Improperia
 

In the top right-hand corner of p. 65 b Joyce wrote the following list for the "Improperia":

                                            Charges:
                                            1. Hell
                                            2. Property
                                            3. Doles
                                            3. Prophecy
                                            4. Shirking
                                            5. Sin
                                            6. Doles
                                            7. Mother
 
 In the second draft of this section, MS pp. 69—73, Joyce put red numbers opposite the "charges" as they appear in the text.   

    Stand forth (for I will no longer use the inspired form of the third person but will address myself to you direct) Stand forth come boldly in your true colours [& move me to scorn & laughter] ere you be put back for ever till while I give you your talking-to! How have you been all this while, my touriladdy? You were bred & fed, & fostered & fattened in a land of this 2 easters island on a rollicking heaven & roaring hell and you have become a doubter of all known gods and, condemned fool egoarch, anarch & heresiarch, you have reared your kingdom upon the void of your very more than doubtful soul. At the age of While yet an adolescent (what do I say?) while still puerile you received a present of that syringe and feeder (you know as well as I do what I the mechanism I am alluding to) 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 reckoned added the morosity of your delectations among the to Lubbock's pleasures of life — — and this with cantreds of overplussing sisters congested round & about you for acres, roods & poles & or perches mutely braying what for what would not cost you the price of a pang one the oldest song in the wide wide world accompanied by a plain gold band. Sniffer of carrion, you have foretold death & disaster the dynamitising of friendship friends, the reducing of records to ashes, the destruction of customs by fire, the return of green powdered dust to dust, but it never struck your mudhead's 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 hash crackerhash, the more bacon you rasher, the more potherbs you pound, the hotter 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 threepenny bit right here, same as we, long of us when you pull set fire my coat tailcoat & I'll pull yours and I'll hold the parafin lamp under yours & you have slackly shirked shirking the job both billet and bullet & beat it to sing your songs of alibi emigrant in the wrong direction sitting on a crooked sixpenny style [you (will you [just] help me with the word?)] unfullfrocked blackfriar [(that describes you)], Europasianised Afferyank! There grew up beside you, on his keeping & in yours, that other, that pure one, he who was well known in heaven heavenly circles above long before he arrived there, the a chum of the angels, a flawless model whose spiritual toilette was the talk of the town, a youth they wanted up in heaven, & him you laid low with one hand one fine day to find out how his innards worked. Ever hear of the monkey & the virgin heir of Claremorns*, eh, [blethering] ape? Malingerer out of work, what have you done with all the baskets babyprams of stewed fruit, the dishfuls of cooked vegetables, the bags of poached coddled eggs you cozened out of charitable kitchens by piping your eye & saying howling as how you suffered no end from chicken's gapes & mal de siecle. Where are the little apples we lock up in the little drawer? Where is that little [alimony] nestegg for our [predictable] rainy day? Is it not a the fact (contradict gainsay me, cakeater!) that you shared with underlings the overload of your extravagance? Am I not right? Look up, old son, [& take yr medicine!] And remember silence means consent, Mr Anklegazer. Pariah, Cannibal Cain, you oathily forswore the womb that bore you & the paps you sometime sucked and ever since you have had have been one black mass of jigs & jimjams, haunted by a sense of not being or having been having been or not being all you might be or might have been: and so, thank God from the innermost depths of your heart, it is to you blacksheep, to you, pick of the waste paper basket, ay, to you, unseen blusher of an obscene coalhole, that your coalblack turfbrown mummy is acoming, little old fashioned mummy, little wonderful -------- running with her tidings, all the news of the [greatbig] world, skipping bellhopping the weirs, ducking under bridges, rapidshooting round the corners, by the hills of Tallaght & the Pool of the phooka & [places called] Blessington & Sallynoggin, babbling, bubbling, chattering to herself, gidgaddy giddygaddy grandmamma, gossipaceous, Anna Livia.

David Hayman: Joyce, James / A first-draft version of Finnegans wake (1963)