There is a sense of being led by hand through this fantastical world full of mundanes colored by lively language, like being shown rooms in a Hearstal mansion of the Folly of Human Nature by Joyce, our gracious, but unpredictable, host. This particular segment seemed particularly poignant, its message almost undecipherable on the tip of your tongue, and you wonder whether it was meant to be interpreted idiosyncratically by the reader. I’d agree language is a miscegenation, a purebred mongrel of sorts… I can never be sure of what he is saying. Sometimes a passage references several completely different things at once. Makes one marvel at how versatile language is when handled in the right hands.
Mutt. — Ore you astoneaged, jute you?
Jute. — Oye am thonthorstrok, thing mud.
(Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, what curios of signs (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since We and Thou had it out already) its world? It is the same told of all. Many. Miscegenations on miscegenations. Tieckle. They lived und laughed ant loved end left. Forsin. Thy thingdome is given to the Meades and Porsons. The meandertale, aloss and again, of our old Heidenburgh in the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the earth. In the ignorance that implies impression that knits knowledge that finds the nameform that whets the wits that convey contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth that entails the ensuance of existentiality. But with a rush out of his navel reaching the reredos of Ramasbatham. A terricolous vivelyonview this; queer and it continues to be quaky.