Finnegans Wake - James Joyce [28]
The house of Atreox is fallen indeedust (Ilyam, Ilyum! Mae-romor Mournomates !) averging on blight like the mundibanks of Fennyana, but deeds bounds going arise again. Life, he himself said once, (his biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon, if yet not, after) is a wake, livit or krikit, and on the bunk of our bread-winning lies the cropse of our seedfather, a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn. The scene, refreshed, reroused, was never to be forgotten, the hen and crusader ever-intermutuomergent, for later in the century one of that puisne band of factferreters, (then an excivily (out of the custom huts) (retired), (hurt), under the sixtyfives act) in a dressy black modern style and wewere shiny tan burlingtons, (tam, homd and dicky, quopriquos and peajagd) rehearsed it, pippa pointing, with a dignified (copied) bow to a namecousin of the late archdeacon F. X. Preserved Coppinger (a hot fellow in his night, may the mouther of guard have mastic on him!) in a pullwoman of our first transhibernian with one still sadder circumstance which is a dirkandurk heartskewerer if ever to bring bouncing brimmers from marbled eyes. Cycloptically through the windowdisks and with eddying awes the round eyes of the rundreisers, back to back, buck to bucker, on their airish chaunting car, beheld with intouristing anterestedness the clad pursue the bare, the bare the green, the green the frore, the frore the cladagain, as their convoy wheeled encirculingly abound the gigantig’s lifetree, our fire-leaved loverlucky blomsterbohm, phoenix in our woodlessness, haughty, cacuminal, erubescent (repetition!) whose roots they be asches with lustres of peins. For as often as the Archicadenus, pleacing aside his Irish Field and craving their auriculars to re-cepticle particulars before they got the bump at Castlebar (mat and far!) spoke of it by request all, hearing in this new reading of the file:///E|/Books/Top%20100%20Novels%20list/Finnegans%20Wake/complete.html[9/12/2007 12:21:58 PM]
Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce
part whereby, because of Dyas in his machina, the new garrickson’s grimacing grimaldism hypostasised by substintuation the axiomatic orerotundity of that once grand old elrington bawl, the copycus’s description of that fellowcommuter’s play upon countenants, could simply imagine themselves in their bo-som’s inmost core, as pro tem locums, timesported acorss the yawn— ing (abyss), as once they were seasiders, listening to the cockshy— shooter’s evensong evocation of the doomed but always ventri— loquent Agitator, (nonot more plangorpound the billows o’er Thounawahallya Reef!) silkhouatted, a whallrhosmightiadd, a-ginsst the dusk of skumring, (would that fane be Saint Muezzin’s calling — holy places ! — and this fez brimless as brow of faithful toucher of the ground, did wish it were — blessed be the bones ! —the ghazi, power of his sword.) his manslayer’s gunwielder protended towards that overgrown leadpencil which was soon, monumentally at least, to rise as Molyvdokondylon to, to be, to be his mausoleum (O’dan stod tillsteyne at meisies aye skould show pon) while olover his exculpatory features, as Roland rung, a wee dropeen of grief about to sillonise his jouejous, the ghost of resignation diffused a spectral appealingness, as a young man’s drown o’er the fate of his waters may gloat,