Абрахам Хосебр’s Reviews > Finnegans Wake > Status Update

Mattheehew, Markeehew, Lukeehew, Johnheehewheehew! Haw! And still a light moves long the river. And stiller the mermen ply their keg. Its pith is full. The way is free. Their lot is cast. So, to john for a john, johnajeams, led it be!

You'll have loss of fame from Wimmegame's fake. Forwards!

assphalt body with the concreke soul

I cain but are you able? Amicably nod. Gu it!

As we there are where are we are we there from tomtittot to teetootomtotalitarian. Tea tea too oo.

Hoo, I'm true!

Anna is his signature in his last lonely and embattled months, a time of mounting hostility towards Finnegans Wake; a daughter, Lucia, his inspiritrice, committed to an asylum; walking in the snow in Zurich with his little grandson, his eyes hidden with thick, dark glasses, entrenched in that same darkness that he had, in high-hearted youth, pitied in his hero Ibsen. It was January 1941, Europe in the throes of war.

you have become of twosome twiminds forenenst gods, hidden and discovered, nay, condemned fool, anarch, egoarch, hiresiarch, you have reared your disunited kingdom on the vacuum of your own most intensely doubtful soul

Why's which Suchman's talis qualis? to whom, as a fatter of macht, Dr Gedankje of Stoutgirth, who was wiping his whistle, toarsely retoarted: While thou beast' one zoom of a whorl! (Talis and Talis originally mean the same thing, hit it's: Qualis.)

that ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia: all those red raddled obeli cayennepeppercast over the text, calling unnecessary attention to errors, omissions, repetitions and misalignments: that (probably local or personal) variant maggers for the more generally accepted majesty