FINNEGANS WAKE

Protodrafts

1st draft, January-February 1924, I.7§2 draft level 0

MS British Library 47471b 41-44 Draft details

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Charges:
1 Hell
2 Progeny
3 Doles
3 Prophecy
4 Shirking
5 Sin
6 Doles
7 Mother
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Improperia

Stand forth |acome boldly in yr true coloursa| (for I will no longer use the inspired form of the third person but will address myself to you direct) Stand forth |amove me to scorn & laughtera| ere you be put back for ever |atill whilea| I give you your talking-to! How have you been all this while, my touriladdy? You were bred & fed, & fostered & fattened |ain a land of this 2 easters islanda| on a rollicking heaven & roaring hell and you have become a doubter of all known gods and, |acondemned foola| egoarch, anarch & heresiarch, you have reared your kingdom upon the void of your |a|bvery more thanb| doubtfula| soul. At the age of While yet an adolescent (what do I say?) while still puerile you received a present of that syringe and feeders |a(you know as well as I do what I the mechanism I am alluding to)a| that you might repopulate the land & count up your progeny by the hundred & the hundred thousand but you have thwarted the simple wish of the godmother who gave you it & them & have |areckoned addeda| the morosity of your delectations |aamong the to Lubbock'sa| pleasures of life — — and this with |acantreds ofa| overplussing sisters |acongesteda| round & about you for acres, roods |a& & poles ora| perches mutely braying w for what would not cost you the price of a pang |aone the oldest song in the wide wide world accompanied by a plain gold banda|. Sniffer of carrion, you have foretold death & disaster |athe dynamitising of |bfriendship friendsb|, the reducing of records to ashes, the destruction of customs by fire, the return of gunpowdered dust to dust,a| but it never struck your |amudhead'sa| obtundity that the more carrots you chop, the more turnips you slit, the more spuds you peel, the more onions you sliver, the more mutton you |ahash crackerhasha|, the more bacon you rasher, |athe more potherbs you pound,a| the hotter
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the fire & the longer the spoon & the harder you gruel it more & more the merrier reeks your Irish stew. You were designed to do a certain office (what I will not tell you) in a certain office (nor will I tell you where) during certain office hours from such a year to such a year at so & so much a year per year & do yr little |athreepennya| bit right here |asame as we,a| long of us where you |apull my coat & I'll pull yours set fire my tailcoat and I'll hold the parafin lamp under yoursa| & you have slackly shirked the job slackly shirking both billet & bullet |a& beat it to sing your songs of alibia| emigrant in the wrong direction sitting on a crooked sixpenny stile |ayou (will you |bjustb| help me with the word?) unfrillfrocked blackfriar (that describes you)a|, Europasianised Afferyank! There grew up beside you|a, on his keeping & in yours,a| that other, that pure one, he who was |awella| known in |aheaven heavenly circles abovea| long before he arrived there, |athe aa| chum of the |aangelsa| a |aflawlessa| model whose spiritual toilette was the talk of the town, |aa youth they wanted up in heaven,a| & him you laid low with one hand one fine day to find out how his innards worked. |aEver hear of the monkey & the virgin heir of Claremorris, eh, |bbletheringb| ape?a| Malingerer, |aoutofwork,a| what have you done with all the |abaskets babypramsa| of stewed fruit, the dishfuls of cooked vegetables, the bags of |apoached coddleda| eggs, you cozened out of charitable kitchens by piping your eye & |asaying howlinga| as how you suffered |ano enda| from |achicken's gape &a| mal de siècle. |aWhere are the little apples we lock up in the little drawer? Where is that little |balimonyb| nestegg for our |bpredictableb| rainy day?a| Is it not |aa thea| fact (|acontradict gainsaya| me, cakeater!) that you shared with underlings
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the overload of your extravagance? |aAm I not right? |bLook up, old son, & take yr medicine!b|a| |aAnd remember Silence means consent, Mr Anklegazer.a| Pariah, Cannibal Cain, you oathily forswore the womb that bore you & the paps you sometime sucked e and ever since you |ahave had have been one black mass ofa| jigs & jimjams, haunted by a sense of |anot being |bnot being or having been having been or not beenb|a| all you might |abe or mighta| have been: and, lo, |athank God from the innermost depths of your heart,a| it is to you black sheep, to you, pick of the waste paper basket, |aay,a| to you, unseen blusher of an obscene coalhole, that your |acoalblack turfbrowna| mummy is acoming, |alittle oldfashioned mummy, little wonderfula| running with her tidings, |aall the news of the |bgreat bigb| world,a| |askipping bellhoppinga| the weirs, ducking under bridges, rapidshooting round the corners, |aby the hills of Tallaght & the |bPoul Poolb| of the phooka & |bplace calledb| Blessington |b& Sallynoggin,b|a| babbling, bubbling, chattering to herself, |a|bgidgaddy giddygaddyb| grandmamma, gossipaceous,a| Anna Livia.