“Till tree from tree, tree among trees tree over tree become stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever.”
FINNEGANS WAKE by James Joyce
CONTINUATION (FROM HERE) OF MY GESTALT REAL-TIME REVIEW IN THE COMMENT STREAM BELOW AS AND WHEN I READ THIS BOOK:-
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–> Page 274
“…the phoenix, his pyre, is still flaming away with trueprattight spirit: the wren his nest is niedelig as the turrises of the sabines are televisible.”
“Lumpsome is who lumpsum pays.”
“…where blows a nemone at each blink of windstill…”
Compared today to the rest of blowicked UK, the aura in Midwich has been john wind-dumb lewis.
–> Page 279
” And rivers burst out…”
“…the pink of punk perfection as photography in mud.”
“Even the recollection of willow fronds is a spellbinder…”
“…and the face in the treebark feigns afear.”
I feel that every reader of this book will find something contemporaneously significant to them whenever they read it.
Meanwhile, as I have already dubbed this book PerVerse literature and I am an equally feisty PerVerse reviewer (I hope), I have decided to quote the whole of possibly the longest footnote in this section, as in the book it is printed in very small print, and so for ease of my future eyesight (I was told today that my eyes are fast developing cataracts) here it is BIGGER:
“Come, smooth of my slate, to the beat of my blosh! With all these gelded ewes jilting about and the thrills and ills of laylock blossoms three’s so much more plants than chants for cecilies that I was thinking fairly killing times of putting an end to myself and my malody, when I remembered all your pupilteacher’s erringnesses in perfection class. You sh’undn’t write you can’t if you w’udn’t pass for undevelopmented. This is the propper way to say that, Sr. If it’s me chews to swallow all you saidn’t you can eat my words for it as sure as there’s a key in my kiss. Quick erit faciofacey. When we will conjugate together toloseher tomaster tomiss while morrow fans amare hour, verbe de vie and verve to vie, with love ay loved have I on my back spine and does for ever. Your are me severe? Then rue. My intended, Jr, who I’m throne away on, (here he inst, my lifstack, a newfolly likon) when I slip through my pettigo I’ll get my decree and take seidens when I’m not ploughed first by some Rolando the Lasso, and flaunt on the flimsyfilmsies for to grig my collage juniorees who, though they flush fuchsia, are they octette and virginity in my shade but always my figurants. They may be yea of my year but they’re nary nay of my day. Wait till spring has sprung in spickness and prigs beg in to pry they’ll be plentyprime of housepets to pimp and pamper my. Impending marriage. Nature tells everybody about but I learned all the runes of the gamest game ever from my old nourse Asa. A most adventuring trot is her and she vicking well knowed them all heartswise and fourwords. How Olive d’Oyly and Winnie Carr, bejupers, they reized the dressing of a salandmon and how a peeper costs and a salt sailor med a mustied poet atwaimen. It most have bean Mad Mullans planted him. Bina de Bisse and Trestrine von Terrefin. Sago sound, rite go round, kill kackle, kook kettle and (remember all should I forget to) bolt the thor. Auden. Wasn’t it just divining that dog of a dag in Skokholme as I sat astrid uppum their Drewitt’s altar, as cooledas as culcumbre, slapping my straights till the sloping ruins, postillion, postallion, a swinge a swank, with you offering me clouts of illscents and them horners stagstruck on the leasward! Don’t be of red, you blanching mench! This isabella I’m on knows the ruelles of the rut and she don’t fear andy mandy. So sing loud, sweet cheeriot, like anegreon in heaven! The good fother with the twingling in his eye will always have cakes in his pocket to bethroat us with for our allmichael good. Amum. Amum. And Amum again. For tough troth is stronger than fortuitous fiction and it’s the surplice money, oh my young friend and ah me sweet creature, what buys the bed while wits borrows the clothes.”
–> Page 308
“Translout that gaswind into turfish, Teague, that’s a good bog and you, Thady, poliss it off, there’s nateswipe, on to your blottom pulper.”
“Will you walk into my wavetrap? said the spiter to the shy.”
“…in their dolightful Sexsex home, Somehow-at-Sea…”
“…till its nether nadir is vortically where (allow me aright to two cute winkles) its naval’s napex will have to beandbe.”
“…the no niggard spot of her safety vulve…”
“I’ve read your tunc’s dismissage.”
“…to nullum in the endth:”
“Quoint a quincidence!”
And I do. This section of the book is the most rarefiedly, rarefinely staggering so far. It is as if the text book I dreamt of written by Midwich children has degenerated as all children do – even alien ones or alien inhabited ones – into sexy filth, where their parents – Adam and Eve, HCE and ALP? – are transfigured by Euclidean geometry into the effective graffiti of human generative organs amid the footnotes and marginalia of the text. Or is it the Non-Euclidean geometry tapped by HP Lovecraft (love craft), a new captive with his own captcha codes, with the unmentionables of Cthulhu, Yog Sothoth, R’lyeh or Azathoth? HPL ACE.
“…the Strangest Dream that was Halfdreamt.”
And on that note, I see that I am almost exactly halfway through this book on page 307.
I will now have a sabbaticess from this review for a few days.
And while I have been having this sabbaticess, the serial storms of our perpetual Autumn have tailed off … for a time.
–> Page 324
Wind from the nordth. Warmer towards muffinbell, Lull.
As our revelant Colunnfiller predicted in last mount’s chattiry sermon, the allexpected depression over Schiumdinebbia, a bygger muster of veirying precipitation and haralded by faugh sicknells, (hear kokkenhovens ekstras!) and umwalloped in an unusuable suite of clouds, having filthered through the middelhav of the same gorgers’ kennel on its wage wealthwards and incursioned a sotten retch of low pleasure, missed in some parts but with lucal drizzles, the outlook for tomarry (Streamstress Mandig) beamed brider, his ability good.”
–> Page 343
“I grandthinked after his obras after another time about the itch in his egondoom he was legging boldylugged from some pulversporochs and lyoking for a stooleazy for to nemesisplotsch allafranka and for to salubrate himself with an ultradungs heavenly mass at his base by a suprime pompship chorams the perished popes, the reverend and allaverred cromlecks, and when I heard his lewdbrogue reciping his cheap cheateary gospeds to sintry and santry and sentry and suntry I thought he was only haftara having afterhis brokeforths but be the homely Churopodvas I no sooner seen aghist of his frighteousness then I was bibbering with vear a few versets off fooling for fjorg for my fifth foot. Of manifest ’tis obedience and the. Flute!”
The full stop before ‘Flute!’ is sic.
I don’t know why that passage was picked on among many others in these latter pages; I am continually getting a good buzz in my head, my brain, my mind, whatever you’d like to call it, as I read FW without really grasping its plot. It’s like atonal music (Webern, Xenakis, Barraques, Finnissy) that gives me a similar buzz, an exquisition, but here there is the potential extra of semantics as well as structure and sound – well, it’s a new experience that the philosophy of aesthetics has not even broached. Not poetry, not fiction, not music, not representational or abstract painting, not opera, not theatre, not even ‘found Art’ or ‘cut ups’, but something unnamed that only FW can supply, a meaning without meaning, because meaning is still around but playing tricks in a disguised form as a Ligottian puppet…or a Rhys Hughes conceit playing up on the clouds of thought (I have just started HERE a real-time review of a new Rhys Hughes book, a review that should run concurrently with the rest of this FW review) – yet I know this section of FW is about HCE, something telling me that there is a plot going on about him even if I am missing it, or at sea with it. I don’t know why. Maybe twitter or text-speak rather than captchas, yet you have to keep things as short and simple as possible with the former (much to their paradoxically resultant potential incomprehensibility by such shortening) and captchas need to be as convoluted as possible but with an intrinsic simple entry point, a bit like Stephen King’s doors between realities in his Dark Tower…
This review will now continue in the comment stream HERE
The parts of this review linked:
https://nullimmortalis.wordpress.com/16092-2/ (this one)
Anyone who simply confirms that they have read and enjoyed the ‘Finnegans Wake’ real-time review from beginning to end will, upon request to me, receive a free signed copy of one of ‘Weirdtongue’, ‘Agra Aska’ or ‘Real-Time Reviews Vol. 1′, until further notice or current supplies of these books end.