A verytableland of bleakbardfields! Under his seven wrothschields lies one, Lumproar. His glav toside him. Skud ontorsed. Our pigeons pair are flewn for northcliffs. The three of crows have flapped it southenly, kraaking of de baccle to the kvarters of that sky whence triboos answer; Wail, ’tis wel ! She niver comes out when Thon’s on shower or when Thon’s flash with his Nixy girls or when Thon’s blowing toom-cracks down the gaels of Thon. No nubo no! Neblas on you liv! Her would be too moochy afreet. Of Burymeleg and Bindme-rol ingeyes and al the deed in the woe. Fe fo fom! She jist does hopes til byes wil be byes. Here, and it goes on to appear now, she comes, a peacefugle, a parody’s bird, a peri potmother, a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a flick flask fleckflinging its pixylighting pacts’

huemeramybows, picking here, pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy. But it’s the armitides toonigh, militopucos, and toomourn we wish for a muddy kissmans to the minutia workers and there’s to be a gorgeups truce for happinest childher everwere. Come nebo me and suso sing the day we sal ybright. She’s burrowed the coacher’s headlight the better to pry (who goes cute goes siocur and shoos aroun) and al spoiled goods go into her nabsack: curtrages and rattlin buttins, nappy spattees and flasks of al nations, clavicures and scampulars, maps, keys and woodpiles of haypennies and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston nightgarters and masses of shoesets and nickel y nacks and foder al micheal and a lugly parson of cates and howitzer muchears and midgers and maggets, il s and el s with loffs of toffs and pleures of bel s and the last sigh that come fro the hart (bucklied!) and the fairest sin the sunsaw (that’s cearc!). With Kiss. Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross. Undo lives ‘end. Slain. How bootiful and how truetowife of her, when strengly fore-bidden, to steal our historic presents from the past postpropheti— cals so as to wil make us al lordy heirs and ladymaidesses of a pretty nice kettle of fruit. She is livving in our midst of debt and laffing through al plores for us (her birth is uncontrol able), with a naperon for her mask and her sabboes kickin arias (so sair! so sol y!) if yous ask me and I saack you. Hou! Hou!

Gricks may rise and Troysirs fal (there being two sights for file:///E|/Books/Top%20100%20Novels%20list/Finnegans%20Wake/complete.html[9/12/2007

12:21:58 PM]

Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce

ever a picture) for in the byways of high improvidence that’s what makes life-work leaving and the world’s a cel for citters to cit in. Let young wimman run away with the story and let young min talk smooth behind the butteler’s back. She knows her knight’s duty while Luntum sleeps. Did ye save any tin? says he. Did I what? with a grin says she. And we al like a marriedann because she is mer-cenary. Though the length of the land lies under liquidation (floote!) and there’s nare a hairbrow nor an eyebush on this glau-brous phace of Herrschuft Whatarwelter she’l loan a vesta and hire some peat and sarch the shores her cockles to heat and she’l do al a turfwoman can to piff the business on. Paff. To puff the blaziness on. Poffpoff.