Complete Works of James Joyce (233 page)

 
— You are a suckersome! But this all, as airs said to oska, as only that childbearer might blogas well sidesplit? Where letties hereditate a dark mien swart hairy?

 
— Only. ’Twas womans’ too woman with mans’ throw man.

 
— Bully burley yet hardly hurley. The saloon bulkhead, did you say, or the tweendecks?

 
— Between drinks, I deeply painfully repeat it.

 
— Was she wearing shubladey’s tiroirs in humour of her hubbishobbis, Massa’s star stellar?

 
— Mrs Tan–Taylour? Just a floating panel, secretairslid-ingdraws, a budge of klees on her schalter, a siderbrass sehdass on her anulas findring and forty crocelips in her curlingthongues.

 
— So this was the dope that woolied the cad that kinked the ruck that noised the rape that tried the sap that hugged the mort?

 
— That legged in the hoax that joke bilked.

 
— The jest of junk the jungular?

 
— Jacked up in a jock the wrapper.

 
— Lollgoll! You don’t soye so! All upsydown her whole creation? So there was nothing serical between you? And Dry-salter, father of Izod, how was he now?

 
— To the pink, man, like an allmanox in his shirt and stickup, brustall to the bear, the Megalomagellan of our winevatswater-way, squeezing the life out of the liffey.

 
— Crestofer Carambas! Such is zodisfaction. You punk me! He came, he kished, he conquered. Vulturuvarnar! The must of his glancefull coaxing the beam in her eye? That musked bell of this masked ball ! Annabella, Lovabella, Pullabella, yep?

 
— Yup! Titentung Tollertone in S. Sabina’s. Aye aye, she was lithe and pleasable. Wilt thou the lee? Wilt thou the hee? Wilt thou the hussif?

 
— The quicker the deef the safter the sapstaff, but the main the mightier the stricker the strait. To the vast go the game! It is the circumconversioning of antelithual paganelles by a hugger-knut cramwell energuman, or the caecodedition of an absque — litteris puttagonnianne to the herreraism of a cabotinesque ex — ploser?

 
— I believe you. Taiptope reelly, O reely!

 
— Nautaey, nautaey, we’re nowhere without ye! In steam of kavos now arbatos above our hearths doth hum. And Malkos crackles logs of fun while Anglys cheers our ingles. So lent she him ear to burrow his manhood (or so it appierce) and borrow his namas? Suilful eyes and sallowfoul hairweed and the sickly sigh from her gingering mouth like a Dublin bar in the moarning.

 
— Primus auriforasti me.

 
— The park is gracer than the hole, says she, but shekleton’s my fortune?

 
— Eversought of being artained? You’ve soft a say with ye, Flatter O’Ford, that, honey, I hurdley chew you.

 
— Is that answers?

 
— It am queery!

 
— The house was Toot and Come–Inn by the bridge called Tiltass, but are you solarly salemly sure, beyond the shatter of the canicular year? Nascitur ordo seculi numfit.

 
— Siriusly and selenely sure behind the shutter. Securius indicat umbris tellurem.

 
— Date as? Your time of immersion? We are still in drought of. . . ?

 
— Amnis Dominae, Marcus of Corrig. A laughin hunter and Purty Sue.

 
— And crazyheaded Jorn, the bulweh born?

 
— Fluteful as his orkan. Ex ugola lenonem.

 
— And Jambs, of Delphin’s Bourne or (as olders lay) of Tophat?

 
— Dawncing the kniejinksky choreopiscopally like an easter sun round the colander, the vice! Taranta boontoday! You should pree him prance the polcat, you whould sniff him wops around, you should hear his piedigrotts schraying as his skimpies skirp a . . .

 
— Crashedafar Corumbas! A Czardanser indeed!
Dervilish glad too. Ortovito semi ricordo.
The pantaglionic affection through his blood like a bad influenza in a leap at bounding point?

 
— Out of Prisky Poppagenua, the palsied old priamite, home from Edwin Hamilton’s Christmas pantaloonade, Oropos Roxy and Pantharhea at the Gaiety, trippudiating round the aria, with his fiftytwo heirs of age! They may reel at his likes but it’s Noeh Bonum’s shin do.

 
— And whit what was Lillabil Issabil maideve, maid at?

 
— Trists and thranes and trinies and traines.

 
— A take back to the virgin page, darm it!

 
— Ay, graunt ye.

 
— The quobus quartet were there too, if I mistake not, as a sideline but, pace the contempt of senate, well to the fore, in an amenessy meeting, metandmorefussed to decide whereagainwhen to meet themselves flopsome and jerksome, lubber and deliric, drinking unsteadily through the Kerry quadrilles and Listowel lancers and mastersinging always with that consecutive fifth of theirs, eh? Like four wise elephants inandouting under a twelve-podestalled table?

 
— They were simple scandalmongers, that familiar, and all!
Normand, Desmond, Osmund and Kenneth.
Making mejical history all over the show!

 
— In sum, some hum? And other marrage feats?

 
— All our stakes they were astumbling round the ranky roars assumbling when Big Arthur flugged the field at Annie’s courting.

 
— Suddenly some wellfired clay was cast out through the schappsteckers of hoy’s house?

 
— Schottenly there was a hellfire club kicked out through the wasistas of Thereswhere.

 
— Like Heavystost’s envil catacalamitumbling. Three days three times into the Vulcuum?

 
— Punch!

 
— Or Noe et Ecclesiastes, nonne?

 
— Ninny, there is no hay in Eccles’s hostel.

 
— Yet an I saw a sign of him, if you could scrape out his acquinntence? Name or redress him and we’ll call it a night! — .i..’. .o..l .

 
— You are sure it was not a shuler’s shakeup or a plighter’s palming or a winker’s wake etcaetera etcaeterorum you were at?

 
— Precisely.

 
— Mayhap. Hora pro Nubis, Thundersday, at A Little Bit Of Heaven Howth, the wife of Deimetuus (D’amn), Earl Adam Fitz-adam, of a Tartar (Birtha) or Sackville–Lawry and Morland — West, at the Auspice for the Living, Bonnybrook, by the river and A. Briggs Carlisle, guardian of the birdsmaids and deputil-iser for groom. Pontifical mess. Or (soddenly) Schott, furtivfired by the riots. No flies. Agreest?

 
— Mayhem. Also loans through the post. With or without security. Everywhere. Any amount. Mofsovitz, swampstakers, purely providential.

 
— Flood’s. The pinkman, the squeeze, the pint with the kick. Gaa. And then the punch to Gaelicise it. Fox. The lady with the lamp. The boy in the barleybag. The old man on his ars. Great Scrapp ! ’Tis we and you and ye and me and hymns and hurts and heels and shields. The eirest race, the ourest nation, the airest place that erestationed. He was culping for penance while you were ringing his belle. Did the kickee, goodman rued fox, say anything important? Clam or cram, spick or spat?

 
— No more than Richman’s periwhelker.

 
— Nnn ttt wrd?

 
— Dmn ttt thg.

 
— A gael galled by scheme of scorn? Nock?

 
— Sangnifying nothing. Mock!

 
— Fortitudo eius rhodammum tenuit?

 
— Five maim! Or something very similar.

 
— I should like to euphonise that. It sounds an isochronism. Secret speech Hazelton and obviously disemvowelled. But it is good laylaw too. We may take those wellmeant kicks for free granted, though ultra vires, void and, in fact, unnecessarily so. Happily you were not quite so successful in the process verbal whereby you would sublimate your blepharospasmockical sup-pressions, it seems?

 
— What was that? First I heard about it.

 
— Were you or were you not? Ask yourself the answer, I’m not giving you a short question. Now, not to mix up, cast your eyes around Capel Court. I want you, witness of this epic struggle, as yours so mine, to reconstruct for us, as briefly as you can, inexactly the same as a mind’s eye view, how these funeral games, which have been poring over us through homer’s kerryer pid-geons, massacreedoed as the holiname rally round took place.

 
— Which? Sure I told you that afoul. I was drunk all lost life.

 
— Well, tell it to me befair, the whole plan of campaign, in that bamboozelem mincethrill voice of yours. Let’s have it, christie! The Dublin own, the thrice familiar.

 
— Ah, sure, I eyewitless foggus. ’Tis all around me bebatters-bid hat.

 
— Ah, go on now, Masta Bones, a gig for a gag, with your impendements and your perroqtriques! Blank memory of hatless darky in blued suit. You were ever the gentle poet, dove from Haywarden. Pitcher cup, patcher cap, pratey man? Be nice about it, Bones Minor! Look chairful! Come, delicacy! GO to the end, thou slackerd! Once upon a grass and a hopping high grass it was.

 
— Faith, then, Meesta Cheeryman, first he come up, a gag as a gig, badgeler’s rake to the town’s major from the wesz, MacSmashall Swingy of the Cattelaxes, got up regardless, with a cock on the Kildare side of his Tattersull, in his riddlesneek’s ragamufflers and the horrid contrivance as seen above, whisklyng into a bone tolerably delicately, the Wearing of the Blue, and taking off his plushkwadded bugsby in his perusual flea and loisy man-ner, saying good mrowkas to weevilybolly and dragging his feet in the usual course and was ever so terribly naas, really, telling him clean his nagles and fex himself up, Miles, and so on and so fort, and to take the coocoomb to his grizzlies and who done that foxy freak on his bear’s hairs like fire bursting out of the Ump pyre and, half hang me, sirr, if he wasn’t wanting his calicub body back before he’d to take his life or so save his life. Then, begor, counting as many as eleven to thritytwo seconds with his pocket browning, like I said, wann swanns wann, this is my awethorrorty, he kept forecursing hascupth’s foul Fanden, Cogan, for coaccoackey the key of John Dunn’s field fore it was for sent and the way Montague was robbed and wolfling to know all what went off and who burned the hay, perchance wilt thoult say, before he’d kill all the kanes and the price of Patsch Purcell’s faketotem, which the man, his plantagonist, up from the bog of the depths who was raging with the thirst of the sacred sponge and who, as a mashter of pasht, so far as him was concerned, was only standing there nonplush to the corner of Turbot Street, perplexing about a paumpshop and pupparing to spit, wanting to know whelp the henconvention’s compuss memphis he wanted with him new nothing about.

 
— A sarsencruxer, like the Nap O’ Farrell Patter Tandy moor and burgess medley? In other words, was that how in the annusual curse of things, as complement to compliment though, after a manner of men which I must and will say seems extraordinary, their celicolar subtler angelic warfare or photoplay finister started?

 
— Truly. That I may never!

 
— Did one scum then in the auradrama, the deff, after some clever play in the mud, mention to the other undesirable, a dumm, during diverse intentional instants, that upon the resume after the angerus, how for his deal he was a pigheaded Swede and to wend himself to a medicis?

 
— To be sore he did, the huggornut! Only it was turnip-hudded dunce, I beg your pardon, and he would jokes bowlder — blow the betholder with his black masket off the bawling green.

 
— Sublime was the warning!

 
— The author, in fact, was mardred.

 
— Did he, the first spikesman, do anything to him, the last spokesman, when, after heaving some more smutt and chaff between them, they rolled togutter into the ditch together? Black Pig’s Dyke?