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Introduction  I 
No, so holp me Petault, it is not a miseffectual whyacinthinous riot of blots
and blurs and bars and balls and hoops and wriggles and juxtaposed jottings
linked by spurts of speed: it only looks as like it as danm it; and, sure,
we ought really to rest thankful that at this deleteful hour of dungflies
dawning we have even a written on with dried ink scrap of paper at all to
show for ourselves. . 
The warped flooring of the lair and soundconducting walls thereof, to say
nothing of the uprights and imposts, were persianly literatured with burst
loveletters, telltale stories, stickyback snaps, doubtful eggshells, bouchers,
flints, borers, puffers, amygdaloid almonds, rindless raisins, aiphybettyformed
verbage . . . best intentions, curried notes, upset latten tintacks, unused
mill and stumpling stones, twisted quills, painful digests, magnifying wineglasses,
solid objects cast at goblins, once current puns, quashed quotatoes, messes
of motage. . 
 the more carrots you chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies
you peel, the more onions you cry over, the more bulibeef you butch, the
more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherbs you pound, the fiercer the
fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you gruel with more grease
to your elbow the merrier fumes your new Irish stew. 
—Finnegans Wake ii8, 183, 190 
 Though not precisely the full recipe, the Joyce papers in London and Buffalo
come astonishingly close to reconstituting both