Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2018

The Ondt, that true and perfect host, a spiter aspinne, was  

making the greatest spass a body could with his queens lace-

swinging for he was spizzing all over him like thingsumanything

in formicolation, boundlessly blissfilled in an allallahbath of

houris. He was ameising himself hugely at crabround and mary-

pose, chasing Floh out of charity and tickling Luse, I hope too, 

and tackling Bienie, faith, as well, and jucking Vespatilla jukely

by the chimiche. Never did Dorsan from Dunshanagan dance it 

with more devilry! The veripatetic imago of the impossible

Gracehoper on his odderkop in the myre, after his thrice ephe- 

meral journeeys, sans mantis ne shooshooe, featherweighed 

animule, actually and presumptuably sinctifying chronic's de-

spair, was sufficiently and probably coocoo much for his chorous

of gravitates. Let him be Artalone the Weeps with his parisites

peeling off him I'll be Highfee the Crackasider. Flunkey Footle

furloughed foul, writing off his phoney, but Conte Carme makes

the melody that mints the money. Ad majorem l.s.d.! Divi gloriam.

A darkener of the threshold. Haru? Orimis, capsizer of his ant-

boat, sekketh rede from Evil-it-is, lord of loaves in Amongded.

Be it! So be it! Thou-who-thou-art, the fleet-as-spindhrift,

impfang thee of mine wideheight. Haru!

--Finnegans Wake

Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2018

…who could see at one

blick a saumon taken with a lance, hunters pursuing a doe, a

swallowship in full sail, a whyterobe lifting a host; faced flappery

like old King Cnut and turned his back like Cincinnatus; is a

farfar and morefar and a hoar father Nakedbucker in villas old as

new; squats aquart and cracks aquaint when it's flaggin in town

and on haven; blows whiskery around his summit but stehts

stout upon his footles; stutters fore he falls and goes mad entirely 

when he's waked; is Timb to the pearly mom and Tomb to the

mourning night; and an he had the best bunbaked bricks in bould 

Babylon for his pitching plays he'd be lost for the want of his 

wan wubblin wall?

    Answer: Finn MacCool! 

--Finnegans Wake

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2018

    Poor Isa sits a glooming so gleaming in the gloaming; the tin- 

celles a touch tarnished wind no lovelinoise awound her swan's.

Hey, lass! Woefear gleam she so glooming, this pooripathete I

solde? Her beauman's gone of a cool. Be good enough to symper-

ise. If he's at anywhere she's therefor to join him. If it's to no-

where she's going to too. Buf if he'll go to be a son to France's

she'll stay daughter of Clare. Bring tansy, throw myrtle, strew

rue, rue, rue. She is fading out like Journee's clothes so you can't

see her now. Still we know how Day the Dyer works, in dims

and deeps and dusks and darks. And among the shades that Eve's

now wearing she'll meet anew fiancy, tryst and trow. Mammy

was, Mimmy is, Minuscoline's to be. In the Dee dips a dame and

the dame desires a demselle but the demselle dresses dolly and

the dolly does a dulcydamble. The same renew. For though

she's unmerried she'll after truss up and help that hussyband how

to hop. Hip it and trip it and chirrub and sing. Lord Chuffy's sky  

sheraph and Glugg's got to swing.

    So and so, toe by toe, to and fro they go round, for they are the   

ingelles, scattering nods as girls who may, for they are an angel's  

garland.

--Finnegans Wake

Third Day of the Writing of the Book of the Law

"How to Pull a Good Horus-coup even when the Oldsire is Dead to the World"

"'tis no timbertar she'll have then in her armsbrace to doll the dallydandle, our fiery quean upon the night of the things of the night of the making to stand up the double tet of the oversear of the seize who cometh from the mighty deep and on the night of making Horuse to criumph over his enemy"

"Conk a dook he'll do. Svap."

--Finnegans Wake

Second Day of the Writing of the Book of the Law

"Ainsoph, this upright one, with that noughty besighed him zeroine. To see in his horrorscup he is mehrkurios than saltz of sulphur. Terror of the noonstruck by day, cryptogam of each nightly bridable. But, to speak broken heaventalk, is he? Who is he? Whose is he? Why is he? Howmuch is he? Which is he? When is he? Where is he? How is he? And what the decans is there about him anyway, the decemt man? Easy, calm your haste!"

"Creator he has created for his creatured ones a creation. White monothoid? Red theatrocrat? And all the pinkprophets cohalething? [...] he is ee and no counter he who will be ultimately respunchable for the hubbub caused in Edenborough."

--Finnegans Wake

First Day of the Writing of the Book of the Law

"In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!

Her untitled mamafesta memorializing the Mosthighest has gone by many names at disjointed times."

"How bootiful and truetowife of her, when strangely forebidden, to steal our historic presents from the past postpropheticals so as to will make us all lordy heirs and ladymaidesses of a pretty nice kettle of fruit. She is livving in our midst of debt and laffing through all plores for us (her birth is uncontrollable) [...] she'll loan a vesta and hire some peat and sarch the shores her cockles to heat and she'll do all a turfwoman can to piff the business on. Paff. To puff the blaziness on. Poffpoff."

--Finnegans Wake

Happy Bloomsday, 2011 (But really: Thoughts on Finnegans Wake)

“Awake from dream, the truth is known: awake from waking, the Truth is – The Unkown.”

            --Aleister Crowley, The Book of Lies

Today is Bloomsday, the day celebrated by literary enthusiasts around the world as the day on which James Joyce’s magnificent novel Ulysses takes place. All throughout Dublin on this day, each chapter of the novel is publicly read at its appropriate time and place, as Joyce assigned each chapter a location and time (except for the final chapter, which occurs after midnight and, metaphorically, outside of time altogether).

Much can be said about the brilliance of Ulysses, but my thoughts on this fine Bloomsday turn mainly to Finnegans Wake, Joyce’s final masterpiece. This novel – and “novel,” in its original sense of “new” is the right word here – is less a traditional novel with a plot than it is a huge, 628-page language experiment.