Finnegans Wake Notes

190.01 of sweetempered gunpowdered didst unto dudst but it never

190.02 stphruck your mudhead's obtundity (O hell, here comes our

190.03 funeral! O pest, I'll miss the post!) that the more carrots you

190.04 chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies you peel, the

190.05 more onions you cry over, the more bullbeef you butch, the

190.06 more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherbs you pound,

190.07 the fiercer the fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you

190.08 gruel with more grease to your elbow the merrier fumes your

190.09 new Irish stew.

190.10 O, by the way, yes,another thing occurs to me. You let me tell

190.11 you, with the utmost politeness, were very ordinarily designed,

190.12 your birthwrong was, to fall in with Plan, as our nationals

190.13 should, as all nationists must, and do a certain office (what, I will

190.14 not tell you) in a certain holy office (nor will I say where) during

190.15 certain agonising office hours (a clerical party all to yourself) from

190.16 such a year to such an hour on such and such a date at so and

190.17 so much a week pro anno (Guinness's, may I remind, were just

190.18 agulp for you, failing in which you might have taken the scales off

190.19 boilers like any boskop of Yorek) and do your little thruppenny

190.20 bit and thus earn from the nation true thanks, right here in our

190.21 place of burden, your bourne of travail and ville of tares, where

190.22 after a divine's prodigence you drew the first watergasp in your

190.23 life, from the crib where you once was bit to the crypt you'll

190.24 be twice as shy of, same as we, long of us, alone with the colt

190.25 in the curner, where you were as popular as an armenial with

190.26 the faithful, and you set fire to my tailcoat when I hold the

190.27 paraffin smoker under yours (I hope that chimney's clear) but,

190.28 slackly shirking both your bullet and your billet, you beat it

190.29 backwards like Boulanger from Galway (but he combed the grass

190.30 against his stride) to sing us a song of alibi, (the cuthone call over

190.31 the greybounding slowrolling amplyheaving metamorphoseous

190.32 that oozy rocks parapangle their preposters with) nomad, mooner

190.33 by lamplight, antinos, shemming amid everyone's repressed

190.34 laughter to conceal your scatchophily by mating, like a thorough-

190.35 paste prosodite, masculine monosyllables of the same numerical

190.36 mus, an Irish emigrant the wrong way out, sitting on your crooked