knives2meatyou

Today marks the 130th anniversary of James Joyces birth. Ive been posting excerpts from some of his works and, of course, I saved the craziest for last. Ezra Pound said of Finnegans Wake: Nothing short of divine vision or a new cure for the clap can possibly be worth all that circumambient peripherisation. And he was being kind!

I could never for the life of me figure out what must have been going through Joyces mind when he wrote this thing, though I do recall it took him nearly 20 years to complete it, so I suppose something like coherency would be too much to expect. Anyhow, here is an excerpt. Happy Birthday, Herr Satan.

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flitter-
ing bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome?
What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffey-
ing waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos won't moos. I feel as old
as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-
sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel
as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were
Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now!
Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or
stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters
of. Night

(P.S. Feel free to respond with "WTF???????????????????????????")