Ay, he who so swayed a will of a wisp before me, hand
prop to hand, prompt side to the pros, dressed like an earl in just the correct wear, in a classy mac Frieze o’coat of far suparior ruggedness, indigo braw, tracked and tramped, freeswinging from his shoulthern, and an Irish ferrier collar, and thick welted brogues on him with mereswine lacers hammered to suit the scotsmost public and climate, iron heels and sparable soles, and his jacket of providence wellprovided woollies with a softrolling lisp of a lapel to it and great sealingwax buttons, a good helping bigger than the slots for them, of twentytwo carrot krasnapoppsky’s red, and his invulnerable burlap whiskcoat and his popular choker, Tamagnum sette-and-forte, and his loudboheem toy and the damasker’s overshirt he sported inside, a starspangled zephyr with a decidedly surpliced crinklydoodle front with his motto through dear life embrothered over it in peas, rice and yeggyyolk, Or for royal, Am for Mail, R.M.D. hard cash on the nail, and the most successfully carried gigot turnups now you ever (what a pairfact crease! how amsolookly kersse!) breaking over the ankle and hugging the shoeheel, everything the best, was none other from (ah, then, may the turtle’s blessings of God and Mary and Haggispatrick and Huggisbrigid be souptumbling all over him!) other than (and may his hundred thousand welcome stewed letters, relayed and postchased, multiply, ay, faith, and plultiply!) Shaun himself.

  What a picture primitive!

  Had I the concordant wiseheads of Messrs Gregory and Lyons alongside of Dr Tarpey’s and, I dorsay, the reverend Mr MacDougall’s, but I, poor ass, am but as their fourpart tinckler’s dunkey. Yet methought Shaun (holy messenger angels be uninterruptedly nudging him among and along the winding ways of random ever!) Shaun in proper person (now may all the blue-backsliding constellations continue to shape his changeable timetable!) stood before me. And I pledge you my agricultural word, by the hundred and sixty odds rods and cones of this even’s vision, that young fellow looked the stuff, the Bel of Beaus’ Walk, a prime card if ever was! Pep? Now without deceit it is hardly too much to say he was looking grand, so fired smart, in much more than his usual health. No mistaking that beamish brow, those jehovial oyeglances! The heart of the roll! And hit the hencoop. There was one for you that ne’er would nunch with good Duke Humphrey but would aight through the months without a sign of an err in hem and then, otherwise rounding, fourale to the lees of Traroe. He was immense, topping swell, for he was after having a great time of it, a twentyfour hours every moment matters maltsight, in a porterhouse, scutfrank, if you want to know, Saint Lawzenge of Toole’s, the Wheel of Fortune, leave your clubs in the hall and wait on yourself, no chucks for walnut ketchups, Lazenby’s and Chutney graspis (the house the once queen of Bristol and Balrothery twice admired because her frumped door looked up Dacent Street), where in the sighed of lovely eyes, while his knives of hearts made havoc, he had recruited his strength by meals of spadefuls of mounded food, in anticipation of the faste of tablenapkins, constituting his threepartite pranzipal eatings plus a collation, his breakfast of, first, a bless us O blood and thirsthy orange, next, the half of a pint of bacon with newled googs and a segment of a rice plummy padding, met of sunder suigar, and some cold forsoaken steak peatrefired from the batblack night o’erflown, then, without prejuice to evectuals, came along merendally his stockpot dinner of a half a pound of round steak, very rare, Blong’s best from Portarlington’s Butchery, with a side of riceypeasy and Corkshire alla mellonge and bacon with (a little mar pliche!) a pair of chops and, thrown in from the silver grid by the proprietoress of the roastery who lives on a hill, and gaulusch gravy and pumpernickel to wolp up and a gorger’s bulby onion (Margareatar, Margareatar, Margarasticandeatar) and as well with second course and then, finally, after his avalunch o’clock snack at Appelredt’s or Kitzy Broten’s of saddlebag steak and a Botherhim with her old phoenix porter, jistr to gwen his gwistell, and praties sweet and Irish too and mock gurgle to whistle his way through for the swallying, swp by swp, and he getting his tongue around it and Boland’s broth broken into the bargain, to his regret his soupay avic nightcap, vitellusit, a carusal consistent with second course and eyers and bacon (the rich of) with broad beans, hig, steak, hag, pepper, the diamond bone, hotted up timmtomm and while ’twas after that he scoffed a drakeling snuggily stuffed following cold loin of veal more cabbage and, in their green free state, a clister of peas, suppositorily petty, last. P.S. But a fingerhot of rhein genever to give the Pax cum Spiritututu. Drily thankful. Burud and dulse and typureely jam, all free of charge, aman, and. And the best of wine avec. For his heart was as big as himself, so it was, ay, and bigger! While the loaves are aflowering and the nachtingale jugs. All St Jilian’s of Berry, hurrah there for tobies! Mavrodaphne, brown pride of our custard house quay, amiable with repastful, cheer us, graciously cheer us! Ever of thee, Anne Lynch, he’s deeply draiming! Houseanna! Tea is the Highest! For auld lang Ayternitay! Thus thicker will he grow now, grew new. And better and better on butter and butter. At the sign of Mesthress Vanhungrig. However! Mind you, nuckling down to nourritures, were they menuly some ham and jaffas, and I don’t mean to make the ingestion for the moment that he was guilbey of gulpable gluttony as regards chewable boltaballs, but, biestings be biestings, and upon the whole, when not off his oats, given prelove appetite and postlove pricing, goodcoup, goodcheap, were it thermidor oogst or floreal may while the whistling prairial roysters play, between gormandising and gourmeteering he grubbed his tuck all right, deah smorregos, every time he was for doing dirt to a meal or felt like a bottle of ardilaun alongwith a smag of a lecker biss of a welldressed taart or. Though his net intrants wight weighed nought but a flyblow to his gross and ganz exit’s afterduepoise. And he was so jarvey jaunty with a romp of a schoolgirl’s completion sitting pretty over his Oyster Monday printface and he was plainly out on the ramp and mash, as you might say, for he sproke.

  Overture and beginners!

  When lo (whish, O whish!) mesaw mestreamed, as the green to the grid was flew, was flown, through deafths of durkness greengrown deeper I heard a voice, the voce of Shaun, vote of the Irish, voice from afar (and, cert, no purer puer palestrine e’er chanted Panis Angelicus mid the clouds of Tu es Petrus, not Michaeleen Kelly, not Mara O’Mario, and, sure, what more numerose Italicuss ever rawsucked frish uov in urinal?), a brieze to Yverzone o’er the brozaozaozing sea, from Inchigeela call the way how it suspired (morepork! morepork!) to scented nightlife as softly as the loftly marconimasts from Clifden sough open tireless secrets (mauveport! mauveport!) to Nova Scotia’s listing sisterwands. Tubetube!

  His handpalm lifted, his handshell cupped, his handsign pointed, his handheart mated, his handaxe risen, his handleaf fallen. Helpsome hand that halemost heals! What is het holy! It gested.

  And it said:

  — Alo, alass, aladdin, amobus! Does she lag soft fall means rest down?

  Shaun yawned, as his general address rehearsal (that was antepropreviousday’s pigeons-in-a-pie with rough dough for the carrier and the hash-say-ugh of overgestern pluzz the ’stuesday’s shampain in his head with the memories of the past and the hicnuncs of the present embelliching the musics of the futures from Miccheruni’s band), addressing himself ex alto and complaining with vocal discontent it was so close as of the fact the rag was up and of the briefs and billpasses, a houseful of deadheads, of him to dye his paddycoats to morn his hesternmost, earning his board in the swealth of his fate as, having moistened his manducators upon the quiet and scooping molars and grinders clean with his two forefingers, he sank his hunk, dowanouet, to reszk at once, exhaust as winded hare, utterly spent, it was all he could do (disgusted with himself that the combined weight of his tons of iosals was a hundred men’s massed too much for him), upon the native heath he loved, covered kneehigh with virgin bush, for who who e’er trod sod of Erin could ever sleep off the turf!

  — Well, I’m literally dished seeing myself in this trim! How all too unwordy am I, a mere mailman of peace, a poor loust hastehater of the first degree, the principot of Candia, no legs and a title, for such eminence, or unpro promenade rather, to be much more exact,
as to be the bearer extraordinary of these postoomany missive on his majesty’s service, while me and yous and them we’re extending us after the pattern of reposiveness! Weh is me, yeh is ye! I, the mightif beam maircanny, which bit his mirth too early or met his birth too late! It should of been my other with his leickname for he’s the head and I’m an everdevoting fiend of his. I can seeze tomirror in tosdays of yer when we lofobsed os so ker. Those sembal simon pumpkel pieman yers! We shared the twin chamber and we winked on the one wench and what Sim sobs todie I’ll reeve tomorry, for ’twill be, I have hopes of, Sam Dizzier’s feedst. Tune in, tune on, old Tighe, high, high, high, I’m thine owelglass. Be old! He looks rather thin, imitating me. I’m very fond of that other of mine. Fish hands, Macsorley! Elien! Obsequies! Bonzeye! Isaac Egan’s Ass! We’re the musichall pair that won the swimmyease bladdhers at the Guinness gala in Badeniveagh. I ought not to laugh with him on this stage. But he’s such a game loser! I lift my disk to him. Brass and reeds, brace and ready! How is your napper, Handy, and hownow does she stand? First he was living to feel what the eldest daughter she was panseying and last he was dying to know what old Madre Patriack does be up to. Take this John’s Lane in your toasting-fourch. Shaunti and shaunti and shaunti again! And twelve coolinder moons! I am no helotwashipper but I revere her! For my own a coant! She has studied! Piscisvendolor! You’re grace! Futs drouk of Wouldndom! But, Gemini, he’s looking frightfully thin! I heard the man Shee shinging in the pantry bay. Down among the dustbins let him lie! Ear! Ear! Not aye! Eye! Eye! For I’m at the heart of it. Yet I cannot on my solemn merits as a recitativer recollect ever having done of anything of the kind to deserve of such. Not the phost of a nation! Nor by a long trollop! I just didn’t have the time to. Saint Anthony Guide!