Finnegans Wake is like a linguistic drug

RAW warned me about how awesome this book by James Joyce was. He even wrote a book about it: "Coincidance - a Head Test". Can't wait to check that out once I finish the original.

My local library has a screwy search function in their computer database and I didn't find the English version books of him on the puter, but only the dutch. I hate reading classics translated, they are poor man's versions. Especially the translated Finnegans Wake, while skimming through it, it seemed to me like some Joyce-lover's fetish to translate an unreadable book and making it even more incomprehensible while draining the fun out of it. I mean this book made less sense to me in "my native language" than in "English", ha! But then I went oldschool and just looked in the English novel section shelves and simply found it. Here's to technology!

Joyce's language is amazing, he spent most of his adult life in many parts of Europe and I certainly recognize a lot of influences from other languages and dialects including occasional dutch/flemish, and this must be the best book a player-with-language like me could ever hope to find, oh universe why did ye wait so long to share this with me. And the universe replyeth: "all ye had to do was go to the English novel section, oh and fuck computers, teehee."

From the introduction, first line:
The first thing to say about Finnegans wake is that it is, in an important sense, unreadable. In order to pay it the attention it so impertinently and endlessly demands, the reader must forego most of the conventions about reading and about the language that constitute him/her as a reader. The advantage to be gained from doing so is considerable; the conventions survive but they are less likely thereafter to dwindle into assumptions about what reading or writing is.
(and this is followed by 43 pages of much less interesting mental masturbation, which I gladly ignore cause I don't need someone to tell me how to fucking interpret something, the book begins:)

The linguistic drugging in excerpts:

riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Sir Tristam, violer d'amores, fr'over the short sea, had passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer's rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to LaurensCounty's gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though vennisoon after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface. (comics version!)

sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes What bidimetoloves sinduced by what tegotetabsolvers!

Arms apeal with larms, appaling. Killykillkilly: a toll, a toll.

But waz iz! Iseut! Ere were sewers!

Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce coem to a setdown secular phoenish.

before joshuan judges had given us numbers or Helviticus committed deuteronomy

a waalworth of a skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with larrons o'toolers clittering up and tombles a'buckets clottering down.

Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain! Comeday morm and, O, you're vine! Sendday's eve and, ah, you're vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again!

What then agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday this municipal sin business? Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness to the thunder of his arafatas but we hear also through successive ages that shebby choruysh of ankalified muzzlenimiissilehims that would blackguardise the whitestone ever hurtleturtled out of heaven. Stay us wherefore in our search for tighteousness

Heed! Heed. It may half been a missfired brick, as some say, or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his back promises, as others looked at it. (There extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same).

But so sore did abe ite ivvy's holired abbles, (what with the wallhall's horrors of rollsrights, carhacks, stonengens, kisstvanes, tramtrees, fargobawlers, autokinotons, hippohobbilies, streetfleets, tournintaxes, megaphoggs, circuses and wardsmoats and basilikerks and aeropagods and the hoyse and the jollybrool and the peeler in the coat and the mecklenburk bitch bite at his ear and the merlinburrow burrocks and his fore old porecourts, the bore the more, and his blightblack workingstacks...

His howd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (There was a wall of course in erection) Dimb! He stottered from the latter. Damb! he was dud. Dumb! Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For the whole world to see.
Shize? I should shee! Macool, Macool, orra whyi deed ye diie? of a trying thirstay mournin?

Finiche! Only a fadograph of a yestern scene.

So that meal's dead off for summan, schlook, schlice and goodridhirring.

This is the way to the museyroom. Mind your hats goan in!

If you saw any typos, let me know :p