Jerry Cornelius in the Wake

Delving in the Wake, one finds one’s perceptions reflected, one’s thoughts elaborated, one’s interests impounded on: the Wake is the mirror into the reader’s soul. Jerry Cornelius’s ambiguous nature was a short obsession of mine. His worldloving and wholehearted vileness still retains a tender place in my bookish heart. Certain passages smacked of the English Assassin’s infinite adventures. Also suggests hints of Una Persson, though ambiguously so. Coinky-dink? Maybe not. Life’s an entangled web, unlimited to time and space and the human spirit, and Joyce untangles it in his tangled account. My proferred clues are in bold.

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:94

Yet Una and Ita spill famine
with drought and Agrippa, the propastored, spells tripulations
in his threne. Ah, furchte fruchte, timid Danaides! Ena milo
melomon, frai is frau and swee is too, swee is two when swoo is free,
ana mala woe is we! A pair of sycopanties with amygdaleine
eyes, one old obster lumpky pumpkin and three meddlars on
their slies. And that was how framm Sin fromm Son, acity arose,
finfin funfun, a sitting arrows. Now tell me, tell me, tell me then!
What was it?

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:95

My perfume of the pampas, says she (meaning me)
putting out her netherlights, and I’d sooner one precious sip at
your pure mountain dew than enrich my acquaintance with that
big brewer’s belch.
And so they went on, the fourbottle men, the analists,
unguam and nunguam and lunguam again, their anschluss about her
whosebefore and his whereafters and how she was lost away
away in the fern and how he was founded deap on deep in anear,
and the rustlings and the twitterings and the raspings and the
snappings and the sighings and the paintings and the ukukuings
and the (hist!) the springapartings and the (hast!) the
bybyscuttlings and all the scandalmunkers and the pure craigs that used to
be (up) that time living and lying and rating and riding round
Nunsbelly Square.
And all the buds in the bush.

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:97

Ear canny hare for
doubling through Cheeverstown they raced him, through
Loughlinstown and Nutstown to wind him by the Boolies. But
from the good turn when he last was lost, check, upon Ye Hill
of Rut in full winter coat with ticker pads, pointing for his
rooming house his old nordest in his rolltoproyal hessians a deaf
fuchser’s volponism hid him close in covert, miraculously ravenfed
and buoyed up, in rumer, reticule, onasum and abomasum, upon
(may Allbrewham have his mead!) the creamclotted sherriness of
cinnamon syllabub, Mikkelraved, Nikkelsaved.
Hence hounds
hied home. Preservative perseverance in the reeducation of his
intestines was the rebuttal by whilk he sort of git the big bulge
on the whole bunch of spasoakers, dieting against glues and
gravies, in that sometime prestreet protown. Vainly violence,
virulence and vituperation sought wellnigh utterly to attax and
abridge, to derail and depontify, to enrate and inroad, to ongoad
and unhume the great shipping mogul and underlinen overlord.

But the spoil of hesitants, the spell of hesitency. His atake is
it ashe, tittery taw tatterytail, hasitense humponadimply,
heyheyheyhey a winceywencky.

Assembly men murmured. Reynard is slow!
One feared for his days. Did there yawn? ‘Twas his
stommick. Eruct? The libber. A gush? From his visuals. Pung?
Delivver him, orelode! He had laid violent hands on himself, it was
brought in Fugger’s Newsletter, lain down, all in,fagged out,
with equally melancholy death.
For the triduum of Saturnalia
his goatservant had paraded hiz willingsons in the Forum while
the jenny infanted the lass to be greeted raucously (the
Yardstated) with houx and epheus and measured with missiles too from

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:98

a hundred of manhood and a wimmering of weibes. Big went
the bang: then wildewide was quiet: a report: silence: last Fama
put it under ether. The noase or the loal had dreven him blem,
blem, stun blem. Sparks flew. He had fled again (open
shunshema!) this country of exile, sloughed off,sidleshomed via the
subterranean shored with bedboards, stowed away and ankered
in a dutch bottom tank, the Arsa, hod S.S. Finlandia, and was
even now occupying, under an islamitic newhame in his seventh
generation, a physical body Cornelius Magrath’s
(badoldkarakter, commonorrong canbung) in Asia Major, where as Turk of
the theater (first house all flatty: the king, eleven sharps) he had
bepiastered the buikdanseuses from the opulence of his
omnibox while as arab at the streetdoor he bepestered the bumbashaws
for the alms of a para’s pence.
Wires hummed. Peacefully general
astonishment assisted by regrettitude had put a term till his
existence: he saw the family saggarth, resigned, put off his
remainders, was recalled and scrapheaped by the Maker.
crossed. An infamous private ailment (vulgovarioveneral) had
claimed endright, closed his vicious circle, snap.
Jams jarred.
He had walked towards the middle of an ornamental lilypond
when innebriated up to the point where braced shirts meet
knickerbockers, as wangfish daring the buoyant waters, when
rodmen’s firstaiding hands had rescued un from very possibly several
feel of demifrish water. Mush spread. On Umbrella Street where
he did drinks from a pumps a kind workman, Mr Whitlock,
gave him a piece of wood. What words of power were made fas
between them, ekenames and auchnomes, acnomina ecnumina?
That, O that, did Hansard tell us, would gar ganz Dub’s ear
wag in every pub of all the citta! Batty believes a baton while
Hogan hears a hod yet Heer prefers a punsil shapner and Cope
and Bull go cup and ball. And the Cassidy–Craddock rome
and reme round e’er a wiege ne’er a waage is still immer and
immor awagering over it,a cradle with a care in it or a casket
with a kick behind. Toties testies quoties questies. The war is
in words and the wood is the world. Maply me, willowy we,
hickory he and yew yourselves. Howforhim chirrupeth

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:99

bird! From golddawn glory to glowworm gleam. We were
lowquacks did we not tacit turn. Elsewere there here no
concern of the Guinnesses. But only the ruining of the rain has
heard. Estout pourporteral ! Cracklings cricked. A human pest
cycling (pist!) and recycling (past!) about the sledgy streets, here
he was (pust!) again! Morse nuisance noised. He was loose at
large and (Oh baby!) might be anywhere when a disguised
exnun, of huge standbuild and masculine manners in her fairly fat
forties, Carpulenta Gygasta, hattracted hattention by harbitrary
conduct with a homnibus. Aerials buzzed to coastal listeners of
an oertax bror collector’s budget, fullybigs, sporran, tie, tuft,
tabard and bloody antichill cloak, its tailor’s (Baernfather’s) tab
reading V.P.H., found nigh Scaldbrothar’s Hole, and divers
shivered to think what kaind of beast, wolves, croppis’s or
fourpenny friars, had devoured him.
C. W. cast wide. Hvidfinns lyk,
drohneth svertgleam, Valkir lockt. On his pinksir’s postern, the
boys had it, at Whitweekend had been nailed an inkedup name
and title, inscribed in the national cursives, accelerated,
regressive, filiform, turreted and envenomoloped in piggotry: Move
up. Mumpty! Mike room for Rumpty!
By order, Nickekellous
Plugg; and this go, no pentecostal jest about it, how gregarious
his race soever or skilful learned wise cunning knowledgable
clear profound his saying fortitudo fraught or prudentiaproven,
were he chief, count, general, fieldmarshal, prince, king or Myles
the Slasher in his person, with a moliamordhar mansion in the
Breffnian empire and a place of inauguration on the hill of
Tullymongan, there had been real murder, of the rayheallach royghal
raxacraxian variety, the MacMahon chaps, it was, that had done
him in.
On the fidd of Verdor the rampart combatants had left
him lion with his dexter handcoup wresterected in a pureede
paumee bloody proper. Indeed not a few thick and thin
wellwishers, mostly of the clontarfminded class, (Colonel John Bawle
O’Roarke, fervxamplus), even ventured so far as to loan or beg
copies of D. Blayncy’s trilingual triweekly, Scatterbrains’
Aftening Posht,so as to make certain sure onetime and be satisfied of
their quasicontribusodalitarian’s having become genuinely quite

Part:1 Episode:4 Page:100

beetly dead whether by land whither by water. Transocean
atalaclamoured him; The latter! The latter! Shall their hope then
be silent or Macfarlane lack of lamentation? He lay under leagues
of it in deep Bartholoman’s Deep.

Achdung! Pozor! Attenshune! Vikeroy Besights Smucky
Yung Pigeschoolies. Tri Paisdinernes Eventyr Med Lochlanner
Fathach I Fiounnisgehaven. Bannalanna Bangs Ballyhooly Out
Of Her Buddaree Of A Bullavogue.
But, their bright little contemporaries notwithstanding, on
the morrowing morn of the suicidal murder of the unrescued
expatriate, aslike as asnake comes sliduant down that oaktree onto
the duke of beavers, (you may have seen some liquidamber exude
exotic from a balsam poplar at Parteen-a-lax Limestone. Road
and cried Abies Magnifica! not, noble fir?) a quarter of nine,
imploring his resipiency, saw the infallible spike of smoke’s jutstiff
punctual from the seventh gable of our Quintus Centimachus’
porphyroid buttertower and then thirsty p.m. with oaths upon
his lastingness (En caecos harauspices ! Annos longos patimur !) the
lamps of maintenance, beaconsfarafield innerhalf the zuggurat, all
brevetnamed, the wasting wyvern, the tawny of his mane, the
swinglowswaying bluepaw, the outstanding man, the lolllike lady,
being litten for the long (O land, how long!) lifesnight,
suffusion of fineglass transom and leadlight panes.
Wherefore let it hardly by any being thinking be said either or
thought that the prisoner of that sacred edifice, were he an Ivor
the Boneless or an Olaf the Hide, was at his best a onestone
parable, a rude breathing on the void of to be, a venter hearing his
own bauchspeech in backwords, or, more strictly, but tristurned
initials, the cluekey to a worldroom beyond the roomwhorld, for
scarce one, or pathetically few of his dode canal sammenlivers
cared seriously or for long to doubt with Kurt Iuld van Dijke
(the gravitational pull perceived by certain fixed residents and
the capture of uncertain comets chancedrifting through our
system suggesting an authenticitatem of his aliquitudinis) the
canonicity of his existence as a tesseract.
Be still, O quick! Speak him
dumb! Hush ye fronds of Ulma!


One response to “Jerry Cornelius in the Wake

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s