Joyce/ Finnegan's Wake

Today is the birthday of James Joyce (1882-1941), author of the greatest work of English literature of the 20th century. As far as I’m concerned, writing like this is the only reason to bother reading at all!

riverun, past Eve and   Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend

of bay, brings us by a   commodius vicus of recirculation back to

Howth Castle and   Environs.

Sir Tristram, violer   d’amores, fr’over the short sea, had passen-

core rearrived from   North Armorica on this side the scraggy

isthmus of Europe   Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor

had topsawyer’s rocks   by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse

to Laurens County’s   gorgios while they went doublin their mumper

all the time: nor   avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to

tauftauf   thuartpeatrick: not yet, though venissoon after, had a

kidscad buttended a   bland old isaac: not yet, though all’s fair in

vanessy, were sosie   sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a

peck of pa’s malt had   Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory

end to the regginbrow   was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

The fall   (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-

ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-

nuk!) of a once   wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later

on life down through   all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the

offwall entailed at   such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan,

erse solid man, that   the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends

an unquiring one well   to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes:

and their   upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park

where oranges have   been laid to rust upon the green since dev-

linsfirst loved livvy… Etc, etc etc

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