Mark André ’s Reviews > Finnegans Wake > Status Update

What bitter's love but yurning, what' sour lovemutch but a bref burning till shee that drawes dothe smoake retourne?

What bitter’s love but turning, what’ sour lovemutch but a brief burning till shee that drakes dothe smoke retourne?

what roserude and oragious grows gelb and greem, blue out the ind of it! Violet's dyed! then what would that fargazer seem to seemself to seem seeming of, . . .

go away, we are deluded, come back, we are disghosted;

Now, to be on anew and basking again in the panaroma of all flores of speech, if a human being duly fatigued by his dayety in the sooty, having plenxty off time on his gouty hands and vacants of space at his sleepish feet and as hapless behind the dreams of accuracy as any camelot prince of dinmurk, were at this auctual futule preteriting unstant, in the states of suspensive exanimation, accorded, throughout . . .

go away, we are deluded, come back, we are disghosted;

to the finders, hail! woa, you that seek!;

made the man who had no notion of shopkeepers feel he'd rather play the duke than play the gentleman; shot two queans and shook three caskles when he won his game of dwarfs; fumes inwards like a strombolist till
he smokes at both ends; manmote, befier of him, womankind, pietad!;

from zoomorphology to omnianimalism he is brooched by the spin of a coin;

(Shaun Mac Irewick, briefdragger, for the concern of Messrs Jhon Jhamieson and Song, rated one hundrick and thin per storehundred on this nightly quisquiquock of the twelve apostrophes, set by Jockit Mic Ereweak. He misunderstruck and aim for am ollo of number three of them and left his free natural ripostes to four of them in their own fine artful disorder.)