“…the Strangest Dream that was Halfdreamt.”
FINNEGANS WAKE by James Joyce
CONTINUATION (FROM HERE) OF MY GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEW IN THE COMMENT STREAM BELOW AS AND WHEN I READ THIS BOOK:-
“… never to ate selleries and never to add soulleries and never to ant sulleries and never to aid silleries…”
“And after meath the dulwich. We insurrectioned and, be the procuratress of the hory synnotts, before he could tell pullyirragun to parrylewis, I shuttm, missus, like a wide sleever! Hump to dump! Tumbleheaver!”
–> Page 358
“Chaichairs. It is that something, awe, aurorbean in that fellow, hamid and damid, (did he have but Hugh de Brassey’s beardslie his wear mine of ancient guised) which comequeers this anywhat perssian which we, owe, realisinus with purups a dard of pene. There is among others pleasons whom I love and which are favourests to mind, one which I have pushed my finker in for the movement and, but for my sealring is none to hand I swear, she is highly catatheristic and there is another which I have fombly fongered freequuntly and, when my signet is on sign again I swear, she is deeply sangnificant. Culpo de Dido! Ars we say in the classies. Kunstful, we others said.”
–> Page 368
Keep backwards, please, because there was no good to gundy running up again. Guns. And it was written up in big capital. Guns. Saying never underrupt greatgrandgosterfosters! Guns. And whatever one did they said, the fourlings, that on no acounts you were not to. Guns.
Not to pad them behaunt in the fear. Not to go, tonnerwatter, and bungley well chute the rising gianerant. Not to wandly be woking around jerumsalemdo at small hours about the murketplots, smelling okey boney, this little figgy and arraky belloky this little pink into porker but, porkodirto, to let the gentlemen pedestarolies out of the Monabella culculpuration live his own left leave, cullebuone, by perperusual of the petpubblicities without inwoking his also’s between (sic) the arraky bone and (suc) the okey bellock.”
The above ‘sic’ is sic.
I continue to feel the beguns, to feel impelled to wake the spells of the book’s text word for word, going with its meaning or against its meaning, going with its meaninglessness or against its meaninglessness, refining The Old Nonsense by an obsessed drive to suc each word, as if I want to become a different person ‘a long the riverrun, past’.
–> Page 380
” Then old Hunphydunphyville’ll be blasted to bumboards by the youthful herald who would once you were. He’d be our chosen one in the matter of Brittas more than anarthur. But we’ll wake and see. The wholes poors riches of ours hundreds of manhoods and womhoods. Two cents, two mills and two myrds. And it’s all us rangers you’ll be facing in the box before the twelfth correctional. Like one man, gell. Between all the Misses Mountsackvilles in their halfmoon haemicycles, gasping to giddies to dye for the shame. Just hold hard till the one we leapt out gets her yearing! Hired in cameras, extra! With His Honour Surpacker on the binge. So yelp your guilt and kitz the buck. You’ll have loss of fame from Wimmegame’s fake. Forwards! One bully son growing the goff and his twinger read out by the Nazi Priers. You fought as how they’d never woxen up, did you, crucket? It will wecker your earse, that it will! “
Issued today as a new general blog post:
A few years ago, I wrote this blog post about my recurring iritis (a serious, relatively rare condition) which has been a long-term curse upon my life ever since my left eye had its first bout of it in 1973.
Quite by chance, while real-time reviewing here a story about a giant monocle from Rhys Hughes’ new book ‘Flash in the Pantheon’ (Gloomy Seahorse Press), I discovered today, by a surprising google search, that James Joyce was similarly cursed.
I happen also to be concurrently real-time reviewing Joyce’s ‘Finnegans Wake’ here.
Cf: “The Irritated Text” of JJ now reminds me of the explicit ‘vexed texture of text’ in my novella WEIRDTONGUE and its Narrative Hospital.
–> page 385
Is this just one sentence below? I feel as drunk as HCE, and now to the TristandIsolde section and leaving behind the character named after my old friend Rodney O’Connor. This is the most remarkable book of irritated text or vexed texture of text you are ever likely to experience. The more you steep yourself in it, the more it slopes friendly towards you, with revealed meaning that it ekes out exponentially. No longer blinding you with its art. Like some blind others with science. The reading eye either captures the devil or the devil captures the reading eye?
“And so there they were, with their palms in their hands, like the pulchrum’s proculs, spraining their ears, luistening and listening to the oceans of kissening, with their eyes glistening, all the four, when he was kiddling and cuddling and bunnyhugging scrumptious his colleen bawn and dinkum belle, an oscar sister, on the fifteen inch loveseat, behind the chieftaness stewardesses cubin, the hero, of Gaelic champion, the onliest one of her choice, her bleaueyedeal of a girl’s friend, neither bigugly nor smallnice, meaning pretty much everything to her then, with his sinister dexterity, light and rufthandling, vicemversem her ragbags et assaucyetiams, fore and aft, on and offsides, the brueburnt sexfutter, handson and huntsem, that was palpably wrong and bulbubly improper, and cuddling her and kissing her, tootyfay charmaunt, in her ensemble of maidenna blue, with an overdress of net, tickled with goldies, Isolamisola, and whisping and lisping her about Trisolanisans, how one was whips for one was two and two was lips for one was three, and dissimulating themself, with his poghue like Arrah-na-poghue, the dear dear annual, they all four remembored who made the world and how they used to be at that time in the vulgar ear cuddling and kiddling her, after an oyster supper in Cullen’s bam, from under her mistlethrush and kissing and listening, in the good old bygone days of Dion Boucicault, the elder, in Arrah-na-pogue, in the otherworld of the passing of the key of Twotongue Common, with Nush, the carrier of the word, and with Mesh, the cutter of the reed, in one of the farback, pitchblack centuries when who made the world, when they knew O’Clery, the man on the door, when they were all four collegians on the nod, neer the Nodderlands Nurskery, whiteboys and oakboys, peep of tim boys and piping tom boys, raising hell while the sin was shining, with their slates and satchels, playing Florian’s fables and communic suctions and vellicar frictions with mixum members, in the Queen’s Ultonian colleges, along with another fellow, a prime number, Totius Quotius, and paying a pot of tribluts to Boris O’Brien, the buttler of Clumpthump, two looves, two turnovers plus (one) crown, to see the mad dane ating his vitals.”
This review will now continue in the comment stream HERE
The parts of this review linked:
https://expenscusil.wordpress.com/747-2/ (this one)
Anyone who simply confirms that they have read and enjoyed the ‘Finnegans Wake’ real-time review from beginning to end will, upon request to me, receive a free signed copy of one of ‘Weirdtongue’, ‘Agra Aska’ or ‘Real-Time Reviews Vol. 1′, until further notice or current supplies of these books end.
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