Status Updates From Finnegans Wake

Wherefore let it hardly by any being thinking be said either or thought that the prisoner of that sacred edifice, were he an Ivor the Boneless or an Olaf the Hide, was at his best a onestone parable, a rude breathing on the void of to be, a venter hearing his own bauchspeech in backwords, or, more strictly, but tristumed initials, the cluekey to a worldroom beyond the roomwhorld, . . .

Well, even should not the framing up of such figments in the evidential order bring the true truth to light as fortuitously as a dim seer’s setting of a starchart might (heaven helping it!) un- cover the nakedness of an unknown body in the fields of blue ...

Hema's worste etc. Etc. Op zn best een eensteense parabel
, bartollemans trog etc

It was when I was in my farfather out at the west and she and myself, the redheaded girl, firstnighting down Sycomore Lane. Fine feelplay we had of it mid the kissabetts frisking in the kool kurkle dusk of the lushiness. My perfume of the pampas, says she (meaning me) putting out her netherlights, and I’d sooner one precious sip at your pure mountain dew than enrich my acquaintance with that big brewer’s belch.

2.4

MaMaLuJo, also known as the four old heladies or shehusbands, reminisce about their days spent “prostituent behind Trinity College” (tag urself) while watching Trustan and Usolde, who “by the light of the moon … longed to be spoon.”

“As I was going to burrymecarott we fell in with a lout by the name of Peebles” is extra funny in this rhyme-heavy chapter because it subverts aural expectations.

château migraine

poging tig, nu met de hollandse vertaling van henkes en bindervoet

Irish eyes of welcome were smiling daggers down their backs


if reams stood to reason and his lankalivline lasted he would wipe alley english spooker, multaphoniaksically spuking, off the face of the erse