Fragmento de Finnegans Wake (Capítulo 8 de la primera parte) en la voz de su creador: James Joyce.
Su voz: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SU8E1WVyuhg&ab_channel=oobleckboy
Un montaje con su busto y su voz en un parque de Dublin, Saint Stephen Green Park, muy cerca de donde transcurre la acción de su Ulises:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8kFqiv8Vww&ab_channel=monocleelectronical
El texto:
Well, you
know or don't you kennet or haven't I told you
every
telling has a taling and that's the he and the she of it. Look,
look, the
dusk is growing! My branches lofty are taking root.
And my cold
cher's gone ashley. Fieluhr? Filou! What age is at?
It saon is
late. 'Tis endless now senne eye or erewone last saw
Waterhouse's
clogh. They took it asunder, I hurd thum sigh.
When will
they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my bach!
I'd want to
go to Aches-les-Pains. Pingpong! There's the Belle
for
Sexaloitez! And Concepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out
the
clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari, vert the showers! And
grant thaya
grace! Aman. Will we spread them here now? Ay,
we will.
Flip! Spread on your bank and I'll spread mine on mine.
Flep! It's
what I'm doing. Spread! It's churning chill. Der went is
rising.
I'll lay a few stones on the hostel sheets. A man and his bride
embraced
between them. Else I'd have sprinkled and folded them
only. And
I'll tie my butcher's apron here. It's suety yet. The
strollers
will pass it by. Six shifts, ten kerchiefs, nine to hold to
the fire
and this for the code, the convent napkins, twelve, one
baby's
shawl. Good mother Jossiph knows, she said. Whose
head?
Mutter snores? Deataceas! Wharnow are alle her childer,
say? In
kingdome gone or power to come or gloria be to them
farther?
Allalivial, allalluvial! Some here, more no more, more
again lost
alla stranger. I've heard tell that same brooch of the
Shannons
was married into a family in Spain. And all the Dun-
ders de
Dunnes in Markland's Vineland beyond Brendan's herring
pool takes number nine in yangsee's hats. And one of Biddy's
beads went
bobbing till she rounded up lost histereve with a
marigold
and a cobbler's candle in a side strain of a main drain
of a
manzinahurries off Bachelor's Walk. But all that's left to the
last of the
Meaghers in the loup of the years prefixed and between
is one
kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me
that now? I
do in troth. Orara por Orbe and poor Las Animas!
Ussa, Ulla,
we're umbas all! Mezha, didn't you hear it a deluge of
times, ufer
and ufer, respund to spond? You deed, you deed! I
need, I
need! It's that irrawaddyng I've stoke in my aars. It all
but husheth
the lethest zswound. Oronoko! What's your trouble?
Is that the
great Finnleader himself in his joakimono on his statue
riding the
high horse there forehengist? Father of Otters, it is
himself!
Yonne there! Isset that? On Fallareen Common? You're
thinking of
Astley's Amphitheayter where the bobby restrained
you making
sugarstuck pouts to the ghostwhite horse of the
Peppers.
Throw the cobwebs from your eyes, woman, and spread
your
washing proper! It's well I know your sort of slop. Flap!
Ireland
sober is Ireland stiff. Lord help you, Maria, full of grease,
the load is
with me! Your prayers. I sonht zo! Madammangut!
Were you
lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in Conway's
Carrigacurra
canteen? Was I what, hobbledyhips? Flop! Your
rere gait's
creakorheuman bitts your butts disagrees. Amn't I
up since
the damp dawn, marthared mary allacook, with Corri-
gan's pulse
and varicoarse veins, my pramaxle smashed, Alice
Jane in
decline and my oneeyed mongrel twice run over, soaking
and
bleaching boiler rags, and sweating cold, a widow like me,
for to deck
my tennis champion son, the laundryman with the
lavandier
flannels? You won your limpopo limp fron the husky
hussars
when Collars and Cuffs was heir to the town and your
slur gave
the stink to Carlow. Holy Scamander, I sar it again!
Near the
golden falls. Icis on us! Seints of light! Zezere! Subdue
your noise,
you hamble creature! What is it but a blackburry
growth or
the dwyergray ass them four old codgers owns. Are
you meanam
Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I meyne now,
thank all,
the four of them, and the roar of them, that draves
that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with
them. Is
that the Poolbeg flasher beyant, pharphar, or a fireboat
coasting
nyar the Kishtna or a glow I behold within a hedge or
my Garry
come back from the Indes? Wait till the honeying of
the lune,
love! Die eve, little eve, die! We see that wonder in
your eye.
We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll
seek if the
hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue
milk's
upset. Forgivemequick, I'm going! Bubye! And you,
pluck your
watch, forgetmenot. Your evenlode. So save to
jurna's
end! My sights are swimming thicker on me by the sha-
dows to
this place. I sow home slowly now by own way, moy-
valley way.
Towy I too, rathmine.
Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha
anyhow, Anna Livia,
trinkettoes!
And sure he was the quare old buntz too, Dear Dirty
Dumpling,
foostherfather of fingalls and dotthergills. Gammer
and gaffer
we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive
him? And
every dam had her seven crutches. And every crutch
had its
seven hues. And each hue had a differing cry. Sudds for
me and
supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Befor!
Bifur! He
married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, like any
Etrurian
Catholic Heathen, in their pinky limony creamy birnies
and their
turkiss indienne mauves. But at milkidmass who was
the spouse?
Then all that was was fair. Tys Elvenland! Teems of
times and
happy returns. The seim anew. Ordovico or viricordo.
Anna was,
Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made
southfolk's
place but howmulty plurators made eachone in per-
son? Latin
me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into
oure eryan!
Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on
him, soft
ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord
save us!
And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daugh-
ters of.
Whawk?
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!
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