Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake

by James Joyce

  — Eusapia! Fais-le-tout-tait! Languishing hysteria? The clou historique? How is this at all? Is dads the thing in such or are tits the that? Hear we here her first poseproem of suora unto suora? Twinstreams twinestrains, Alicious through alluring glass or alas in jumboland? Ding dong! Where’s your pal in silks alustre? Think of a maiden. Presentacion. Double her. Annupciacion. Take your first thoughts away from her. Immacolacion. Knock and it shall appall unto you! Who shone yet shimmers will be e’er scheining. Cluse her, voil her, hild her hindly. After liryc and themodius soft aglo iris of the vals. This young barlady, what euphemiasly is she doing? Is she having an ambidual act herself in apparition with herself as Consuelas to Sonias may?

  — Dang! And tether, a loguy O!

  — Dis and dat and dese and dose! Yer crackling out of yer turn, my Moonster firefly, like always. 2 R.N. and Longhorns Connach, stay off my air! You’ve grabbed the capital and you’ve had the lion’s shire since 1542 but there’s all the difference in Ireland between your borderation, my chatty cove, and me. The leinstrel boy to the wall is gone and there’s moreen astoreen for Monn and Conn. With the tyke’s named moke. Doggymens’ nimmer win! You last led the first when we last but we’ll first trump your last with a lasting. Jump the railchairs or take them, just as you please, but answer my queskins first, foxyjack! Ye’ve as much skullabogue cheek on you now as would boil a cauldron of kalebrose. Did the market missioners, Hayden Wombwell, when given the raspberry, fine more than sandsteen per cent of chalk in the purity, promptitude and perfection flour of this raw materialist and less than a seventh pro mile in his meal? We bright young chaps of the brandnew braintrust are briefed here and with maternal sanction compellably empanelled at quarter sessions under the six disqualifications for the uniformication of young persons (Nodding Neutrals) removal act by Committalman Number Underfifteen to know had the peeress of generals, who have been getting nosemoney cheap and stirring up the public opinion about private balls with their legs, Misses Mirtha and Merry, the two dreeper’s assistents, had they their service books in order and duly signed J. H. North and Company when discharged from their last situations? Will ye gup and tell the board in the anterim how, in the name of the three tailors on Tooley Street, did O’Bejorumsen or Mockmacmahonitch, ex of Butt and Hocksett’s, violating the bushel standard, come into awful position of the barrel of bellywash? And why, is it any harm to ask, was this hackney man in the coombe, a papersalor with a whiteluke to him, Fauxfitzhuorson, collected from Manofisle, carrying his ark, of eggshaped fuselage and made in Fredborg into the bullgine, across his back when he might have been settin on his jonass inside of her made up like a Glassthure cabman? Where were the doughboys, or Marchester Marchers, three by nombres, won in ziel, cavehill exers or hearts of steel, Hansen, Morfydd and O’Dyar, V.D., with their glenagearries, directing their steps according to the R.U.C.’s liaison officer, with their trench ulcers open and their hands in their pockets contrary to military rules, when confronted with his lifesize obstruction? When did he live off rooking the pooro and how did he start pfuffpfaffing at his Paterson and Hellicott’s? Is it a factual fact, proved up to sealsteethshilt, that this fancydress nordic in shaved lamb breeches, child’s kilts, bibby buntings and wellingtons, with club, torc and headdress, preholder of the Bar Ptolomei, is co-owner of a hengster’s circus near North Great Denmark Street (incidentally, it’s the most unjoyable show going the province and I’m taking the youngsters there Saturday first when it’s halfprice naturals night to see the fallen sickners aping the buckleybackers and the blind to two worlds taking off the deffydowndummies) and that the shamshemshowman has been complaining to the police barracks and applying for an order of certiorari and crying out something vile about him being molested, after him having triplets, by offers of vacancies from females in this city neighing after the man and his outstanding attraction ever since they seen his X-ray picture turned out in wealthy red in the sabbath sheets? Was it him that suborned that surdumutual son of his, a litterydistributer in Saint Patrick’s Lavatory, to turn a Roman and leave the chayr and gout in his bare balbriggans, the sweep, and buy the usual jar of porter at the Morgue and Cruses and set it down before the wife with her fireman’s halmet on her, bidding her mine the hoose, the strumpet, while him and his lagenloves were rampaging the roads in all their paroply under the noses of the Heliopolitan constabulary? Can you beat it? Prepare the way! Where’s that gendarm auxiliar, arianautic sappertillery, that reported on the whole hoodlum, relying on his morse-erse wordybook and the truncheon up his tail? Roof Seckesign van der Deckel! Recall Sickerson, the lizzyboy, and get her story from him! Seckersen, magnon of Errick! Sackerson! Hookup!

  — Day shirker four vanfloats he verdants market.

  High liquor made lust torpid dough hunt her orchid.

  — Hunt her orchid! Gob, and he found it on her, right enough! With her shoes upon his shoulders, ’twas most trying to beholders when he upped their frullatullepleats with our warning. A disgrace to the homely protestant religion! Bloody old preadamite with his twohandled umberella! Trust me to spy on me own spew!

  — Wallpurgies! And it’s this’s your deified city? Monganson? And it’s we’s to pray for Bigmesser’s conversions? Call Kitty the Beads, the Mandame of Tipknock Castle! Let succuba succumb, the improvable his wealth made possible! He’s cookinghagar that rost her prayer to him upan the top of the stairs. She’s deep, that one.

  — A farternoiser for his tuckish armenities. Ouhr Former, who erred in having, gibbous disdag our darling breed. And then the confisieur for the boob’s indulligence. As sunctioned for his salmenbog by the Councillorsom-Trent. Pave Pannem at his gaiter’s bronze! Nummer half dreads Log Laughty. Master’s gunne he warrs the bedst. I messaged his dilltoyds sausepander mussels on the kisschen table. With my ironing duck through his rollpins of gansyfett, do dodo doughdy dough, till he was braising red in the toastface with lovensoft eyebulbs and his kiddledrum steeming and rattling like the roasties in my mockamill. I awed to have scourched his Abarm’s brack for him. For the loaf of Obadiah, take your pastryart’s noas out of me flouer bouckuet! Of the strainger scene you given squeezers to me skillet! As cream of the hearth thou reinethst alhome. His lapper and libbers was glue goulewed as he sizzled there watching me lautterick’s pitcher by Wexford-Atelier as Katty and Lanner, the refined souprette, with my bust alla brooche and the padbun under my matelote, showing my jigotty sleeves and all my new toulong touloosies. Whisk! There’s me shims and here’s me hams and this is me juppettes, gause be the meter! Whisk! What’s this? Whisk! And that? He never cotched finer, balay me, at Romiolo Frullini’s flea pantamine out of Griddle-the-Sink or Shusies-with-her-Soles-Up or La Sauzerelly, the Pucieboots, when I started so hobmop ladle-like, highty tighty, to kick the time off the cluckclock lucklock quamquam camcam potapot panapan kickakickkack. Hairhorehounds, shake up pfortner. Fuddling fun for Fullacan’s sake!

  — All halt! Sponsor programme and close down. That’s enough, genral, of finicking about Finnegan and fiddling with his faddles. A final ballot, guvnor, to remove all doubt. By sylph and salamander and all the trolls and tritons, I mean to top her drive and to tip the tap of this, at last. His thoughts that wouldbe words, his livings that havebeen deeds. And will too, by the holy child of Coole, primapatriock of the archsee, if I have at first to down every mask in Trancenania from Terreterry’s Hole to Stutterers’ Corner to find that Yokeoff his letter, this Yokan his da. Let pass the jousters of the king, the Kovnor-Journal and eirenarch’s custos himself no less, the meg of megs, with the Carrison old gang! Oπ with your persians! Search ye the Finn! The sinder’s under shriving sheet. Fa Fe Fi Fo Fum! Ho, croak, evildoer! Arise, sir ghostus! As long as you’ve lived there’ll be no other. Doff!

  — Amtsadam! Sir, to you! Eternest cittas, heil! Here we are again! I am bubub brought up under a camel act of dynasties long since out of print, the first of Shitric Shilkanbeard (or is it Owllaugh MacAuscullpth the Thord?), but, in pontofacts massimust, I am known throughout the wor
ld wherever my good Allenglisches’ Angleslachsen is spoken by Sall and Will from Augustanus to Ergastulus, as this is, whether in Farnum’s rath or Condra’s ridge or the meadows of Dalkin or Monkish tunshep, by saints and sinners eyeeye alike as a cleanliving man and, as a matter of fict, by my halfwife, I think how our public at large appreciates it most highly from me that I am as cleanliving as could be and that my game was a fair average since I perpetually kept my ouija ouija wicket up. On my verawife I never was nor can afford to be guilty of breach, crim crig con, malfeasance or trespass against parson with the person of a youthful gigirl frifrif friend chirped Apples, acted by Miss Dashe, or with anny of my cousines in Kissilov’s Slutsgartern or Gigglotte’s Hill, when I would touch to her dot and feel most greenily of her unripe ones, as it should prove most unniece and far too bahad, nieceless to say, to my reputation on Babbyl Malket for daughters-in-trade being lightly clad. Yet, as my acquainters do me the complaisance of apprising me, I should her have awristed under my duskguise of whippers through toombs and deempeys, lagmen, was she but tinkling of such a tink. And, as a mere matter of ficfact, I tell of myself how I popo possess the ripest littlums wifukie around the globelettes globes upon which she was romping off on Floss Mundai out of haram’s way round Skinner’s Circusalley first with her consolation prize in my serial dreams of fair women, Mannequins Passe, with awards in figure and smile subsections, handicapped by two breasts in operatops. A remarkable little endowment garment. Fastened at various places. What spurt! I kickkick keenly love such, particularly while savouring of their flavours at their most perfect best when served with heliotrope ayelips, as this is, where I do drench my jolly soul on the pupure beauty of hers past.

  She is my bestpreserved wholewife, sowell her as herafter, in Evans’s eye, with incompatibly the smallest shoenumber outside of Chinatins. They are jolly dainty, spekin tluly. May we not recommend them? It was my proof-piece from my prenticeserving. And, alas, our private chaplain of Lambeyth and Dolekey, bishopregionary, an always sadfaced man, in his lutestring dew-cape with tabinet band, who has visited our various hard hearts and reins by imposition of fufuf fingers, olso haddock’s fumb, in that Upper Room, can speak loud to you some quite complimentary things about my clean characteracting even, when detected, in the dusk, distressful though such recital prove to me, as this is, when I introduced her (frankfurters numbourines why drive fear!) to our fourposter tunies chantreying, under Castrucci Sinior and De Mellos, those whapping oldsteirs, with sycamode euphonium in either notation in our altogether cagehaused duckkyheim gleegloom on Goosna Greene, that cabinteeny homesweetened through affection’s hoardpayns, there’s gnome sweeplaces like theresweep Nowhergs. First Murkiss, or so they sankeyed. Dodo! O Clearly! And the gregorio at front with Johannes far in back. Aw aw! By whom, as my Kerk Findlater’s, ye litel chuch rond ye coner, and K. K. Katakasm enjoineth upon all swaddlered in the Belief and as you all know as a matter of pure fact, dear humans, of a child one of my life’s ambitions of my yougend from an early peepee period while still to hedjeskool, intended for broadchurch, I was parruchially confirmed in Caulofat’s bed by our bujibuji beloved curate-author. Michael Engels is your man. Let Michael relay Sutton and tell you people here who have the phoney habit (it was remarketable) in his clairaudience, as this is, as only our own Michael can, when reicherout at superstation, to bring ruptures to our roars how I am amp amp amplify. Hiemlancollin. Pimpim’s Ornery fortninehalf. Shaun Shemsen saywhen saywhen. Holmstock unsteaden. Livpoomark lloyrge hoggs one four tupps noying. Big Butter Boost! Sorry! Thnkyou! Thatll beall fortoday. Call it off! Godnotch, vrybolly! End a muddy chrushmess! Abbreciades anew York gustoms. Kyow! Tak!

  — Tiktak. Tiktak.

  — Awind abuzz awater falling.

  — Poor a cows his jew placator.

  — It’s the damp damp damp.

  Calm has entered. Big Big Calm, announcer! It is ernst terooly a most moresome intartenmont! Colt’s tooth! I will give tandsel to it. I protest there is luttrelly not one teaspoonspill of evidence at bottomlie to my babad, as you shall see, as this is, Keemun Lapsang of first pickings. And I contango I can take off my dudud my dirtynine articles of quoting here in Pynix Park before those in heaven to provost myself by gramercy of justness a virgoman and moremon, stiff and staunch for ever, and enter under the advicies to their favoured client from Misrs Norris, Sotheby, Yates and Weston, Inc, into my preprotestant Caveat against the pupup publication of libel by any tixtim tipsyloon or tobtom towley of Keisserse Lean to that highest personage at moments holding down the throne. So to speak of beauty scouts in elegant pursuit of flowers, searchers for tabernacles and the celluloid art! Happen seen sore eynes belived? The caca cad! A bloweyed lanejoynt, waring lowbelt suit, with knockbrecky kenees and bullfist rings round him and a fallse roude axehand (he is cunvesser to Saunter’s Nocelettres and the Poe’s Toffee’s Directory in his pisness), the best begrudged man in Belgradia, who doth not belease to our paviour, he walked by North Strand with his Thom’s towel in hand. Snakeeye! Strangler of soffiacated green parrots! I protest it that he is, by my wipehalf, my nomesuch! He was leaving out of my double inns while he was all teppling over my single ixits. So was keshaned on for his recent behaviour. Sherlook is lorking for him. Allare beltspanners! Hourspringlike his joussture, immitiate my chry! As urs now, so yous then! Get your air curt! Shame upon pipip Private M—! Shames on his foulsomeness! Shamus on his atkinscum’s lulul lying suulen for an outcast mastiff littered in blood currish! Erestocrass till Hanging Tower! Steck a javelin through his advowtried heart! Instaunton! Flap, my Larrybird! Dangle, my highflyer! Jiggety jig, my jackadandyline! Let me never see his waddphez again! And mine it was, Barktholed von Hunarig, Soesown af Furrows, when to our lot it fell on my poplar Sexsex, my Sexencentaurnary, when by gate of Hal, before his hostel of the Wodin Man, I hestened to freeholdit op to His Mam His Mamam Majuscules His Magnus Maggerstick first city’s leasekuays of this Nova Tara, our most noble, when hrossbucked on his pricelist charger, Pferdinamd Allibuster (yeddonot need light oar till Noreway for you fanned one o’er every doorway), with my allbum’s greethims through this whole of my promises: Handshakey Congrandyoulikethems, Ecclesency!

  Whosaw the jackery dares at handgripper thisa breast? Dose makkers ginder! Some one we was with us all fours. Adversarian! The spiking Duyvil! First liar in Londsend! Wulv! See yon scargore on that skeepsbrow! And those meisies! Sulken taarts! Man sicker at I ere bluffit konservateve? Shucks! Such ratshause bugsmess so I cannot barely conceive of! Lowest basemeant in hystry! Ibscenest nansence! Noksagt! Per Peeler and Pawr! The brokerheartened shugon! Hole affair is rotten muckswinish porcupig’s draff! Enouch!

  — Is that yu, Whitehead?

  — Have you headnoise now?

  — Give us your mespilt reception, will yous?

  — Pass the fish for Christ’ sake!

  Old Whitehowth he is speaking again. Ope eustace tube! Pity poor Whiteoath! Dear gone mumum mummeries, goby! Tell the woyld I have livet true thousand hells. Pity, please, lady, for poor O.W. in this profundust snobbing I have caught. Nine dirty years mine age, hairs hoar, mummery failend, snowdrift to my ellpow, deff as Adder, I askt you, dear lady, to judge on my tree by our fruits. I gave you of the tree. I gave two smells, three eats. My freeandies, my celeberrimates! My happybossoms, my allfalling fruits of my boom. Pity poor Haveth Childers Everywhere with Mudder!

  That was Communicator, a former colonel, disincarnated. He is not all hear. A spirit called Sebastian from the Rivera in Januero may fernspreak shortly with messuages from my deadported. He does not believe in our psychous of the Real Absence, neither miracle wheat nor soulsurgery of P. P. Quemby. Let us cheer him up a little and make an appunkment for a future date. Hello, Communicator! Eh? How’s the buttes? Everscepistic! He has had some indiejestings, poor thing, for quite a little while, confused by his tonguer of baubble. Away with him! Poor Felix Culaper! Ring his mind, ye staples (bonze!), in my ould reekeries’ ballyheart and in my krumlin and in aroundisements and s
tremmis! Sacks eleathury! Sacks eleathury! Bam! I deplore over him ruely. Mongrieff! O Hone! Guestermed with the nobelities, todie bronxitic in achershous! So enjoying of old thick whiles, in haute white toff’s hoyt of our formed reflections, with stock of eisen all his prop, so buckely hosiered from the Royal Leg, and his puertos mugnum, he would puffout a dhymful bock! And the how he would husband her that verikerfully, his cigare divane (he would redden her with his vestas, but ’tis naught), with us, his nephos and his neberls, mest incensed and befogged by him and his smoke thereof! But he shall have his glad stein of our zober beerbest in Oscarshal’s winetavern. Buen retiro! The boyce voyce is still flautish and his mounth still wears that soldier scarlet though the flaxafloyeds, alas, are peppered with salsedine. It is bycause of what he was ascend into his prisonce on account off. I whit it well. Hence he’s deepraised words. Some day I may tell of his second storey. Mood! Mood! It looks like someone other bearing my burdens. I cannot let it. Kanes nought.