Do they play cricket in China?

The translation of a work from one language to another is also the translation from one culture to another. Translating Joyce’s Finnegans Wake into Chinese must impose insuperable problems.  For instance what to make of this paragraph which by some counts references more than thirty cricketers born in the nineteenth century.  If it is any help, the text has links to a score of these sportsmen whose biographies have made it into Wikpedia.

* * *

Kickakick. She had to kick a laugh. At her old stick-in-the-
block. The way he was slogging his paunch about, elbiduubled,
meet oft mate on, like hale King Willow, the robberer. Cain-
maker’s mace and waxened capapee. But the tarrant‘s brand on
his hottoweyt brow. At half past quick in the morning. And her
lamp was all askew and a trumbly wick-in-her, ringeysingey.
She had to spofforth, she had to kicker, too thick of the wick
of her pixy’s loomph, wide lickering jessup the smooky shiminey.
And her duffed coverpoint of a wickedy batter, whenever she
druv behind her stumps for a tyddlesly wink through his tunnil-
clefft bagslops after the rising bounder’s yorkers, as he studd and
stoddard and trutted and trumpered, to see had lordherry’s
blackham‘s red bobby abbels, it tickled her innings to consort
pitch at kicksolock in the morm. Tipatonguing hi on in her
pigeony linguish, with a flick at the bails for lubrication, to scorch
her faster, faster. Ye hek, ye hok, ye hucky hiremonger ! Magrath
he’s my pegger, he is, for bricking up all my old kent road.
He’ll win your toss, flog your old tom’s bowling and I darr ye,
barrackybuller, to break his duck! He’s posh. I lob him. We’re
parring all Oogster till the empsyseas run googlie. Declare to
ashes and teste his metch! Three for two will do for me and he
for thee and she for you. Goeasyosey, for the grace of the fields,
or hooley pooley, cuppy, we’ll both be bye and by caught in the
slips for fear he’d tyre and burst his dunlops and waken her
bornybarnies making his boobybabies. The game old merri-
mynn, square to leg, with his lolleywide towelhat and his hobbsy
socks and his wisden‘s bosse and his norsery pinafore and his
gentleman’s grip and his playaboy’s plunge and his flannelly
feelyfooling, treading her hump and hambledown like a maiden
wellheld, ovalled over, with her crease where the pads of her
punishments ought to be by womanish rights when, keek, the hen
in the doran’s shantyqueer began in a kikkery key to laugh it
off, yeigh, yeigh, neigh, neigh, the way she was wuck to doodle-
doo by her gallows bird (how’s that? Noball, he carries his bat!)
nine hundred and dirty too not out, at all times long past con-
quering cock of the morgans.


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