by James Joyce
ANSWER: Finn MacCool!
2. Does your mutter know your mike?
ANSWER:
When I turn meoptics,
from suchurban prospects,
’tis my filial’s bosom,
doth behold with pride,
that pontificator,
and circumvallator,
with his dam night garrulous,
slipt by his side.
Ann alive, the lisp of her,
’twould grig mountains whisper her,
and the bergs of Iceland,
melt in waves of fire,
and her spoon-me-spondees,
and her drickle-me-ondenees,
make the rageous Ossean,
kneel and quaff a lyre!
If Dann’s dane, Ann’s dirty,
if he’s plane, she’s purty,
if he’s fane, she’s flirty,
with her auburnt streams,
and her coy cajoleries,
and her dabblin drolleries,
for to rouse his rudderup,
or to drench his dreams.
If hot Hammurabi,
or cowld Clesiastes,
could espy her pranklings,
they’d burst bounds agin,
and renounce their ruings,
and denounce their doings,
for river and iver,
and a night. Amin!
Which title is the true-to-type motto-in-lieu for that Tick for Teac thatchment painted witt weth one darkness, where asnake is under clover and birds aprowl are in the rookeries and a magda went to monkishouse and a riverpaard was spotted, which is not Whichcroft Whorort not Ousterholm Dreyschluss not Haraldsby, grocer, not Vatandcan, vintner, not Houseboat and Hive not Knox-atta-Belle not O’Faynix Coalprince not Wohn Squarr Roomyeck not Ebblawn Downes not Le Decer Le Mieux not Benjamin’s Lea not Tholomew’s Whaddingtun gnot Antwarp gnat Musca not Corry’s not Weir’s not The Arch not The Smug not The Dotch House not The Uval nothing Grand nothing Splendid (Grahot or Spletel) nayther Erat Est Erit noor Non michi sed luciphro?
ANSWER: Thine obesity, O civilian, hits the felicitude of our orb!
4. What Irish capitol city (a dea o dea!) of two syllables and six letters, with a deltic origin and a nuinous end (ah dust oh dust!), can boost of having a) the most extensive public park in the world, b) the most expensive brewing industry in the world, c) the most expansive peopling thoroughfare in the world, d) the most phillohippuc theobibbous paupulation in the world: and harmonise your abecedeed responses?
ANSWER: a) Delfas. And when ye’ll hear the gould hommers of my heart, my floxy loss, bingbanging again the ribs of yer resistance and the tenderbolts of my rivets working to your destraction ye’ll be sheverin wi’ all yer dinful sobs when we’ll go riding a cope-a-curly, you with yer orange garland and me with my conny cordial, down the greaseways of rollicking into the waters of wetted life. b) Dorhqk. And sure where can you have such good old chimes anywhere, and leave you, as on the Mash and how ’tis I would be engaging you with my plovery soft accents and descanting upover the scene beunder me of your loose vines in their hairafall with them two loving loofs braceleting the slims of your ankles and your mouth’s flower rose and sinking ofter the soapstone of silvry speech. c) Nublid. Isha, why wouldn’t we be happy, avourneen, on the mills’ money he’ll soon be leaving you as soon as I’ve my own owned brooklined Georgian mansion’s lawn to recruit upon by Doctor Cheek’s special orders and my copper’s panful of soybeans and Irish in my east hand and a James’s Gate in my west, after all the errears and erroriboose of combarative embottled history, and your goodself churning over the newleaved butter (more power to you!), the choicest and the cheapest from Atlanta to Oconee, while I’ll be drowsing in the gaarden. d) Dalway. I hooked my thoroughgoing trotty the first down Spanish Place, Mayo I make, Tuam I take, Sligo’s sleek but Galway’s grace. Holy eel and sainted salmon, chucking chub and ducking dace, Rodiron’s not your aequal! says she, leppin half the lane. abcd) A bell a bell on Shalldoll Steepbell, ond be’ll go massplon pristmoss speople, Shand praise gon ness our fayst moan neople, our prame Shandeepen, pay name muy feepence, moy nay non Aequallllllll!
5. Whad slags of a loughladd would retten smuttyflesks, emptout old mans, melk vitious geit, scareoff jackinjills fra tiddle anding, smoothpick waste papish pastures, insides man outsiders angell, sprink dirted water, bear around village, newses, tobaggon and sweeds, plain general kept, louden on the kirkpeal, foottreats given to malafides, outskriek hyelp hyelp nor his hair efter buggelawrs, might underhold three barnets, putzpolish crotty bottes, nightcoover all fireglims, serve’s time till baass, grindstone his kniveses, fullest boarded, lewd man of the method in godliness, perchance he nieows and thans sits in the spoorwaggen, X.W.C.A. or Z.W.C.U., Doorsteps Limited or Baywindaws Bros swobber preferred, Walther Clausetter’s and Sons with the H. E. Chimneys and Company to not skreve, will, on advices, be bacon or stable hand, must begripe fallstandingly irers’ langurge, jublander or northquain bigger prefurred, all duties, kine rights, family fewd, outings fived, may get earnst, no get combitsch, profusional drinklords to please obstain, he is fatherlow soundigged inmoodmined pershoon but aleconnerman, nay, that must he isn’t?
ANSWER: Pore ole Joe!
6. What means the saloon slogan Summon In The Housesweep Dinah?
ANSWER: Tok. Galory bit of the sales of Cloth nowand I have to beeswax the bringing in all the claub of the porks to us how I thawght I knew his arthurgruff stain on the flowers of the liloleum O if me ash and can could speak like Big Whittington and he called by me midden name. Tik. I am your honey honeysugger phwhtphwht tha Bay and who bruk the dandleass and who seen the blackcullen jam for Tomorrha’s big pickneck I hope it’ll pour prais the Climate of all Ireland I heard the grackles and I skimming the crock on all your sangwidges fippence per leg per drake. Tuk. And who eight the last of the goosebellies that was mowlding from measlest years and who leff that there and who put that here and who let the kilkenny stale the chump. Tek. And whowasit youwasit propped the pot in the yard and whatinthe nameofsen lukeareyou rubbinthe sideofthe flureofthe lobby-with. Shite! Will you have a plateful? Tak.
7. Who are those component partners of our societate, the doorboy, the cleaner, the sojer, the crook, the squeezer, the lounger, the curman, the tourabout, the mussroomsniffer, the bleakablue tramp, the funpowther-plother, the christymansboxer, from their prés salés and Donnybrook prater and Roebuck’s campos and the ager Arountown and Crumglen’s grassy but Kimmage’s champ and Ashtown fields and Cabra fields and Fin-glas fields and Santry fields and the feels of Raheny and their fails and Bal-doygle to them, who are latecomers all the years round by anticipation, are the porters of the passions in virtue of retroratiocination, and, contributting their conflingent controversies of differentiation, unify their voxes in a vote of vaticination, who crunch the crusts of comfort due to depredation, drain the mead for misery to incur intoxication, condone every evil by practical justification and condamn any good to its own gratification, who are ruled, roped, duped and driven by those numen fateful changending constancies, the feedkeepers at our free laws (Fors Forsennat Finds Clusium!), nightly consternation, fortnightly fornication, monthly miserecordation and omniannual recreation, doyles when they deliberate but sullivans when they are swordsed, Matey, Teddy, Simon, Jorn, Pedhar, Andy, Barty, Philly, Jamesy Mor, and Tom, Matt and Jakes MacCorty?
ANSWER: The Morphios!
8. And how war yore maggies?
ANSWER: They war loving, they love laughing, they laugh weeping, they weep smelling, they smell smiling, they smile hating, they hate thinking, they think feeling, they feel tempting, they tempt daring, they dare waiting, they wait taking, they take thanking, they thank seeking, as born for lorn in lore of love to live and wive by wile and rile and rule by rune of ruse ’reathed rose and hose hol’d home, yeth cometh elope year, coach and four, Sweet Peck-at-my-Heart picks one man more.
9. Now, to be on anew and basking again in the panaroma of all flores
of speech, if a human being, duly fatigued by his dayety in the sooty, having plenxty off time on his gouty hands and vacants of space at his sleepish feet and as hapless behind the dreams of accuracy as any camelot prince of dinmurk, were, at this auctual futule preteriting unstant, in the states of suspensive exanimation, accorded, through the eye of a noodle, with an earsighted view of old hopeinhaven with all the ingredient and egregiunt whights and ways to which in the curse of his persistence the course of his tory will had been having recourses, the reverberration of knotcracking awes, the reconjungation of nodebinding ayes, the redissolusingness of mindmouldered ease and the thereby hang of the Hoel of it, could such a none, whiles even led comesilencers to comeliewithhers and till intempestuous Nox should catch the gallicry and spot lucan’s dawn, byhold at ones what is main and why ’tis twain, how one once meet melts in tother wants poignings, the sap rising, the foles falling, the nimb now nihilant round the girlyhead so becoming, the wrestless in the womb, all the rivals to allsea, shakeagain, O disaster! shakealose, Ah how starring! but Heng’s got a bit of Horsa’s nose and Jeff’s got the signs of Ham round his mouth and the beau that spun beautiful pales as it palls, what roserude and oragious grows gelb and greem, blue out the ind of it! Violet’s dyed! then what would that fargazer seem to seemself to seem seeming of, dimn it all?
ANSWER: A collideorscape!
10. What bitter’s love but yurning, what’ sour lovemutch but a bref burning, till shee that drawes dothe smoake retourne?
ANSWER: I know, pepette, of course, dear, but listen, precious! Thanks, pette, those are lovely, pitounette, delicious! But mind the wind, sweet! What exquisite hands you have, you angiol, if you didn’t gnaw your nails! Isn’t it a wonder you’re not ashamed of me, you pig, you perfect little pigaleen! I’ll nudge you in a minute. I bet you use her best Perisian smear off her vanity table to make them look so rosetop glowstop nostop. I know her. Slight me, would she? For every jot I care! I can pay my club like she. Three creamings a day, the first during her shower and wipe off with tissue. Then after cleanup and of course before retiring. Beme shawl, when I think of that espos of a Clancarbry, the foodbrawler of the sociationist party with hiss blackleaded chest, hello, Prendregast! that you, Innkipper?, and all his fourteen other fullback maulers or hurling stars, or whatever the dagos they are, baiting at my Lord Ornery’s, just becups they won the egg and spoon there so ovally provencial at Balldole. My Eilish assent he seed makes his admiracion. He is seeking an opening and means to be first with me as his belle alliance. Andoo musnoo play zeloso! Soso do todas. Such is Spanish. Stoop a little closer, fealse! Delightsome simply! Like Jolio and Romeune. I haven’t fell so turkish for ages and ages! Mine’s me of squisious, the chocolate with a soul. Extraordinary! Why, what are they all, the mucky lot of them only? Sht! I wouldn’t pay three hairpins for them. Peppt! That’s right, hold it steady! Leg me pull. Pu! Come big to Iran. Poo! What are you nudging for? No, I just thought you were. Listen, loviest! Of course it was too kind of you, miser, to remember my sighs in shockings, my often expressed wish when you were wandering about my trousseaurs, and before I forget it don’t forget, in your extensions to my personality, when knotting my remembrancetie, shoeweek will be trotting back with red heels at the end of the moon, but look what the fool bought, cabbage head, and, as I shall answer to gracious heaven, I’ll always in always remind of snappy new girters, me being always the one for charms, with my very best in proud and gloving even if he was to be vermillion miles my youth to live on, the rubberend Mr Polkingtone, the quoniam fleshmonger who Mother Brawne solicited me for unlawful converse with, with her mug of October (a pots on it!), creaking around on his old shanksaxle like a crosty old cornquake. Airman, waterwag, terrier, blazer! I’m fine, thanks ever! Ha! O, mind you poo tickly! Sall I puhim in momou? Mummum! Funny spot to have a fingey! I’m terribly sorry, I swear to you I am! May you never see me in my figure how I sleep gracefully in my birthday pelts seenso tutu and that her blanches mainges may rot leprous off her, whatever winking maggis I’ll bet by your cut you go fleurting after, with all the glass on her and the jumps in her stomewhere! Haha! I suspected she was! Sink her! May they fire her for a barren ewe! So she says: Tay for thee? Well, I saith: Angst so mush! and desired she might not take it amiss if I esteemed her but an odd. If I did ate toughturf I’m not a mishymissy. Of course I know, pettest, you’re so learningful and considerate in yourself, so friend of vegetables, you long cold cat you! Please by acquiester too meek my acquointance! Codling, snakelet, iciclist! My diaper has more life to it! Who drowned you, so young in drears, man, or are you pillale with ink? Did a weep get past the gates of your pride? My tread on the clover, sweetness? Yes, the buttercups told me. Hug me, damn it all, and I’ll kiss you back to life, my peachest. I mean to make you suffer, meddlar, and I don’t care this fig for contempt of courting. That I chid you, sweet sir? You know I’m tender by my eye. Can’t you read my dazzling ones through me true? Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning. Transname me loveliness, now me and here me for all times! I just don’t care what my thwarters think! I’d risk a policeman passing by, Magrath or even that beggar of a boots at the Post. The flame? O, pardone! That was what? Ah, did you speak, stuffstuff? More poestries from Chickspeer’s with gleechoreal music or a jaculation from the garden of the soul? Of I be leib in thee immoralities? O, you mean the strangle for love and the sowiveall of the prettiest? Yep, we open hap coseries in the home. And once upon a week I improve on myself I’m so keen on that New Free Woman with novel inside. I’m always as tickled as can be over Man in a Surplus by the Lady who Pays the Rates. But I’m as pie as is possible. Let’s root out Brimstoker and give him the thrall of our lives. It’s Dracula’s nightout. For creepsake don’t make a flush! Draw the shades, curfe you, and I’ll beat any sonna-monk to love. Holy bug, how my highness would jump to make you flame your halve a bannan in two when I’d run my burning torchlight through your hairmejig if you had one! To adore me there and then cease to be? Whatever for, blossoms? If I am laughing with you? No, lovingest, I’m not so dying to take my rise out of you, adored. Not in the very least. True as God made Mamaw hiplength modesty coatmawther! It’s only because the rison is I’m only any girl, you lovely fellow of my dreams, and because old somebooby is not a roundabout, my trysting of the tulipies, like that puff-pape bucking Daveran, assoiling us behinds. What a nerve! He thinks that’s what the vesprey’s for.
