Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  Poof! There’s puff for ye, begorra, and planxty of it, all abound me breadth! Glor galore and glory be! As broad as its lung and as long as a line! The valiantine vaux of Venerable Val Vousdem. If my jaws must brass away like the due drops on my lay. And the topnoted delivery you’d expected be me invoice! Theo Dunnohoo’s warning from Daddy O’Dowd. Whoo? What I’m wondering to myselfwhose for there’s a strong tendency, to put it mildly, by making me the medium. I feel spirts of itchery outching out from all over me and only for the sludgehummer’s force in my hand to hold them the darkens alone knows what’ll who’ll be saying of next. However. Now, before my upperotic rogister, something nice. Now? Dear sister, in perfect leave again I say take a brokerly advice and keep it to yourself that we, Jaun, first of our name, here now make all receptacles of, free of price. Easy, my dear, if they tingle you either say nothing or nod. No cheekacheek with chipperchapper, you and your last mashboy and the padre in the pulpbox enumerating you his nostrums. Be vacillant over those vigilant who would leave you to belave black on white. Close in for psychical hijinks as well but fight shy of mugpunters. I’d burn the books that grieve you and light an allassundrian bompyre that would suffragate Tome Plyfire or Zolfanerole. Perousse instate your Weakly Standerd, our verile organ that is ethelred by all pressdom. Apply your five wits to the four verilatest. The Arsdiken’s An Traitey on Miracula or Viewed to Death by a Priest Hunter is still first in the field despite the castle bar. William Archer’s a rompan good cathalogue and he’ll give you a riser on the route to our nazional labroury. Skim over Through Hell with the Papes (mostly boys) by the divine comic Denti Alligator (exsponging your index) and find a quip in a quire arisus aream from bastardtitle to fatherjohnson. Swear aloud by pious fiction the like of Lentil Lore by Carnival Cullen or that Percy Wynns of our S. J. Finn’s or Pease in Plenty by the Curer of Wars, the two best sells on the market this luckiest year, set up by Gill the father, put out by Gill the son and circulating disimally at Gillydehooly’s cost, licensed and censered by our most picturesque prelates, Their Graces of Linzen and Petitbois, bishops of the Hibernites, licet ut lebanus, for expansion on the promises. Strike up a nodding acquaintance for our doctrine with the works of old Mrs Trot, senior, and Manoel Canter, junior, and Loper de Figas, nates maximum. I used to follow Mary Liddlelambe’s flitsy tales, espicially with the scentaminted sauce. Sifted science will do your arts good. Egg Laid by Former Cock and With Flageolettes in Send Fanciesland. Chiefly girls. Trip over sacramental tea into the long lives of our saints and saucerdotes, with vignettes, cut short into instructual primers by those in authority for the bittermint of your soughts. Forget not the palsied. Light a match for poor old Contrabally and send some balmoil for the schizmatics. A hemd in need is aye a friendly deed. Remember, maid, thou must art powder but Cinderella thou dust return. (What are you rubbing her sleeve for, Ruby? And pull in your tongue, Polly!) Cog that out of your teen times, everyone! The lad who brooks no breaches lifts the lass that toffs a tailor. How dare ye be laughing out of your mouthshine at the lack of that? Keep cool your fresh chastity which is far, far better, far. Sooner than part with that vestalite emerald of the first importance, descended to me by far from our family, which you treasure up so closely in the sanctuary where your nether extremes meet, nay, morzed lesmended, rather let the whole ekumene universe belong to merry Hal and do whatever his Mary well likes. When the gong goes for hornets-to-nest marriage step into your harness and strip off that nullity suit. Faminy, hold back! For the race is to the rashest of, the romping, jomping rushes of. Haul Seton’s down, black, green and grey, and hoist Mikealy’s whey and sawdust. What’s overdressed if underclothed? Poposht forstake me knot where there’s white lets ope. Whisht! Blesht she that walked with good Jook Humprey for he made her happytight. Go! You can down all the dripping you can dumple to, and buffkid scouse too ad libidinum, in these lassitudes if you’ve parents and things to look after. That was what stuck to the Comtesse Cantilene while she was sticking out Mavis Toffeelips to feed her soprannated huspals and it is henceforth associated with her names. La Dreeping! Die Droopink! The inimitable in puresuet of the inevitable! There’s nothing to touch it, we are taucht, unless she’d care for a mouthpull of white pudding, for the wish is on her rose marine and the lunch-light in her eye. So when you pet the rollingpin write my name on the pie. Guard that gem, Sissy, rich and rare, ses he. In this cold old worold who’ll feel it? Hum! The jewel you’re all so cracked about there’s flitty few of them gets it, for there’s nothing now but the sable stoles and a runabout to match it. Sing him a ring. Touch me low. And I’ll lech ye so, my soandso. Show and show. Show on show. She. Shoe. Shone.

  Divulge, sjuddenly jouted out hardworking Jaun, kicking the console to his double and braying aloud like Brahaam’s ass and, as his voixe humaner swelled to great, clenching his manlies, so highly strong was he, man, and gradually quite warming to her (there must have been a power of kinantics in that buel of gruel he gobed at bedgo), divorce unto me and say the curname in undress (if you get into trouble with a party you are not likely to forget his appearance either) of any lapwhelp or sleevemongrel who talks to you upon the road where he tuck you to be a roller, O, and (the goat-tanned saxopeeler upshotdown chigs peek of him!) volunteers to trifle with your roundlings for profferred glass and dough, the marrying hand that his leisure repents of, without taking out his proper password from the eligible ministriss for affairs with the black fremdling, that enemay of our country, in a cleanlooking light and (I don’t care a tongser’s tammany hang who the mucky is nor twoo hoots in the corner nor three shouts on a hill, were he even a constantineapolitan namesuch of my very own, Alltaboy Knowling, and like enoch to my townmajor ancestors, the two that are taking out their divorces in the Spooksbury courts circuits, Rere Uncle Remus, the Baas of Eboracum, and Old Father Ulissabon Knickerbocker, the lanky Sire of Wolverhampton, about their bristelings) as true as there’s a soke for sakes in Twoways Petersborough and sure as home we come to newsky prospeckt from west the wave on schedule time (if I came any quicker I’ll be right back before I left) from the land of breach of promise, with Brendan’s mantle whitening the Kerribrasilian sea and March’s pebbles spinning from beneath our footslips, to carry fire and sword, rest insured that as we value the very name Insister that as soon as we do possibly it will be a poor lookout for that insister. He’s a markt man from that hour. And why do we say that, you may query me? Quary? Guess! Call’st thou? Think and think and think, I urge on you. Muffed! The wrong porridge! You are an ignoratis! Because then probably we’ll dumb well soon show him what the Shaun way is like how we’ll go a long way towards breaking his outsider’s face for him for making up to you with his bringthee balm of Gaylad and his singthee songs of Arupee and chancerying my ward’s head into sanctuary before feeling with his two dimensions for your nuptial dito. Ohibow, if I was Blonderboss I’d gooandfrighthisdualman! Now, we’ll tell you what we’ll do to be sicker instead of compensation. We’ll he’ll burst our his mouth like Leary to the Leinsterface and reduce he’ll we’ll ournhisn liniments to a poolp. Open the door softly, somebody wants you, dear! You’ll hear him calling you, bump, like a blizz, in the muezzin of the turkest night. Come on now, pillarbox! I’ll stiffen your scribeall, broken reed! That’ll be it, grand operoar style, even should I, with my sleuts of hogpew and cheekas, have to coomb the brash of the libs round Close Saint Patrice to lay my louseboob on his behaitch like Toss. We are all eyes. I have his quoram of images all on my retinue, Mohomadhawn Mike. Brass up! Moreover, after that, bad manners to me if I don’t think strongly about giving the brotherkeeper into custody to the first police bubby cunstabless of Dora’s Diehards in the field I might chance to follopon. Or, for that matter, for your information, if I get the wind up what do you bet in the buckets of my wrath I mightn’t even take it into my progromme, as sweet course, to do a rash act and pitch in and swing for your perfect stranger in the meadow of heppiness and then wipe the street up with the clonmellian, pending my bringing proceed
ings verses the joyboy before a bunch of magistrafes and twelve good and gleeful men? Take warning! Filius nullius per fas et nefas. It should prove more or less of an event and show the widest federal in my cap. He’ll have pansements then for his pensamientos, howling for peace. Pretty knocks, I promise him, with plenty burkes for his shins. Dumnlimn wimn humn. In which case I’ll not be complete in fighting lust until I contrive to half kill your Charley you’re my darling for you and send him to Home Surgeon Hume, the algebrist, before his appointed time, particularly should he turn out to be a man in brown about town, Rollo the Gunger, wants a flurewaltzer to Arnolff’s, picking up ideas, of well over or about fiftysix or so, pithecoid proportions, with perhops five foot eight, the usual X Y Z type, R.C., Toc H, nothing but claret, not in the studbook by a long stretch, with a toothbrush moustache and jaw crockeries, alias grinner through collar, and of course no beard, meat and colmans suit, with tar’s baggy slacks obviously too roomy for him and springside boots, washing tie, Father Mathew’s bridge pin, sipping some Wheatley’s at Rhoss’s on a barstool with some pubpal of the Olaf Stout kidney, always trying to poorchase movables by hebdomedaries for to putt in a new house to loot, cigarette in his holder, with a good job and pension in Buinness’s, what about our trip to Normandy style of conversation, with an occasional they say that filmacoulored featured at the Mothrapurl skrene about Michan and his lost angeleens is corkyshows do moorvaloos, blueygreen eyes a bit scummy, developing a series of angry boils with certain references to the Deity, seeking relief in alcohol and so on, general omnibus character with a dash of railway brain, stale cough and an occasional twinge of claudication, having his favourite fecundclass family of upwards of a decade, both harefoot and loadenbrogued, to boot and buy off, Imean.

  So let it be a knuckle or an elbow, I hereby admonish you! It may all be topping fun but it’s tip and run and touch and flow for every whack when Marie stopes Phil fluther’s game to go. Arms arome, side aside, face into the wall. To the tumble of the toss tot the trouble of the swaddled, O. And lest there be no misconception, Miss Forstowelsy, over who to fasten the plightforlifer on (threehundred and thirty three to one on Rue the Day!) when the nice little smellar squalls in his crydle what the dirty old bigger’ll be squealing through his coughin, you better keep in the gunbarrel straight around vokseburst as I recommence you to (you gypseyeyed baggage, do you hear what I’m praying?) or, Gash, without butthering my head to assortail whose stroke forced or which struck backly, I’ll be all over you myselx horizontally, as the straphanger said, for knocking me with my name and yourself and your babybag down at such a great sacrifice with a rap of the gavel to a third price cowhandler as cheap as the niggerd’s dirt (for sale!) or I’ll smack your fruitflavoured jujube lips well for you, so I will well for you, if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your pigeonhouse. The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime. I’ll have it in for you. I’ll teach you bed minners, tip for tap, not to be playing your oddaugghter tangotricks with micky dazzlers, if I find corsehairs on your riverfrock and the squirmside of your burberry lupitally covered with chiffchaff and shavings. Up Rosemiry Lean and Potanasty Rod you wos, wos you? I overstand you, you understand. Asking Annybettyelsas to carry your parcels and you dreaming of net glory. You’ll ging nae maer wi’ Wolf the Ganger! Cutting chapel, were you? And had dates with slickers in particular hotels, had we? Lonely went to play your mother, isod? You was wiffriends? Hay, dot’s a doll yarn! Mark mean then! I’ll homeseek you, Luperca, as sure as there’s a palatine in Limerick, and, in striped conference, here’s how, if you’re my rodeo gell. Nerbu de Bios! If yous twos goes to walk upon the railway, Gard, and I’ll goad to beat behind the bush! See to it! Snip! It’s up to you. I’ll be hatsnatching harrier to hiding huries hinder hedge. Snap! I’ll tear up your limpshades and lock all your trotters in a closet, I will, and cut your silkskin into garters. You’ll give up your ashand-brothel ways when I make you reely smart. So skelp your budd and kiss the hurt! I’ll have plenary sadisfaction, plays the bishop, for your partial’s indulgences. Fair man and foul suggestion. There’s a lot of lecit pleasure coming bangslanging your way, Miss Pimpernelly Satin. For your own good, you understand, for the man who lifts his pud to a woman is saving the way for kindness. You’ll rebmemer your mottob, Aveh Tiger Roma, mikely smarter the nickst time. For I’ll just draw my prancer and give you one splitpuck in the crupper, you understand, that will bring the poppy blush of shame to your peony hindmost till you yelp papapardon and radden your rhodatantarums to the beat of calorrubordolor, I am, I do and I suffer (do you hear me now, lickspoon, and stop looking at your bussycat bow in the slate!), that you won’t obliterate for the bulkier part of a running year, failing to give a good account of yourself, if you think I’m so tan cupid as all that. Lights out now (bouf!), tight and sleep on it! And that’s how I’ll bottle your greedypuss beautibus for ye, me bullin heifer, for ’tis I that have the peer of arrams that carry a wallop. Between them.