James Joyce's "Finnegans Wake" has been credited for being a seedbase for the concept of hyperlinking, and thus the World Wide Web, but now we see that Joyce also talked of the blog. Well, sort of. This is a passage:
Finnegans Wake: Page 504
Part:3 Episode:14 Page:504
-- Booms of bombs and heavy rethudders?
-- This aim to you!
-- The tail, so mastrodantic, as you tell it nearly takes your
own mummouth's breath away. Your troppers are so unrelieved
because his troopers were in difficulties. Still let stultitiam done
in veino condone ineptias made of veritues. How many were
married on that top of all strapping mornings, after the midnight
turkay drive, my good watcher?
-- Puppaps. That'd be telling. With a hoh frohim and heh
fraher. But, as regards to Tammy Thornycraft, Idefyne the lawn
mare and the laney moweress and all the prentisses of wildes to
massage him.
-- Now from Gunner Shotland to Guinness Scenography.
Come to the ballay at the Tailors' Hall. We mean to be mellay on
the Mailers' Mall. And leap, rink and make follay till the Gaelers'
Gall. Awake ! Come, a wake ! Every old skin in the leather world,
infect the whole stock company of the old house of the Leaking
Barrel, was thomistically drunk, two by two, lairking o' tootlers
with tombours a'beggars, the blog and turfs and the brandywine
bankrompers, trou Normend fashion, I have been told down to
the bank lean clorks? Some nasty blunt clubs were being operated
after the tradition of a wellesleyan bottle riot act and a few plates
were being shied about and tumblers bearing traces of fresh
porter rolling around, independent of that, for the ehren of Fyn's
Insul, and then followed that wapping breakfast at the Heaven
and Covenant, with Rodey O'echolowing how his breadcost on
the voters would be a comeback for e'er a one, like the
depredations of Scandalknivery, in and on usedtowobble sloops off
cloasts, eh? Would that be a talltale too? This was the grandsire
Orther. This was his innwhite horse. Sip?
And at the beginning of one of the most famous passages of the book, we see:
Part:1 Episode:6 Page:168
Shem is as short for Shemus as Jem is joky for Jacob. A fewtoughnecks are still getatable who pretend that aboriginally hewas of respectable stemming (he was an outlex between the linesof Ragonar Blaubarb ant Horrild Hairwire and an inlaw to Capt.the Hon. and Rev. Mr Bbyrdwood de Trop Blogg was amonghis most distant connections) but every honest to goodness manin the land of the space of today knows that his back life willnot stand being written about in black and white. Putting truthand untruth together a shot may be made at what this hybridactually was like to look at.
More like blogger with the "-er" missing, but there nonetheless.
In his book, "The Media Trade"...
Tofts manages to set out in twenty pages why Finnegans Wake - the first literary text in which tv plays an important role - is the central text for the digital age. He shapes this conclusion, which is shared by Donald Theall and Marshall McLuhan, with the help of the usual suspects, like Deleuze and Derrida.
Finnegans Wake: the original media theory book, the moment at which print literacy converges with electronic digitization. The method of Finnegans Wake offers a hint of the ecology of meaning which will characterise the digital age, a glimpse ahead. It embodies the new ecology of sense implicit in the electronic, immersive experience of telematic cspace (Tofts’ 'metasignifier', in my opinion superfluous, which stands for 'cyberspace' as well as for 'space'), it is central to the aesthetics of the computer age. MORE
His use of the word, "Anonymoses" is noted:
Part:1 Episode:2 Page:47
He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
(Chorus) Messrs. Billing and Coo.
Noah's larks, good as noo.
He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
(Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
Give him six years.
'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
(Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
The largest ever you seen.
Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!
Then we'll have a free trade Gaels' band and mass meeting
For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and Danes,
(Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
And all their remains.
And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
(bis) That's able to raise a Cain.
