Wednesday, May 29, 2013

It may not or maybe a no concern of the Guinnesses but.

"Whyfor had they, it is Hiberio–Miletians and Argloe–Noremen, donated him, birth of an otion that was breeder to sweatoslaves, as mysterbolder, forced in their waste, and as for Ibdullin what of Himana, that their tolvtubular high fidelity daildialler, as modern as tomorrow afternoon and in appearance up to the minute (hearing that anybody in that ruad duchy of Wollinstown schemed to halve the wrong type of date) equipped with supershielded um-brella antennas for distance getting and connected by the magnetic links of a Bellini–Tosti coupling system with a vitaltone speaker, capable of capturing skybuddies, harbour craft emittences, key clickings, vaticum cleaners, due to woman formed mobile or man made static and bawling the whowle hamshack and wobble down in an eliminium sounds pound so as to serve him up a mele-goturny marygoraumd, eclectrically filtered for allirish earths and ohmes. This harmonic condenser enginium (the Mole) they caused to be worked from a magazine battery (called the Mimmim Bimbim patent number 1132, Thorpetersen and Synds, Joms-borg, Selverbergen) which was tuned up by twintriodic singul — valvulous pipelines (lackslipping along as if their liffing deepunded on it) with a howdrocephalous enlargement, a gain control of circumcentric megacycles ranging from the antidulibnium onto the serostaatarean. They finally caused, or most leastways brung it about somehows(that)the pip of the lin(to)pinnatrate inthro an auricular forfickle (known as the Vakingfar sleeper, mono-fractured by Piaras UaRhuamhaighaudhlug, tympan founder Eustache Straight, Bauliaughacleeagh) a meatous conch culpable of cunduncing Naul and Santry and the forty routs of Corthy with the concertiums of the Brythyc Symmonds Guild, the Ropemakers Reunion, the Variagated Peddlars Barringoy Bni-brthirhd, the Askold Olegsonder Crowds of the O’Keef–Rosses ant Rhosso–Keevers of Zastwoking, the Ligue of Yahooth o.s.v. so as to lall the bygone dozed they arborised around, up his corpular fruent and down his reuctionary buckling, hummer, enville and cstorrap (the man of Iren, thore’s Curlymane for you!), lill the lubberendth of his otological life."

I think it's about a short-wave radio set in Earwicker's pub. I think. It's great stuff, whatever it is. This entire chapter, which I know does take place in HCE's pub, is wonderful and strange and opaque and translucent. There's a marriage proposal and a wedding which might be that of HCE and ALP, but then again it might not. The book is a dream transcribed in all the languages of Europe, containing the biblical history of mankind and the history of Ireland and the history of the Earwicker family and lots and lots else. Who knows how much else?

This is a book that lulls you to a waking sleep and teaches you anew how to dream. I read Finnegans Wake on the bus, commuting to and from work, and I often feel like I'm reading a book writ in a foreign language that I very nearly but do not quite speak, and the sounds of Joyce's novel become the sounds of normal communication after a while, the way speech is supposed to be spoken, and then someone--another rider on the bus--says something and the words coming out of that rider's mouth are all wrong, all flat and empty and unpoetical and I am irritated at having been pulled from the dream of IrelandthegardenofEdenthepubonthehilltheshiningseathecastleElsinoreandeverywhereelse. It's a beautiful work of art, this book, this book I read at a distance of absolute and attempted full faithful misunderstanding.

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