Finnegans Wake - James Joyce [235]
type, R.C. Toc H, nothing but claret, not in the studbook by a long stortch, with a toothbrush moustache and jawcrockeries, alias grinner through collar, and of course no beard, meat and colmans suit, with tar’s baggy slacks, obviously too roomy for him and springside boots, washing tie, Father Mathew’s bridge pin, sipping some Wheatley’s at Rhoss’s on a barstool, with some pubpal of the Olaf Stout kidney, always trying to poorchase mov-ables by hebdomedaries for to putt in a new house to loot, cigarette in his holder, with a good job and pension in Buinness’s, what about our trip to Normandy style conversation, with an oc-casional they say that filmacoulored featured at the Mothrapurl skrene about Michan and his lost angeleens is corkyshows do morvaloos, blueygreen eyes a bit scummy developing a series of angry boils with certain references to the Deity, seeking relief in alcohol and so on, general omnibus character with a dash of railwaybrain, stale cough and an occasional twinge of claudication, having his favourite fecundclass family of upwards of a decade, both harefoot and loadenbrogued, to boot and buy off, Imean.
So let it be a knuckle or an elbow, I hereby admonish you! It may all be topping fun but it’s tip and run and touch and flow for every whack when Marie stopes Phil fluther’s game to go. Arms arome, side aside, face into the wall. To the tumble of the toss tot the trouble of the swaddled, O. And lest there be no misconception, Miss Forstowelsy, over who to fasten the plight-forlifer on (threehundred and thirty three to one on Rue the Day!) when the nice little smellar squalls in his crydle what the dirty old bigger’ll be squealing through his coughin you better keep in the gunbarrel straight around vokseburst as I recommence you to (you gypseyeyed baggage, do you hear what I’m praying?) or, Gash, without butthering my head to assortail whose stroke forced or which struck backly, I’ll be all over you myselx hori-zontally, as the straphanger said, for knocking me with my name and yourself and your babybag down at such a greet sacrifice with a rap of the gavel to a third price cowhandler as cheap as the nig-gerd’s dirt (for sale!) or I’ll smack your fruitflavoured jujube lips well for you, so I will well for you, if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your pigeonhouse. The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime. I’ll have it in for you. I’ll teach you bed minners, tip for tap, to be playing your oddaugghter tangotricks with micky dazzlers if I find corsehairs on your river-frock and the squirmside file:///E|/Books/Top%20100%20Novels%20list/Finnegans%20Wake/complete.html[9/12/2007 12:21:58 PM]
Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce
of your burberry lupitally covered with chiffchaff and shavings. Up Rosemiry Lean and Potanasty Rod you wos, wos you? I overstand you, you understand. Asking Annybettyelsas to carry your parcels and you dreaming of net glory. You’ll ging naemaer wi’Wolf the Ganger. Cutting chapel, were you? and had dates with slickers in particular hotels, had we? Lonely went to play your mother, isod? You was wiffriends? Hay, dot’s a doll yarn! Mark mean then! I’ll homeseek you, Luperca as sure as there’s a palatine in Limerick and in striped conference here’s how. Nerbu de Bios! If you twos goes to walk upon the railway, Gard, and I’ll goad to beat behind the bush! See to it! Snip! It’s up to you. I’ll be hatsnatching harrier to hiding huries hinder hedge. Snap ! I’ll tear up your limpshades and lock all your trotters in the closet, I will, and cut your silk-skin into garters. You’ll give up your ask unbrodhel ways when I make you reely smart. So skelp your budd and kiss the hurt! I’ll have plenary sadisfaction, plays the bishop, for your partial’s indulgences if your my rodeo gell. Fair man and foul suggestion. There’s a lot of lecit pleasure coming bangslanging your way, Miss Pinpernelly satin. For