Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  So gullaby, me poor Isley! But I’m not for forgetting me innerman monophone for I’m leaving my darling proxy behind for your consolering, lost Dave the Dancekerl, a squamous runaway and a dear old man pal of mine too. He will arrive incessantly in the fraction of a crust. Could he quit doubling and stop trippling, he would be the unicorn of his kind. He’s the mightiest penumbrella I ever flourished on behond the shadow of a post! Be sure and link him, me O treasauro, as often as you learn, provided there’s nothing between you but a plain deal table. Only don’t encourage him to cry lessontimes over Leperstown. But soft! Can’t be? Do mailstanes mumble? Lumtum lumtum! Now! The froubadour! I fremble! Talk of wolf in a stomach, by all that’s verminous! Eccolo me! The return of th’athlate! Who can secede to his success! Isn’t Jaunstown, Ousterrike, the small place after all? I knew I smelt the garlic leek! Why, bless me swits, here he its, darling Dave, like the catoninelives just in time as if he fell out of space, all draped in mufti, coming home to mourn mountains from his old continence. And not on one foot either or on two feet aether but on quinquisecular cycles after his French evolution and a blindfold passage by the 4.32 with the pork’s pate in his suicide paw and the gulls laughing lime on his natural skunk, blushing like Pat’s pig, begob! He’s not too timtom well ashamed to carry out onaglibtograbakelly in his showman’s sinister the testymonicals he gave his twenty annis for, showing the three white feathers, as a home cured emigrant in Paddyouare far below on our sealevel. Bearer may leave the church, signed, Figura Porca, Lictor Magnaffica. He’s the sneaking likeness of us, faith, me altar’s ego in miniature and every Auxonian aimer’s ace as nasal a Romeo as I am, for ever cracking quips on himself, that merry, the jeenjakes, he’d soon arise mother’s roses mid bedewing tears under those wild wet lashes onto anny living girl’s laftercheeks. That’s his little veiniality. And his impeppeppediment. He has novel ideas, I know, and he’s a jarry queer fish betimes, I grant you, and cantanberous, the poisoner of his word, but, lice and all and semicoloured stainedglasses, I’m enormously full of that foreigner, I’ll say I am! Got by the one goat, suckled by the same nanna, one twitch, one nature makes us oldworld kin. We’re as thick and thin now as two tubular jawballs. I hate him about his patent henesy, blasph it, yet am I amorist. I love him. I love his old portugal’s nose. There’s the nasturtium for ye now that saved manny a poor sinker from water on the grave. The diasporation of all pirates and quinconcentrum of a fake like Basilius O’Cormacan MacArty? To camiflag he turned his shirt. Isn’t he after borrowing all before him, making friends with everybooby, red in Rossya, white in Alba, and touching every distinguished Ourishman he could ever distinguish before or behind from a Yourishman for the customary halp of a crown and peace? He is looking aged with his pebbled eyes, and johnnythin too from livicking on pidgins’ ifs with puffins’ ands. He’s been slanderising himself, but I pass no remark. Hope he hasn’t the cholera. Give him an eyot in the farout. Moseses and Noasies, how are you? He’d be as snug as Columbsisle Jonas wrocked in the belly of the whaves, as quotad before. Brayvo, senior chief! Famose! Sure there’s nobody else in touch anysides to hold a chef ’s cankle to the darling at all for sheer dare with that prisonpotstill of Spanish breans on him like the knave of trifles! A jollytan fine demented brick and the prince of goodfilips! Dave knows I have the highest of respect of annyone in my oweand smooth way for that intellectual debtor (obbligato!) Mushure David R. Crozier. And we’re the closest of chems. Mark my use of you, cog! Take notice how I yemploy, crib! Be ware as you I foil, coppy! It’s a pity he can’t see it for I’m terribly nice about him. Canwyll y Cymry, the marmade’s flamme! A leal of the O’Looniys, a Brazel aboo! The most omportent man! Shervos! Ho, be the holy snakes, someone has shaved his rough diamond skull for him as clean as Nuntius’ piedish! The burnt out mesh and the matting and all! Thunderweather, khyber schinker, escapa sansa pagar! He’s the spatton spit, so he is, scaly skin and all, with his blackguarded eye and the goatsbeard in his buttinghole, of Shemuel Tulliver, me grandsourd, the old cruxader, when he off with his paudeen! That was to let the crowd of Flu Flux Fans behind him see me proper. Ah, he’s very thoughtful and sympatrico that way, is Brother Intelligentius, when he’s not absintheminded, with his Paris adresse! He is, really. Hold hard till you’ll ear him clicking his bull’s bones! Some toad klakkin! You’re welcome back, Wilkins, to red berries in the frost! And here’s the butter exchange to pfeife and dramn ye with a bawlful of the Moulsaybaysse and yunker doodler wanked to wall awriting off his phoney. I’m tired hairing of you. Hat yourself! Give us your dyed dextremity here, frother, the Claddagh clasp! I met with dapper dandy and he shocked me big the hamd. Where’s your watchkeeper? You’ve seen all sorts in shapes and sizes, marauding about the mappamound. How’s the cock and the bullfight? And old Auster and Hungrig? And the Beer and Belly and the Boot and Ball? Not forgetting the oils of grease under that turkey in julep and Father Freeshots Feilbogen in his rockery garden with the costards? And did you meet with Peadhar the Grab at all? And did you call on Tower Geesyhus? Was Mona, my own love, no bigger than she should be, making up to you in her bestbehaved manor when you made your breastlaw and made her, tell me? And did you like the landskip from Lambay? I’m better pleased than ten guidneys! You rejoice me! Faith, I’m proud of you, french davit! You’ve surpassed yourself! Be introduced to yes! This is me aunt Julia Bride, your honour, dying to have you languish to scandal in her bosky old delltangle. You don’t reckoneyes him? He’s Jackot the Horner who boxed in his corner, jilting no fewer than three female bribes. That’s his penals. Shervorum! You haven’t seen her since she stepped into her drawoffs. Don’t be shoy, husbandman! Weih, what’s on you, wifewoman? Up the shamewauch! She has plenty of woom in the smallclothes for the bothsforus, nephews push! Hatch yourself well! Come on, spinister, do your stuff! Would you wait biss she buds till you bite on her? Embrace her bashfully by all means at my frank incensive and tell her in your semiological agglutinative yez like boyrun to sibster how Idos be asking after her. Let us be holy and evil and let her be peace on the bough. Sure, she fell in line with our tripertight photos as the lyonised mails when we were stablelads together like the corksagain brothers, hungry and angry, cavileer grace by roundhered force, me and you, shinners true, and pinchme, our tertius quiddus, that never talked or listened. Always raving how we had the wrinkles of a snailcharmer and the slits and sniffers of a fellow that fell foul of the county de Loona and the meattrap of the first vegetarian. To be had for the asking. Have a hug! Take her out of poor tuppenny luck before she goes off in pure treple licquidance. I’d give three shillings a pullet to the canon for the conjugation to shadow you kissing her from me liberally all over as if she was a crucifix. Enjombyourselves thurily. It’s good for her bilabials, you understand. There’s nothing like the mistletouch for finding a queen’s earring false. Chink chink. As the curly bard said after kitchin the womn in his hym to the hum of her garments. You try a little tich to the tissle of his tail. The racist to the racy, rossy. The soil is for the self alone. Be ownkind. Be kithkinish. Be bloodysibby. Be irish. Be inish. Be offalia. Be hamlet. Be the property plot. Be Yorick and Lankystare. Be cool. Be mackinamucks of yourselves. Be finish. No martyr where the preature is there’s no plagues like rome. It gives up the gripes. Watch the swansway. Take your tiger over it. The leady on the lake and the convict of the forest. Why, they might be Babau and Momie! Yipyip! To pan! To pan! To tinpinnypan. All folly me yap to Curlew! Give us a pin for her and we’ll call it a tossup. Can you reverse positions? Let’s have a fuchu all round, courting cousins! Quuck, the duck of a woman, for quack, the drake of a man, her little live apples for Leas and love potients for Leos, the next beast king. Put me down for all ringside seats. I can feel you being corrupted. Recoil. I can see you sprouting scruples. Get back. And as he’s boiling with water I’ll light your pyre. Turn about, skeezy Sammy, out of metaphor, till we feel are you still tropeful of popetry. Told you so. If you doubt of his love of dare airing his feelings you’ll very much hurt
, for Mischmasch mastufractured on europe you can read off the tail of his. Rip ripper rippest and jac jac jac. Dwell on that, my hero and lander! That’s the side that appeals to em, the wring wrong way to wright woman. Shuck her! Let him! What he’s good for. Shuck her more! Let him again! All she wants! Could you wheedle a staveling encore out of your imitationer’s jubalharp, hey, Mr Jinglejoys? Congregational singing. Rota rota ran the pagoda con dio in capo ed il diavolo in coda. Many a diva devoutchka saw her Dauber Dan at the priesty pagoda Rota ran. Uck! He’s so sedulous to singe always if prumpted, the mirthprovoker! Grunt unto us, I pray, your foreboden article in our own dear dockandoilish introducing the death of Nelson with coloraturas! Coraio, fra! And I’ll string seconds to hermanise. My loaf and pottage neaheaheahear Rochelle. With your dumpsey diddeley dumpsey die, fiddeley fa. Diavoloh! Or come on, schoolcolours, and we’ll scrap, rug and mat, and then be as chummy as two bashed spuds. Bitrial bay holmgang or betrayal buy jury. Attaboy! Fee gate has Heenan hoity, mind uncle Hare? What, sir? Poss, myster? Achieve! Thou thou? What say ye? Taurus periculosus, morbus pediculosus. Miserere mei in miseribilibus! There’s uval lunguage for you! The tower is precluded, the mob’s in her petticoats, Mr R. E. Meehan is in misery with his billyboots. Begob, there’s not so much green in his Ireland’s eye! Sweet fellow ovocal, he stones out of stune. But he could be near a colonel with a voice like that. The bark is still there but the molars are gone. The misery billyboots I used to lend him before we split! Be the hole in the year, they were laking like heaven’s reflexes. But I told him make your will be done and go to a general and I’d pray confessions for him. Areesh! Areesh! And I’ll be your intrepider. Ambras! Ruffle her! Bussing was before the blood and bissing will behind the curtain. Triss! Did you note that worrid expressionism on his megalogue? A full octavium below me! And did you hear his three browrings rattlemaking when he was preaching to himself? And (whoa!) do you twig the schamlooking leaf greeping ghastly down his blousyfrock? Our national umbloom! Areesh! He won’t. He’s shoy. Those worthies, my old faher’s onkel that was garotted, Caius Cocoa Codinhand, that I lost in a crowd, used to chop that tongue of his, japlatin, with my younkle’s owlseller, Woowoolfe Woodenbeard, that went stonebathered, in the Tower of Balbus, as brisk, man, as I’d scoff up muttan chepps and lobscouse. But it’s all deafman’s duff to me, begob. Sam knows miles bettern me how to work the miracle. And I see by his diarrhio he’s dropping the stammer out of his silenced bladder since I bonded him off more as a friend and as a brother to try and grow a muff and canonise his dead feet down on the river airy by thinking himself into the fourth dimension and place the ocean between his and ours, the churchyard in the cloister of the depths, after he was capped out of beurlads scoel for the sin against the past participle and earned the jactitation for codding chaplain and of being as homely gauche as swift, B.A.A. Who gets twickly fullgets twice as allemanden huskers. But the whacker his word the weaker our ears for auracles who parles parses orileys oreill. Illstarred punster, lipstering cowknucks. ’Twas the quadra sent him and trinity too. And he can cantab as chipper as any oxon ever I mood with. A tiptoe singer! He’ll prisckly soon handtune your Erin’s ear for you, p.p. a mimograph at a time, numan bitter, with his ancomartinns to read the road roman with false steps ad Pernicious from rhearsilvar ormolus to torquinions superbers while I’m far away from wherever thou art, serving my tallyhos and tullying my hostilious, by going in by the most holy recitatandas ffffor my varsatile examinations in the ologies, to be a coach on the Fukien mission. ! P? F? ! How used you learn me, brather soboostius, in my augustan days? With cesarella looking on. Ahehihohyoum! In the beginning was the geste, he jousstly says, for the end is with woman, flesh-without-word, while the man to be is in a worse case after than before since she on the supine satisfies the verb to him. Toughtough, tootoological. Thou, the first person shingeller. Art, an imperfect subjunctive. Paltry, flappent, haud serious. Miss Smith, onamatter-poetic. Hamnisandwis axes colles waxes warmas like sodullas. So pick your stops with fondness now. And mind you twine the twos noods of your nice-names. And pull up your furbelovs as farabove as you’re farthingales. That’ll hint him how to click the trigger. Show you shall and wont he will! His hearing is indoubting just as my seeing is onbelieving. So dactylise him up to blankpoint and let him blink for himself where you speak the best ticklish. You’ll feel what I mean. Fond namer, let me never see thee blame a kiss for shame a knee!

  Echo, read ending! Siparioramoci! But from the stress of their sunder enlivening, at clasp, deciduously, a nikrokosmikon must come to mike.

  — Well, my positively last at any stage! I hate to look at alarms but, however they put on my watchcraft, must now close as I hereby hear by ear from my seeless socks ’tis time to be up and ambling. Mymiddle toe’s mitching, so mizzle I must else ’twill sarve me out. Gulp a bulper at parting and the moore the melodest! Farewell but whenever, as Tisdall told Toole. Tempos fidgets. Let flee me fiacckles, says the grand old manoark, stormcrested crowcock and undulant hair, hoodies tway! Yes, faith, I am as mew let freer, beneath me corthage, bound. I’m as bored now bawling beersgrace at sorepaws there as Andrew Clays was sharing sawdust with Daniel’s old collie. This shack’s not big enough for me now. I’m dreaming of ye, azores. And remember this, a chorines, there’s the witch on the heath, sistra! Bansheeba peeling hourihaared while her Orcotron is hoaring ho. And whinn muinnuitt flittsbit twinn her ttittshe cries tallmidy! Daughters of the heavens, be lucks in turnabouts to the wandering sons of red loam! The earth’s atrot! The sun’s a scream! The air’s a jig! The water’s great! Seven oldy oldy hills and the one blue beamer. I’m going. I know I am. I could bet I am. Somewhere I must get, far away from Banba shore, wherever I am. No saddle, no staffet, but spur on the moment! So I think I’ll take freeboots’ advice. Psk! I’ll borrow a path to lend me wings, quickquack, and from Jehusalem’s wall, clickclack, to Cheerup street me courser’s clear till I’ll travel the void world over. It’s Winland for moyne, bickbuck! Jeejakers! I hurt meself nettly that time! Come, my good frogmarchers! We felt the fall but we’ll front the defile. Was not my oltu mutther, Sereth Maritza, a Runningwater? And the bould one that quickened her the seaborne Fingale? I feel like that hill of a whaler went yudling round Groenmund’s Circus with his tree full of seaweeds and Dinky Doll asleep in her shell. Hazelridge has seen me. Ierne valing is. Squall aboard for Kew, hop! Farewell awhile to her and thee! The brine’s my bride to be. Lead on, Macadam, and danked be he who first sights Halt Linduff! Solo, solone, solong! Lood Erynnana, ware thee wail! With me singame soarem o’erem! Here’s me takeoff. Now’s nunc or nimmer, siskinder! Here goes the enemy! Bennydick hotfoots onimpudent stayers! Sorry! I bless alls to the whished with this panroman apological which Whatllwewhistlem sang to the kerrycoys. Break ranks! After wage-of-battle bother I am thinking most. Fik yew! I’m through. Won. Toe. Adry. You watch my smoke.

  After poor Jaun the Boast’s last fireless words of postludium of his soapbox speech ending in’s heaven, twentyaid add one with a flirt of wings were pouring to his bysistance (could they snip that curl of curls to lay with their gloves and keep the kids bright!), prepared to cheer him should he leap or to curse him should he fall, with their biga triga rheda rodeo, the cherub’s in the charabang, setdown here and sedan chair, don’t you wish you’d a yoke or a bit in your mouth, but, repulsing all attempts at first hands on, as no es nada, our greatly misunderstood one we perceived to give himself some sort of a hermetic prod or kick to sit up and take notice, which acted like magic, while the phalanx of daughters of February Filldyke, embushed and climbing, ramblers and weeps, voiced approval in their customary manner by dropping kneedeep in tears over their concelebrated meednight sunflower, piopadey boy, their solase in dorckaness, and splattering together joyously the plaps of their tappyhands as, with a cry of genuine distress, so prettly prattly pollylogue, they viewed him, the just one, their darling, away.

  A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that
they know. Wherefore they wail.

  Eh jourd’weh! Oh jourd’woe! Dosiriously it psalmodied. Guesturn’s lothlied answring to-maronite’s wail.

  Oasis, cedarous esaltarshoming Leafboughnoon!

  Oisis, coolpressus onmountof Sighing!

  Oasis, palmost esaltarshoming Gladdays!

  Oisis, phantastichal roseway anjerichol!

  Oasis, newleavous spaciosing encampness!

  Oisis, plantainous dewstuckacqmirage playtennis!

  Pipetto, Pipetta has misery unnoticed!

  But the strangest thing happened. Backscuttling for the hopoff, with the odds altogether in favour of his tumbling into the river, Jaun just then I saw to collect from the gentlest weaner among the weiners (who by this were in half droopleaflong mourning for the passing of the last post) the familiar yellow label into which he let fall a drop, smothered a curse, choked a guffaw, spat expectoratiously and blew his own trumpet. And next thing was he gummalicked the stickyback side and stamped the oval badge of belief to his agnellous brow with a genuine dash of irrepressible piety that readily turned his ladylike typmanzelles capsy curvy (the holy scamp!) with a half a glance of Irish frisky (a Juan Jaimesan hastaluego) from under the shag of his parallel brows. It was then he made as if he … but he waved instead a hand across the sea as notice to quit while the pacifettes made their armpacts widdershins (Frida! Freda! Paza! Paisy! Irene! Areinette! Birdomay! Bentamai! Sososokky! Bebebekka! Bababadkessy! Ghugugoothoyou! Dama! Damadomina! Takiya! Tokaya! Scioccara! Sciuccherellina! Peocchia! Peucchia! Ho Mi Hoping! Ha Me Happinice! Mirra! Myrha! Solyma! Salemita! Sainta! Sianta! O Peace!), but in selfrighting the balance of his corporeity to reexchange widerembraces with the pillarbosom of the Dizzier he loved prettier, between estellos and venoussas, bad luck to the lie but, when next to nobody expected, their star and gartergazer at the summit of his climax toppled a lipple on to the off and, making a brandnew start for himself to run down his easting by blessing hes sthers with the sign of the southern cross, his bungaloid borsaline with the hedgygreen bound blew off in a loveblast (award for trover!) and Jawjon Redhead, bucketing after, meccamaniac (the headless shall have legs!), kingscouriered round with an easy rush and ready relays by the bridge a stadion beyond Ladycastle (and what herm but he narrowly missed fouling her buttress for her but for he acqueducked) and then, cocking a snook at the stock of his sermons, so mear and yet so fahr from that region’s general, away with him at the double, the hulk of a garron, pelting after the road on Shanks’s mare, let off like a wind-hound loose (the bouchal! you’d think it was that moment they gave him the jambos!) with a posse of tossing hankerwaves to his windward like seraph’s summonses on the air and a tempest of good things in packetshape teeming from all accounts into the funnel of his fanmail shrimpnet, along the highroad of the nation, Traitors’ Track, following which fond floral fray he was quickly lost to sight through the statuemen, though without a doubt he was all the more on that samehead to memory dear, while Sickerson, that borne of bjoerne, la garde auxiliaire, she murmured, hellyg Ursulinka, full of woe (and how fitlier should Goodboy’s hand be shook than by the warmin of her besom that wrung his swaddles?): Where maggot Harvey kneeled till bags? Ate Andrew coos hogdam farvel!