Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake by James Joyce
Marcus. And after that, not forgetting, there was the Flemish armada, all scattered, and all officially drowned, there and then, on a lovely morning, after the universal flood, at about eleven thirtytwo (was it?) off the coast of Cominghome and Saint Patrick, the anabaptist, and Saint Kevin, the lacustrian, with toomuch of tolls and lottance of beggars, after converting Porterscout and Dona, our first marents, and Lapoleon, the equestrian, on his whuite hourse of Hunover, rising Clunkthurf over Cabinhogan, and all they remembored and then there was the Frankish floot of Noahsdovahs, from Hedalgoland, round about the freebutter year of Notre Dame 1132 P.P.C. or so, disumbunking from under Motham-general Bonaboche (noo poopery!) in his half a grey traditional hat, alevoila come alevilla, and after that there he was, so terrestrial, like a Nailscissos, cuddling and poghuing her scandalous and very wrong, the maid, in single combat, under the sycamores, amid the bladderings from the boom, and all the gallowsbirds in Arrah-na-poghue, so silvestrious, neer the Queen’s Colleges, in 1132 Brian or Bride street, behind the century man on the door. And then again they used to give the grandest gloriaspanquost universal howldmoutherhibbert lectures on anarxaquy out of doxarchology (hello, Hibernia!) from sea to sea (Matt speaking!) according to the pictures postcard, with sexon grimmacticals, in the Latimer Roman history, of Latimer repeating himself, from the vicerine of Lord Hugh, the Lacytynant, till Bockley shuts the rahjahn gerachknell and regnumrockery roundup (Marcus Lyons speaking!) to the oceanfuls of collegians green and high classes and the poor scholars and all the old trinitarian senate and saints and sages and the Plymouth brethren, droning along, peanzanzangan, and nodding and sleeping away there, like forgetmenots, in her abijance service, round their twelve tables, per pioja at pulga bollas, in the four trinity colleges, for earnasyoulearning in Eringrowback, of Ulcer, Moonster, Leanstare and Cannought, the four grandest colleges supper the matther of Erryn, of Killorcure and Killthemall and Killeachother and Killkelly-on-the-Flure, where their role was to rule the round roll that Rollo and Rullo rolled round. Those were the grandest gynecollege histories (Lucas calling, hold the line!) in the Janesdanes Lady Andersdaughter Universary, for auld acquaintance sake (this unitarian lady, breathtaking beauty, Bambam’s bonniest, lived to a great age at or in or about the late No. 1132 or No. 1169, bis, Fitzmary Round, that eredwellers’ afterliving, where she was seen by many and widely liked) for teaching the Fatima Woman history of Fatimiliafamilias, repeating herself, on which purposeth of the spirit of nature as divinely developed in time by psadatepholomy, the past and present (Johnny MacDougall speaking, give me trunks, miss!) and present and absent and past and present and perfect arma virumque romano. Ah, dearo dear! O weep for the hower when eve aleaves bower! How it did but all come eddaying back to them, if they did but get gaze, gagagniagnian, to hear him there, kissing her and cuddling her, after the gouty old galahat, with his peer of quinnyfears and his troad of thirstuns, so nefarious, from his elevation of one yard one handard and thartytwo lines, before the four of us, in his Roman Catholic arms, while his deepseepeepers gazed and sazed and dazecrazemazed into her dullokbloon rodolling olosheen eyenbowls by the Cornelius Nepos. Mnepos. Anumque. Umque. Napoo.
Queh? Quos?
Ah, dearo dearo dear! Bozun braceth brythe hwen gooses gandered gamen. Mahazar ag Dod! It was so scalding sorry for all the whole twice two four of us, with their familiar, making the totem, and Lally when he lost part of his half a hat and all belongings to him, in his old futile manner, cape, towel and drawbreeches, and repeating himself and telling him now, for the seek of Senders Newslaters and the mossacre of Saint Brices, to forget the past, when the burglar he shoved the wretch in churneroil, and contradicting all about Lally, the ballest master of Goaterstown, and his old fellow, the Lagener, in the Locklane Lighthouse, earing his wick with a pierce of railing, and liggen hig with his ladder up, and that oldtime turner and his sadderday erely cloudsing, the old croniony, Skelly, with the lether belly, full of neltts, full of keltts, full of lightweight beltts, and all the bald drakes or ever he had up in the bohereen, off Artsichekes Road, with Molls and Mahmullagh Mullarty, the man in the Oran mosque, and the old folks at home and Duignam and Lapole and the grand confarreation, as per the cabbangers richestore, of the filest archives, and he couldn’t stop laughing over Tom Tim Tarpey, the Welshman, and the four middleaged widowers, all nangles, sangles, angles and wangles. And now, that reminds me, not to forget the four of the Welsh waves, leaping laughing, in their Lumbag Walk, over old Battleshore and Deaddleconche, in their half a Roman hat, with an ancient Greek gloss on it, in Chichester College auction and, thank God, they were all summarily divorced, four years before, or so they say, by their dear poor shehusbands, in dear byword days, and never brought to mind, to see no more the rainwater on the floor but still they parted, raining water laughing, per Nupiter Privius, only terpary, on the best of terms and be forgot, whilk was plainly foretolk by their old pilgrim cocklesong or they were singing through the wettest indies As I was going to Burrymecarott we fell in with a lout by the name of Peebles as also in another place by their orthodox proverb so there was said thus That old fellow knows milk though he’s not used to it latterly. And so they parted. In Dalkymont nember to. Ay, ay. The good go and the wicked is left over. As evil flaws so Ivel flows. Ay, ay. Ah, well, sure that’s the way. As the holymaid of Kunut said to the haryman of Koombe. For his humple pesition in odvices. Woman. Squash. Part. Ay, ay. By decree absolute.
Lucas. And, O, so well they could remembore at that time, when Carpery of the Goold Fins was in the kingship of Poolland, Mrs Dowager Justice Squelchman, foorsitter, in her fullbottom wig and beard (Erminia Reginia!), in or aring or around about the year of buy in disgrace 1132 or 1169 or 1798 Y.W.C.A., at the Married Male Familyman’s Auctioneers’ court in Arrahnacuddle. Poor Johnny of the clan of the Dougals, the poor Scuitsman (Hohannes!), nothing if not amorous, dinna forget, so frightened (zweep! zweep!) on account of her fullbottom (undullable attraxity!), that put the yearl of mercies on him, and the four maasters, in chors, with a hing behangd them, because he was so slow to borstel her schoon for her, when he was grooming her ladyship, instead of backscratching her materfamilias proper, like any old methodist, and all divorced and innasense interdict, in the middle of the temple, according to their dear faithful. Ah, now, it was too bad, too bad and stout entirely, all the missoccurs! And poor Mark or Marcus Bowandcoat, from the brownesberrow in nolandsland, the poor old chronometer, all persecuted with ally croaker by everybody he was, by decree absolute, through Herrinsilde, because he forgot himself, making wind and water, and made a Neptune’s mess of all of himself, sculling over the giamond’s courseway, and because he forgot to remembore to sign an old morning proxy paper, a writing in request to hersute herself, on stamped brownanoleum, from Roneo to Giliette, before saying his grace before fish and then and there and too there was poor Dion Cassius Poosycomb, all drowned too, poor Dion, before the world and her husband, because it was most improper and most wrong, when he attempted to (well, he was shocking poor in his health, he said, with the shingles falling off him), because he (ah, well now, peaces pea to Wedmore and let not the song go dumb upon your Ire, as we say in the Spasms of Davies, and we won’t be too hard on him as an old Manx presbyterian), and after that, as red as a Rosse is, he made his last will and went to confession, like the general of the Berkeleyites, at the rim of the rom, on his two bare marrowbones, to Her Worship his Mother and Sister Evangelist Sweainey, on Cailcainnin widnight and he was so sorry, he was really, because he left the bootybutton in the handsome cab and now, tell the truth, unfriends never (she was his first messes dogess and it was a very pretty peltry and there were faults on both sides), well, he attempted (or so they say), ah, now, forget and forgive (don’t we all?), and, sure, he was only funning, with his andrewmartins and his old age coming over him, well, he attempted or, the Connachy, he was tempted to attempt some hunnish familiarities, after eten a bad cramp in the rude ocean and, hevantonoze, sure he was deadseasickabed (it was real
And where do you leave Matt Emeritus, the laychief of Abbotabishop? And eschullard of ffrench and gherman. Achoch! They were all so sorgy for poorboir Matt, in his saltwater hat, with the Aran crown, or she grew that out of, too big for him, of Mnepos and his overalls, all falling over her in folds—sure, he hadn’t the heart in her to pull them up—poor Matt, the old peregrine matriarch, and a queenly man (the porple blussing upon them!), sitting there, the sole of the settlement, below ground, for an expiatory rite, in postulation of his cause (who shall say?), in her beaver bonnet, the crapoppely billycoque back from Presscoatts and Dyars, like the king of the Caucuses, a family all to himself, under geasa, Themistletocles, on his multilingual tombstone, like Navellicky Kamen, and she due to kid by sweetpea time, with her face to the wall, in view of the poorhouse, and taking his rust in the oxsight of Iren, under all the auspices, amid the rattle of hailstorms, kalospintheochromatokreening, with her ivyclad hood, and gripping an old pair of curling tongs, belonging to Mrs Duna O’Cannell, to blow his brains with, till the heights of Newhigherland heard the Bristolshut, with his can of tea and a purse of alfred cakes from Anne Lynch and two cuts of Shackleton’s brown loaf and dilisk, waiting for the end to come. Gordon Heighland, when you think of it! The merthe dirther! Ah ho! It was too bad entirely! All devoured by active parlourmen, laudabiliter, of woman squelch and all on account of the smell of Shakeletin and Scratchman and his mouth watering, acid and alkolic, signs on the salt, and so now pass the loaf for Christ’ sake, Amen. And so. And all.
Matt. And loaf. So that was the end. And it can’t be helped. Ah, God be good to us! Poor Andrew Martin Cunningham! Take breath! Ay, ay!
And still and all at that time of the dynast days of old konning Soteric Sulkinbored and Bargomuster Bart, when they struck coil and shock haunts, in old Hungerford-on-Mudway, where first I met thee oldpoetryck flied from may, and the Finnan haddies and the Noal Sharks and the muckstails turtles like an acoustic pottish and the griesouper bullyum and how he poled him up his boccat of vuotar and got big buzz for his name in the airweek’s honours from home, colonies and empire, they were always with assisting grace, thinking (up) and not forgetting about shims and shawls week, in auld lang syne (up) their four hosenbands, that were four (up) beautful sister misters, now happily married, unto old Gallstonebelly, and there they were always counting and contradicting every night ’tis early the lovely mother-of-periwinkle buttons, according to the lapper part of their anachronism (up one up two up one up four) and after that there now she was, in the end, the deary, soldpowder and all, the beautfour sisters, and that was her mudhen republican name, right enough, from alum and oves, and they used to be getting up from under, in their tape and straw garlands, with all the worries awake in their hair, at the kookaburra bell ringring all wrong inside of them (come in, come on, you lazy loafs!) all inside their poor old Shandon bellbox (come out to hell, you lousy louts!) so frightened, for the dthclangavore, like knockneeghs bumpsed by the fisterman’s straights (ys! ys!), at all hours every night, on their mistletoes, the four old oldsters, to see was the Transton Postscript come, with their oerkussens under their armsaxters, all puddled and mythified, the way the wind wheeled the schooler round, when nobody wouldn’t even let them rusten, from playing their gastspiels, crossing their sleep by the shocking silence, when they were in dreams of yore, standing behind the door, or leaning out of the chair, or kneeling under the sofacover and sitting on the souptureen, and then getting into their way something barbarous, changing the one wet underdown convibrational bed or they used to slumper under, when hope was there no more, and putting on their half a hat and falling over all synopticals and a panegyric and repeating themselves, like svvollovving stickers, like the time they were dadging the talkeycook that chased them, look all round the stool, walk everywhere for a jool, to break fyre toy all the rancers, to collect all and bits of brown, the rathure’s evelopmen in spirits of time in all fathom of space and slooping around in a bawneen and bath slippers and go away to Oldpatrick and see a doctor Walker. And after that so glad they had their night tentacles and there they used to be, flapping and cycling, and a dooing a doonloop, panementically, around the waists of the ships, in the wake of their good old Foehn again, as tyred as they were, at their windswidths in the wavelengths, the clipperbuilt and the five fourmasters and Lally of the cleftoft bagoderts and Roe of the fair cheats, exchanging fleas, from host to host, with arthroposophia, and he selling him before he forgot, issle issle, after having prealably dephlegmatised his gutterful of throatyfrogs, with a lungible fong in his suckmouth ear, while the dear invoked to the coolun dare by a palpebrows lift left no doubt in his minder, till he was instant and he was trustin, sister soul in brother hand, the subjects being their passion grand, that one fresh from the cow about Eithne Meithne married a mailde and that one too from Engrvakar saga abooth a gooth a gev a gotheny egg all out of his oldy head and the parkside pranks of quality queens, katte efter kinne, for Earl Hoovedsoon’s choosing and Huber and Harman orhowwhen theeuponthus (chchch!) eysolt of binnoculises memostinmust egotum sabcunsciously senses upers the deprofundity of multimathematical immaterialities wherebejubers in the pancosmic urge the allimmanence of that which Itself is Itself Alone (hear, O hear, Caller Errin!) exteriorises on this ourherenow plane in disunited solod, likeward and gushious bodies with (science, say!) perilwhitened passionpanting pugnoplangent intuitions of reunited selfdom (murky whey, abstrews adim!) in the higherdiminsional selfless Allself, theemeeng Narsty meetheeng Idoless, and telling Jolly MacGolly, dear mester John, the belated dishevelled, hacking away at a parchment pie, and all the other analist, the steamships and the women-o’-war, and playing melia marmels in ocean ladies’ foursome, ovenfor, nedenfor, dinkety, duk, downalupping (how long tandem!) like a foreretyred schoonmasters, and their pair of green eyes and peering in, so they say, like the narcolepts on the lakes of Coma, through the steamy windows, into the honeymoon cabins, on board the big steamadories, made by Fumadory, and the saloon ladies’ madorn toilet chambers lined over prawn silk and rub off the salty catara off a windows and, hee hee, listening, qua committee, the poor old quakers, oben the dure, to see all the hunnishmooners and the firstclass ladies, serious me, a lass spring as you fancy, and sheets far from the lad, courting in blankets, enfamillias, and, shee shee, all improper, in a lovely mourning toilet, for the rosecrumpler, the thrilldriver, the sighinspirer, with that olive throb in his nude neck, and, swayin and thayin, thanks ever so much for the tiny quote, which sought of maid everythingling again so very much more delightafellay, and the perfidly suite of her, bootyfilly yours, under all their familarities, by preventing grace, forgetting to say their grace before chambadory, before going to boat with the verges of the chaptel of the opering of the month of Nema-Knatut, so pass the poghue for grace sake, Amen. And all, hee hee hee, quaking, so fright, and, shee shee, shaking. Aching. Ay, ay.
For it was then a pretty thing happened of pure diversion mayhap, when her flattering hend, at the justright moment, like perchance some cook of corage might clip the lad on a poot of porage, handshut his duckhouse, the vivid girl, deaf with love (ah sure, you know her, our angel being, one of romance’s fadeless wonderwomen, and, sure now, we all know you dote on her even unto date!), with a queeleetlecree of joysis crisis she renulited their disunited, with ripy lepes to ropy lopes (the dear o’dears!) and the golden importunity of aloofer’s leavetime, when, as quick as greased pigskin, Amoricas Champias, with one aragan throast, druve the massive of virilvigtoury flshpst the bothlines of forwards (Eburnea’s down, boys!) rightjingbangshot into the goal of her gullet.
Alris!
And now, upright and add them! And plays be h