Tuesday, December 8, 2015

I Think I Am Going Insane

… I’ve read the first one hundred pages of Finnegans Wake

… and am enjoying it.

Favorite line so far:

Wherefore let it hardly by any being thinking be said either or thought that the prisoner of that sacred edifice, where 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 tristurned initials, the cluekey to a worldroom beyond the roomwhorld, for scare one, or pathetically few of his dode canal sammenlivers cared seriously or for long to doubt with Kurt Iuld van Dijke (the gravitational pull perceived by certain fixed residents and the capture of uncertain comets chancedrifting through our system suggesting an authenticitatem or his aliquitudinis) the canonicity of his existence as a tesseract.

I have no idea what it means. I have no idea what I am reading. But I love the musicality of Joyce’s made-up mash-up English. Is there a pattern in the writing? Is there a code, a message buried beneath the mumblemush? Aside from spotting a preponderance of “H.C.E.” and “Here Comes Everybody,” – I don’t know!

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