(87.24-89.24) Today's passage is comprised of the second part of the lengthy paragraph that describes the trial. It's tough reading again, but it begins on an slightly less-tough note with the spectators shouting encouragement to the litigants. With this circus-like atmosphere established, the narrator moves on to report on the cross examination of the witness before the court.
The cross examination, which is recounted in the form of a dialogue between the questioner (an attorney, presumably, but possibly also the judge) and the witness. The subjects of this dialogue span the entire spectrum. Really, nothing's out of bounds in this back-and-forth. Half of the questions appear to reference events or scenes we've read about this far into the Wake, and it'd be a safe bet to say that the questions that don't seem to reference anything up to this point probably reference something that will appear later. One could write a brief essay on any and all of these questions, but I'll just hit a couple of the highlights here.
The cross examination opens up with it being established that it was very dark and it was tough to see anything on the night when HCE was caught doing whatever he did in the park ("that knife of knifes the treepartied ambush was laid . . . there was not as much light from the widowed moon as would dim a child's altar.") The witness, though, says that he's fairly sure that he's got the story right. "Certified?" asks the questioner. "As a cad could be," the witness replies. (So, in one sense, at least, the witness must be the Cad.) Eventually, the questioner asks whether the name of the accused is "Helmingham Erchenwyne Rutter Egbert Crumwall Odin Maximus Esme Saxon Esa Vercingetorix Ethelwulf Rupprecht Ydwalla Bentley Osmund Dysart Yggdrasselmann." The witness replies, "Holy Saint Eiffel, the very phoenix!" As noted by each of the authors of my secondary sources, besides this 18-word name referencing kings/conquerors/warriors from throughout history, the name also serves as an acrostic for "HERE COMES EVERYBODY," another name for HCE.
Among the references that jump out to me here are ones to the Prankquean ("Peacisely.") and the pedigree pig ("pederast prig"). It'll be interesting to see what else I'm able to catch when I get to the conclusion of this paragraph tomorrow.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
"Oyeh! Oyeh!"
(85.20-87.24) Today's passage is a particularly challenging one. The narrator, having finished an aside about HCE's one-time political aspirations, shifts courses again "to return to the atlantic and Phentitia Proper" (with "Phentitia Proper" in one sense representing Phoenix Park). The scene now shifts to the trial of Festy King. The true identity of Festy King is not immediately apparent. One would assume it's HCE, but there are indications (and Campbell and Robinson and Tindall make arguments supporting those indications) that Festy King is one of HCE's sons. The king has been brought up on dubious charges and hauled into court. The trial begins with "Oyeh! Oyeh!" The prisoner Festy King appears in court wearing a somewhat ridiculous hodge podge of clothes and says (in one sense) that his fellow citizens and the coppers seized him as he was trying to set fire to himself.
The Crown calls an officer, P.C. Robort, to testify against King Festy. Robort explains that, one Thursday, the King, who was once known as Meleky and used the alias Crowbar, impersonated a chimney sweep and attended a pig fair with an unlicensed pedigree pig "under the illassumed names of Tykingfest and Rabworc" (King Festy with the "ty" moved to the front and Crowbar backwards). Robort further testifies that, after working his way through the fair with little success, King Festy sold his pig in order to repay a debt.
The second witness called is "an eye, ear, nose and throat witness, whom Wesleyan chapelgoers suspected of being a plain clothes priest W.P." As McHugh notes, this character stands in (in at least one sense) for Joyce's one-time friend and long-time nemesis Oliver Gogarty, a Dublin doctor who was an ear, eye, nose, and throat specialist and who served as the basis for the Buck Mulligan character in Ulysses. This witness (who tells his attorney that he'd spent the previous evening engaging in some illicit behavior) reports that the "mixer and wordpainter," Hyacinth O'Donnell, B.A. (is O'Donnell here another pseudonym for King Festy?), sought to assassinate two former kings, Gush Mac Gale and Roaring O'Crian, Jr.
Just as with the latest HCE-Cad encounter described on the last handful of pages, the identity of who is on trial here seems to be almost constantly shifting. My secondary sources indicate that the defendant here possesses a number of qualities belonging to HCE's sons, Shem and Shaun. While I'm inclined to think that these sources are on the right track, I'm reserving judgment on that because (obviously) I haven't gotten to the Shem/Shaun portion of the Wake yet. I'll have to flag this section as one to revisit at a later time . . . .
The Crown calls an officer, P.C. Robort, to testify against King Festy. Robort explains that, one Thursday, the King, who was once known as Meleky and used the alias Crowbar, impersonated a chimney sweep and attended a pig fair with an unlicensed pedigree pig "under the illassumed names of Tykingfest and Rabworc" (King Festy with the "ty" moved to the front and Crowbar backwards). Robort further testifies that, after working his way through the fair with little success, King Festy sold his pig in order to repay a debt.
The second witness called is "an eye, ear, nose and throat witness, whom Wesleyan chapelgoers suspected of being a plain clothes priest W.P." As McHugh notes, this character stands in (in at least one sense) for Joyce's one-time friend and long-time nemesis Oliver Gogarty, a Dublin doctor who was an ear, eye, nose, and throat specialist and who served as the basis for the Buck Mulligan character in Ulysses. This witness (who tells his attorney that he'd spent the previous evening engaging in some illicit behavior) reports that the "mixer and wordpainter," Hyacinth O'Donnell, B.A. (is O'Donnell here another pseudonym for King Festy?), sought to assassinate two former kings, Gush Mac Gale and Roaring O'Crian, Jr.
Just as with the latest HCE-Cad encounter described on the last handful of pages, the identity of who is on trial here seems to be almost constantly shifting. My secondary sources indicate that the defendant here possesses a number of qualities belonging to HCE's sons, Shem and Shaun. While I'm inclined to think that these sources are on the right track, I'm reserving judgment on that because (obviously) I haven't gotten to the Shem/Shaun portion of the Wake yet. I'll have to flag this section as one to revisit at a later time . . . .
Saturday, June 28, 2014
"(but all goes west!)"
(83.24-85.19) Today's passage picks up in mid-paragraph from where yesterday's left off. HCE and the Cad have made a tentative peace after HCE has promised to loan the Cad some money, and the Cad has been daydreaming about the pubs he will visit with his new treasure. The Cad now makes a series of gestures toward HCE that could be seen as either friendly or hostile and finally takes "his friend's leave" (or, as McHugh suggests, takes French leave -- i.e., leaves without giving notice). In keeping with the friendly/hostile dichotomy, the two men then exchange "the pax in embrace or poghue puxy as practised between brothers of the same breast" -- or in other words, they embrace in peace or give a punch to the other's lips (as noted by McHugh) -- and ratify their torgantruce (McHugh notes that "tuargain" is Italian for "battering" or "bombardment," which indicates that they're agreeing to further hostilities, to peace, or to peace from further hostilities).
The Cad goes off to fight further battles with "some rival rialtos," while HCE stays at home to recover from his (relatively minor) wounds. Of particular note to me in this passage on the top of page 84 (and sprinkled throughout this chapter) is the references (such as "bull's run," "ballsbluffed," and "confederate") to the U.S. Civil War. HCE "reports the occurance" (the misspelling of words using an "e" for an "a" and vice versa has been used by Joyce throughout the Wake as a reference to the misspelling of "hesitancy" as "hesitency" in a smoking-gun letter momentarily vindicating Joyce's beloved Parnell) in hopes that the proper authorities might give him some healing lotion or opium after hearing of his plight and viewing his bruises. In actuality, though, HCE's wounds are superficial: "his allround health appeared to be middling along" and "not one of the two hundred and six bones and five hundred and one muscles in his corso was a whit the whorse for her whacking."
The narrator now turns away for the moment from HCE's encounter with the Cad, and, "wurming along gradually for our savings backtowards motherwaters so many miles from bank and Dublin stone" (i.e., back to ALP and the river at the beginning of Finnegans Wake, where we're always inevitably headed toward), begins to talk about "the still more salient point of the politish leanings and town pursuits of our forebeer, El Don De Dunelli." In other words, the narrator's going to spend a moment talking about HCE's forays into the public life. Before HCE's brushes with danger, the narrator tells us, he passed out literature for public edification and nearly took public office.
Now for my near-daily mantra. As with most passages from the Wake, today's was tough going at first, but things began to make some sense upon closer inspection. I recently reviewed part of the introduction to Tindall's A Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake. While I've been a bit critical of Tindall's explication of the Wake, I find the introduction to his book to be helpful, illuminating, and even encouraging. Here's one passage that rang true with me and wanted to share:
The Cad goes off to fight further battles with "some rival rialtos," while HCE stays at home to recover from his (relatively minor) wounds. Of particular note to me in this passage on the top of page 84 (and sprinkled throughout this chapter) is the references (such as "bull's run," "ballsbluffed," and "confederate") to the U.S. Civil War. HCE "reports the occurance" (the misspelling of words using an "e" for an "a" and vice versa has been used by Joyce throughout the Wake as a reference to the misspelling of "hesitancy" as "hesitency" in a smoking-gun letter momentarily vindicating Joyce's beloved Parnell) in hopes that the proper authorities might give him some healing lotion or opium after hearing of his plight and viewing his bruises. In actuality, though, HCE's wounds are superficial: "his allround health appeared to be middling along" and "not one of the two hundred and six bones and five hundred and one muscles in his corso was a whit the whorse for her whacking."
The narrator now turns away for the moment from HCE's encounter with the Cad, and, "wurming along gradually for our savings backtowards motherwaters so many miles from bank and Dublin stone" (i.e., back to ALP and the river at the beginning of Finnegans Wake, where we're always inevitably headed toward), begins to talk about "the still more salient point of the politish leanings and town pursuits of our forebeer, El Don De Dunelli." In other words, the narrator's going to spend a moment talking about HCE's forays into the public life. Before HCE's brushes with danger, the narrator tells us, he passed out literature for public edification and nearly took public office.
Now for my near-daily mantra. As with most passages from the Wake, today's was tough going at first, but things began to make some sense upon closer inspection. I recently reviewed part of the introduction to Tindall's A Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake. While I've been a bit critical of Tindall's explication of the Wake, I find the introduction to his book to be helpful, illuminating, and even encouraging. Here's one passage that rang true with me and wanted to share:
A form for the feeling of encountering the world, the Wake displays in three layers the stages of this daily encounter. Some things in Wake and world alike are immediately evident. Some things, resisting our first attempts, may be understood with a little effort. But other things, whatever our efforts, baffle us. To the pleasures of easy and difficult discovery Joyce added the pain of frustration.
Friday, June 27, 2014
"this is nat language at any sinse of the world"
(81.12-83.24) Today I'm coming to you live and direct from Sacramento, California, where I'm visiting for a few days. After
two days off, the Wake must go on. The reading picks up with the beginning of a long paragraph that starts on page 81 and doesn't end until page 84, so unfortunately this is one of those days where I have to cut off the reading in the middle of a paragraph. Not ideal, but that's life.
On one level, this passage presents yet another version of the encounter between HCE and the Cad. It ostensibly takes place after HCE's death (the narrator says that "[t]he boarder incident prerepeated itself"). As is typical with the Wake, the identities of the persons involved here tends to be slippery, with the encounter variously seeming to take place between HCE and the Cad, or between HCE and one of his sons, or between HCE's two sons, or between one of HCE's sons and the Cad. I feel like it's (obviously) important to keep these shifting identities in mind here, but for ease of discussion I'm going to focus in on the HCE vs. the Cad angle today.
In this version, the "attackler," who I'm assuming is the Cad, engaged "the Adversary," HCE, who the Cad mistook for Oglethorpe (founder of Georgia) or Parr (Old Parr, an Englishman legendary for his long life and licentiousness). This bit seems like a minor detail, but it's a rich one, with the Cad mistaking HCE either for a figure of great importance or a borderline sexual deviant, reflecting HCE's dueling natures of All-Father and Fallen Sinner. I also like how the reference to Oglethorpe both recalls the Wake's opening paragraph (see the reference on page 3 to "Laurens County's gorgios," or Laurens County, Georgia) and reminds me of my young days when my family lived in Savannah, Georgia, and made frequent trips to Oglethorpe Mall.
Anyway, the pair, who could be Napoleon and Wellington, or Buckley and the Russian general (who we will read about in depth later), "struggled apairently for some considerable time." They take a break from their fighting to "pause for refleshmeant," then set to blows again. Eventually, the fighting ceases, and the Cad asks HCE to loan him some money. The stuttering HCE replies that he's broke for the moment, but, it being "Yuletide or Yuddanfest," he would be able to lend the Cad some money soon enough so that he could "buy J. J. and S. with" (aka, John Jameson & Son whiskey). The Cad's pleased with this news ("seemingly much more highly pleased than tongue could tell at this opening of a lifetime") and begins to dream of indulging in oysters and champagne at pubs across Dublin, including "Adam and Eve's in Quantity Street," which also recalls us to the "Eve and Adam's" of the books opening line.
There'll be more to follow on HCE and the Cad in the next post (and probably many more times thereafter). For now, though, I'll wrap up by noting how, once again, this passage had me totally perplexed on the first read through. As always, though, it was rewarding to see how, after spending some time unraveling these two pages, depths of meaning and understanding slowly began to materialize in my head.
On one level, this passage presents yet another version of the encounter between HCE and the Cad. It ostensibly takes place after HCE's death (the narrator says that "[t]he boarder incident prerepeated itself"). As is typical with the Wake, the identities of the persons involved here tends to be slippery, with the encounter variously seeming to take place between HCE and the Cad, or between HCE and one of his sons, or between HCE's two sons, or between one of HCE's sons and the Cad. I feel like it's (obviously) important to keep these shifting identities in mind here, but for ease of discussion I'm going to focus in on the HCE vs. the Cad angle today.
In this version, the "attackler," who I'm assuming is the Cad, engaged "the Adversary," HCE, who the Cad mistook for Oglethorpe (founder of Georgia) or Parr (Old Parr, an Englishman legendary for his long life and licentiousness). This bit seems like a minor detail, but it's a rich one, with the Cad mistaking HCE either for a figure of great importance or a borderline sexual deviant, reflecting HCE's dueling natures of All-Father and Fallen Sinner. I also like how the reference to Oglethorpe both recalls the Wake's opening paragraph (see the reference on page 3 to "Laurens County's gorgios," or Laurens County, Georgia) and reminds me of my young days when my family lived in Savannah, Georgia, and made frequent trips to Oglethorpe Mall.
Anyway, the pair, who could be Napoleon and Wellington, or Buckley and the Russian general (who we will read about in depth later), "struggled apairently for some considerable time." They take a break from their fighting to "pause for refleshmeant," then set to blows again. Eventually, the fighting ceases, and the Cad asks HCE to loan him some money. The stuttering HCE replies that he's broke for the moment, but, it being "Yuletide or Yuddanfest," he would be able to lend the Cad some money soon enough so that he could "buy J. J. and S. with" (aka, John Jameson & Son whiskey). The Cad's pleased with this news ("seemingly much more highly pleased than tongue could tell at this opening of a lifetime") and begins to dream of indulging in oysters and champagne at pubs across Dublin, including "Adam and Eve's in Quantity Street," which also recalls us to the "Eve and Adam's" of the books opening line.
There'll be more to follow on HCE and the Cad in the next post (and probably many more times thereafter). For now, though, I'll wrap up by noting how, once again, this passage had me totally perplexed on the first read through. As always, though, it was rewarding to see how, after spending some time unraveling these two pages, depths of meaning and understanding slowly began to materialize in my head.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
"the viability of vicinals if invisible is invincible"
(79.14-81.11) Today's reading is heavy on what I'm tending to refer to as transitional passages. These passages are chock full of good stuff, but I've found them to be the toughest ones to unravel, possibly because I'm struggling to find some context for them.
The short paragraph on page 79 is one such passage. We've left off HCE sucking on his own fat while hibernating in his grave, and we now shift our attention to the living ladies. We're told that they "did not disdain those pagan ironed times" when, like earwigs (or, HCE), every human being had to resign him or herself to the grave. The Venuses of those days were giggling and glib temptresses, the Vulcans were "guffawably eruptious," and the whole wide world of wives was brimming with inanities. The narrator says that it's a fact that in those times, any young woman would readily pray with (and perhaps prey on) any troubled soul. This sort of spiritual/predatory vocation becomes a means of seduction in which the young woman would woo and win the will of her conquest, ultimately claiming his hand in marriage. (I said this was a short paragraph, but even the short paragraphs of the Wake have tremendous depth to them.)
We now come upon a brief passage describing the widow Kate Strong, who has vivid memories of the days when HCE lived. Kate's appearance immediately calls to mind her predecessor or younger self, "the mistress Kathe," who gave us the tour of the Willingdone Museyroom in the first chapter of the Wake. Kate now supplies an image of HCE's household -- "a homelike cottage of elvanstone" -- as a total dump, with everything from chicken droppings to rotten vegetables strewn about the premises. Kate bears at least part of the responsibility for the condition of the place, because she was the housekeeper, and she "cleaned but sparingly." At some point, she cleaned the house out and deposited all the garbage near the "Serpentine in Phornix Park." The place became a veritable haven for scavengers, but we're told that this was the right place and the right time for the trash to be deposited: the battles ("ructions") were over, and this is the spot "where race began" and where "by four hands of forethought the first babe of reconcilement is laid in its last cradle of hume sweet hume." So, once again, we've got hints of an impending resurrection.
God, or "Allhighest," is the prominent figure in the next paragraph, joined by gods from a wide variety of religions. We are mere mortals in comparison to God, and each one of us will fall into our graves while God says, "as it was let it be." The voice of God thunders down like Jove's bolt, calling to the scavengers and ordering them to get out of the park. The scavengers scamper out.
Even though we weren't "trespassing on his corns either," we're now leaving the park like the scavengers. We're on an impressive road, the construction of which required the effort of Hercules. In fact, we're told that this road was built on the backs of slaves: "And a hungried thousand of the unemancipated slaved the way." HCE's mausoleum now stands behind us, and ahead of us are faltering milestones. The passage concludes with us standing before the temple of St. Fiacre, and the narrator orders us to halt. It's a perfect place, if there ever was one, to wrap up the day's reading.
The short paragraph on page 79 is one such passage. We've left off HCE sucking on his own fat while hibernating in his grave, and we now shift our attention to the living ladies. We're told that they "did not disdain those pagan ironed times" when, like earwigs (or, HCE), every human being had to resign him or herself to the grave. The Venuses of those days were giggling and glib temptresses, the Vulcans were "guffawably eruptious," and the whole wide world of wives was brimming with inanities. The narrator says that it's a fact that in those times, any young woman would readily pray with (and perhaps prey on) any troubled soul. This sort of spiritual/predatory vocation becomes a means of seduction in which the young woman would woo and win the will of her conquest, ultimately claiming his hand in marriage. (I said this was a short paragraph, but even the short paragraphs of the Wake have tremendous depth to them.)
We now come upon a brief passage describing the widow Kate Strong, who has vivid memories of the days when HCE lived. Kate's appearance immediately calls to mind her predecessor or younger self, "the mistress Kathe," who gave us the tour of the Willingdone Museyroom in the first chapter of the Wake. Kate now supplies an image of HCE's household -- "a homelike cottage of elvanstone" -- as a total dump, with everything from chicken droppings to rotten vegetables strewn about the premises. Kate bears at least part of the responsibility for the condition of the place, because she was the housekeeper, and she "cleaned but sparingly." At some point, she cleaned the house out and deposited all the garbage near the "Serpentine in Phornix Park." The place became a veritable haven for scavengers, but we're told that this was the right place and the right time for the trash to be deposited: the battles ("ructions") were over, and this is the spot "where race began" and where "by four hands of forethought the first babe of reconcilement is laid in its last cradle of hume sweet hume." So, once again, we've got hints of an impending resurrection.
God, or "Allhighest," is the prominent figure in the next paragraph, joined by gods from a wide variety of religions. We are mere mortals in comparison to God, and each one of us will fall into our graves while God says, "as it was let it be." The voice of God thunders down like Jove's bolt, calling to the scavengers and ordering them to get out of the park. The scavengers scamper out.
Even though we weren't "trespassing on his corns either," we're now leaving the park like the scavengers. We're on an impressive road, the construction of which required the effort of Hercules. In fact, we're told that this road was built on the backs of slaves: "And a hungried thousand of the unemancipated slaved the way." HCE's mausoleum now stands behind us, and ahead of us are faltering milestones. The passage concludes with us standing before the temple of St. Fiacre, and the narrator orders us to halt. It's a perfect place, if there ever was one, to wrap up the day's reading.
Monday, June 23, 2014
"But abide Zeit's sumonserving, rise afterfall."
(77.28-79.13) The first paragraph of today's reading details the wealth of worldly treasures that accompany HCE into the grave. In yesterday's reading, I got a vague impression that HCE was being entombed in somewhat of the same fashion as the Egyptian Pharaohs, and that suspicion seems to be confirmed by this passage. These treasures allow him to "live all safeathomely the presenile days of his life of opulence." In the end, he is "rich in death anticipated."
But even HCE cannot escape the harsh realities of the tomb. He has to "abide Zeit's [German for "Time's"] sumonserving." Eventually, the worms will work their way into his grave, and his body will be eaten away.
After that dose of crude reality, the narrator turns to the matters of the living. Perhaps predictably, a battle -- the "other spring offensive" -- has broken out between two "Celtiberian" camps. This battle has both religious and class elements to it, with each side being in "the purely doffensive" mode. (I like Joyce's combination of offensive and defensive with "doffensive.") Amongst the fighters, a rumor has broken out that HCE -- "Massa Ewacka" -- is not really dead, but in hibernation. A cook has told a story about HCE's prodigious appetite and ability to devour impressive amounts of rainbow trout, roaches, and minnows. Now, in hibernation mode, HCE is "secretly and by suckage feeding on his own misplaced fat."
This passage reintroduces the war theme that has been prevalent throughout the book. This is the cycle of life, it seems. While HCE was scapegoated during his life, his death and burial has not caused the fighting to cease. The hint of HCE's forthcoming resurrection is also in keeping with the cyclical nature of the Wake, and it'll be interesting to see how that shapes up.
But even HCE cannot escape the harsh realities of the tomb. He has to "abide Zeit's [German for "Time's"] sumonserving." Eventually, the worms will work their way into his grave, and his body will be eaten away.
After that dose of crude reality, the narrator turns to the matters of the living. Perhaps predictably, a battle -- the "other spring offensive" -- has broken out between two "Celtiberian" camps. This battle has both religious and class elements to it, with each side being in "the purely doffensive" mode. (I like Joyce's combination of offensive and defensive with "doffensive.") Amongst the fighters, a rumor has broken out that HCE -- "Massa Ewacka" -- is not really dead, but in hibernation. A cook has told a story about HCE's prodigious appetite and ability to devour impressive amounts of rainbow trout, roaches, and minnows. Now, in hibernation mode, HCE is "secretly and by suckage feeding on his own misplaced fat."
This passage reintroduces the war theme that has been prevalent throughout the book. This is the cycle of life, it seems. While HCE was scapegoated during his life, his death and burial has not caused the fighting to cease. The hint of HCE's forthcoming resurrection is also in keeping with the cyclical nature of the Wake, and it'll be interesting to see how that shapes up.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
"Let us leave theories there and return to here's here."
(75.1-77.27) The fourth chapter of Finnegans Wake picks up right where the previous chapter left off: with HCE sleeping (or dead). He's like a lion in a zoo thinking about the lilies of the Nile, dreaming about his fall from grace. It may be that he's dreaming about the two young women from the park, "those lililiths undeveiled which had undone him, gone for age," and that he's unaware of the false friends who attend his wake, "the watchful treachers at his wake, and theirs to stay." It's possible that before he went to sleep he prayed for the Cad, particularly (and mercifully) that the Cad might be the head of a distinguished dynasty. He also has an idea for the formation of a new type of prison that will promote the obedience of citizens and the health of society.
After this brief sort of introduction, the narrator turns our attention toward the stolen coffin that made a cameo appearance in the last chapter. We now learn that the coffin is for HCE, and that while HCE was still alive "[a]ny number of conservative public bodies" made a gift to him of "a protem grave" in Moyelta, which McHugh writes is a plain in Dublin where victims of the plague died and were buried.
The narrator describes the idyllic area where HCE is to be buried, and eventually calls it an "underground heaven, or mole's paradise." We then get a description of how the underground tomb was constructed. The action of construction is perhaps paradoxically more akin to warlike destruction, with its "reinvented T.N.T.," "aerial thorpeto," and "tins of improved ammonia lashed to her shieldplated gunwale." It's an interesting thing, using the machinery of death to build a haven for the dead.
Anyway, after lining the tomb with "rotproof bricks and mortar," the grave's "misterbilder," who is named Castlevillainous, retires to his towers (which McHugh notes correspond to the seven towers of the Tower of London). In recognition of his efforts, additional public councils present Castlevillainous with a stone slab bearing "a very fairworded instance of falsemeaning adamelegy: We have done ours gohellt with you, Heer Herewhippit, overgiven it, skidoo!"
I found it interesting how, even though the "action" of the fourth chapter picks up from the third chapter, there's a marked shift in tone (which I can't quite put my finger on at the moment) between the two chapters. I struggled at times reading through today's passage, a lot of which was probably attributable to Joyce's heavy use of Danish words and phrases. I feel like I'm getting a better handle on the Wake in general, though (and I'm starting to get back into the rhythm of getting the reading done every day, too).
After this brief sort of introduction, the narrator turns our attention toward the stolen coffin that made a cameo appearance in the last chapter. We now learn that the coffin is for HCE, and that while HCE was still alive "[a]ny number of conservative public bodies" made a gift to him of "a protem grave" in Moyelta, which McHugh writes is a plain in Dublin where victims of the plague died and were buried.
The narrator describes the idyllic area where HCE is to be buried, and eventually calls it an "underground heaven, or mole's paradise." We then get a description of how the underground tomb was constructed. The action of construction is perhaps paradoxically more akin to warlike destruction, with its "reinvented T.N.T.," "aerial thorpeto," and "tins of improved ammonia lashed to her shieldplated gunwale." It's an interesting thing, using the machinery of death to build a haven for the dead.
Anyway, after lining the tomb with "rotproof bricks and mortar," the grave's "misterbilder," who is named Castlevillainous, retires to his towers (which McHugh notes correspond to the seven towers of the Tower of London). In recognition of his efforts, additional public councils present Castlevillainous with a stone slab bearing "a very fairworded instance of falsemeaning adamelegy: We have done ours gohellt with you, Heer Herewhippit, overgiven it, skidoo!"
I found it interesting how, even though the "action" of the fourth chapter picks up from the third chapter, there's a marked shift in tone (which I can't quite put my finger on at the moment) between the two chapters. I struggled at times reading through today's passage, a lot of which was probably attributable to Joyce's heavy use of Danish words and phrases. I feel like I'm getting a better handle on the Wake in general, though (and I'm starting to get back into the rhythm of getting the reading done every day, too).
Saturday, June 21, 2014
"Humph is in his doge."
(72.25-74.19) Today we get to the conclusion of the third chapter of the Wake. The reading picks up with the unexpected visitor (who I'm calling the Cad) still outside of HCE's gate after having hurled a barrage of insults at our hero. The Cad's still in a drunkenly hostile state, as evidenced by the fact that he now hurls a few actual stones at HCE's home. He begins to have second thoughts, though, after "reconnoitring through his semisubconscious" and sobering up a bit. The Cad begins to take his leave, but not before calling to HCE and telling him to come outside so he can deliver a beating to HCE. Eventually they bite their thumbs at each other in farewell, and the Cad backs away from HCE's gate toward "the duff and demb institutions" of Dublin.
The narrator tells us that this brings to a conclusion (at least for now) the tales of the "siegings round our archicitadel." The next paragraph (the one that begins on the bottom of page 73) is a bit confusing because it refers to its subject using the elusive pronoun "he" -- is this the Cad the narrator's talking about, or is it HCE? Maybe it's both, or maybe it's one, then the other. Whoever it is, the narrator says that he appeared at many other doors across Dublin. As we turn the page to page 74, it seems like the narrator is now talking about HCE (who is a Finnegan figure: "some Finn, some Finn avant!"). HCE (assuming he's the "he") will eventually "wake from earthsleep" at the blowing of a mythical horn.
The narrative then draws a parallel between HCE, Finnegan, and Abraham. In the future days when the mythical horn is blown to resurrect HCE, God will call "Allprohome" (God's calling Abraham, or calling all to home), and HCE/Finnegan/Abraham will give two answers. First, he'll respond "Add some." McHugh notes that this evokes the Latin "adsum," which means "here am I" and is Abraham's response in the book of Genesis when God calls Abraham. The second answer is "Animadiabolum, mene credidisti mortuum?" McHugh translates this Latin as "soul of the devil did you believe me dead," which recalls both Finnegan's words upon rising in the Wake (which appear on page 24 as "Did ye drink me doornail?") and Finnegan's words upon rising in the song "Finnegan's Wake" ("do you think I'm dead?"). The narrator concludes the paragraph by saying that "there will be sounds of manymirth" when HCE rises again.
In the final paragraph of the chapter, we learn that HCE still lives, but he's asleep. Like Finnegan, his extremities spread across the four corners of Dublin. The chapter closes with a beautiful passage that evokes the comforting feeling of the falling rain as both HCE and we take both our nightly and eternal slumber. This is Joyce at his best, and I love this bit so much that I'll quote it here in full:
The narrator tells us that this brings to a conclusion (at least for now) the tales of the "siegings round our archicitadel." The next paragraph (the one that begins on the bottom of page 73) is a bit confusing because it refers to its subject using the elusive pronoun "he" -- is this the Cad the narrator's talking about, or is it HCE? Maybe it's both, or maybe it's one, then the other. Whoever it is, the narrator says that he appeared at many other doors across Dublin. As we turn the page to page 74, it seems like the narrator is now talking about HCE (who is a Finnegan figure: "some Finn, some Finn avant!"). HCE (assuming he's the "he") will eventually "wake from earthsleep" at the blowing of a mythical horn.
The narrative then draws a parallel between HCE, Finnegan, and Abraham. In the future days when the mythical horn is blown to resurrect HCE, God will call "Allprohome" (God's calling Abraham, or calling all to home), and HCE/Finnegan/Abraham will give two answers. First, he'll respond "Add some." McHugh notes that this evokes the Latin "adsum," which means "here am I" and is Abraham's response in the book of Genesis when God calls Abraham. The second answer is "Animadiabolum, mene credidisti mortuum?" McHugh translates this Latin as "soul of the devil did you believe me dead," which recalls both Finnegan's words upon rising in the Wake (which appear on page 24 as "Did ye drink me doornail?") and Finnegan's words upon rising in the song "Finnegan's Wake" ("do you think I'm dead?"). The narrator concludes the paragraph by saying that "there will be sounds of manymirth" when HCE rises again.
In the final paragraph of the chapter, we learn that HCE still lives, but he's asleep. Like Finnegan, his extremities spread across the four corners of Dublin. The chapter closes with a beautiful passage that evokes the comforting feeling of the falling rain as both HCE and we take both our nightly and eternal slumber. This is Joyce at his best, and I love this bit so much that I'll quote it here in full:
Humph is in his doge. Words weigh no no more to him than raindrips to Rethfernhim. Which we all like. Rain. When we sleep. Drops. But wait until our sleeping. Drain. Sdops.
Friday, June 20, 2014
"Woolworth's Worst"
(70.13-72.25) I felt like today's reading was the "easiest" I've had in a while (or maybe even as of yet). Undoubtedly, that's at least partly due to the fact that more than a page of the passage is dedicated to a catalog of names that I'll mention in a moment, but even notwithstanding that, the language seemed more straightforward -- at least on the surface level -- than a lot of other parts of the Wake.
Anyway, the passage picks up with HCE -- here actually mentioned by name, "Humphrey" -- receiving an "unsolicited visitor, Davy or Titus," who must be the Cad. The visitor (I'll call him the Cad for the rest of today) plops himself down outside HCE's gate and promptly shouts some threats toward HCE, who is tucked safely away inside of his house. The Cad demands alcohol from HCE, saying in essence that HCE's pub is open to the public for the sale of Irish Whiskey.
At this point, the Cad unleashes a torrent of insults. HCE compiles "a long list (now feared in part lost)" of these insults. The list recalls the epic catalogs of Homer and Milton, with Milton being particularly relevant here given the fact that the list is "ind the humours of Milltown." Interestingly enough, my secondary sources conflict on the question of how many insulting names are in the list. Tindall counts 113 names, while Campbell and Robinson and McHugh count 111. I see 112, but I think Campbell/Robinson and McHugh have it right. There are actually 113 discrete entries in the list, but "You're Welcome to Waterford, signed the Ribbonmen" count as one entry, both because this is the only instance where the word (here, "signed") following a comma is lowercase and because, as noted by McHugh, Waterford was a stronghold of the Ribbonmen. The clue to how many items are meant to be in the list comes from one of the names: "And at Number Wan Wan Wan." One-one-one equals 111. This means that two more discrete entries have to be combined to form one. I can't figure it out, but my best guest is the last name, which I'll combine as, "Boawwll's Alocutionist, Deposed."
Here's my top three favorite of the Cad's insulting names from HCE's list:
I particularly enjoyed the passage (again, not only because of the names), and it's one that I think is good for those who haven't read any of the Wake to take a look at to get a taste of the book.
Tomorrow: the end of the chapter.
Anyway, the passage picks up with HCE -- here actually mentioned by name, "Humphrey" -- receiving an "unsolicited visitor, Davy or Titus," who must be the Cad. The visitor (I'll call him the Cad for the rest of today) plops himself down outside HCE's gate and promptly shouts some threats toward HCE, who is tucked safely away inside of his house. The Cad demands alcohol from HCE, saying in essence that HCE's pub is open to the public for the sale of Irish Whiskey.
At this point, the Cad unleashes a torrent of insults. HCE compiles "a long list (now feared in part lost)" of these insults. The list recalls the epic catalogs of Homer and Milton, with Milton being particularly relevant here given the fact that the list is "ind the humours of Milltown." Interestingly enough, my secondary sources conflict on the question of how many insulting names are in the list. Tindall counts 113 names, while Campbell and Robinson and McHugh count 111. I see 112, but I think Campbell/Robinson and McHugh have it right. There are actually 113 discrete entries in the list, but "You're Welcome to Waterford, signed the Ribbonmen" count as one entry, both because this is the only instance where the word (here, "signed") following a comma is lowercase and because, as noted by McHugh, Waterford was a stronghold of the Ribbonmen. The clue to how many items are meant to be in the list comes from one of the names: "And at Number Wan Wan Wan." One-one-one equals 111. This means that two more discrete entries have to be combined to form one. I can't figure it out, but my best guest is the last name, which I'll combine as, "Boawwll's Alocutionist, Deposed."
Here's my top three favorite of the Cad's insulting names from HCE's list:
- Artist
- Easyathic Phallusaphist
- Flunkey Beadle Vamps the Tune Letting on He's Loney (sung to the tune of "Yankee Doodle," as noted by McHugh)
I particularly enjoyed the passage (again, not only because of the names), and it's one that I think is good for those who haven't read any of the Wake to take a look at to get a taste of the book.
Tomorrow: the end of the chapter.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
"The mouth that tells not will ever attract the unthinking tongue . . . "
(68.11-70.13) We last left off with the narrator describing the two young ladies of the night who may have caused HCE's downfall. It was fortuitous to have left off where I did, since today's passage begins with the narrator bringing ALP into the scene. HCE's wife is first called "Houri of the coast of emerald." McHugh identifies "Houri" in his Annotations as a "nymph of Mohammedean paradise." ALP is thus a nymph of the Emerald Isle, and also "arrah of the lacessive poghue" (A-L-P), that is (since McHugh translates "lacesso" as the Italian "I provoke"), an enticing provoker of kisses. ALP was once a kind of temptress who "sent many a poor pucker packing to perdition, again and again." HCE didn't quite understand her, though. The narrator asks, didn't he "missbrand her behaveyous with iridescent huecry of down right mean false sop lap sick dope?" (McHugh points out the musical scale at the end of that passage: Do (down), re (right), mi (mean), etc . . . .) For all the misunderstanding, though, in the end ALP was a queen and HCE was a king, and his eyes gazed ravenously upon her lips. He can now hear her voice, but "by the beer of his profit, he cannot answer." The narrator says that no monument needs to be placed to commemorate this tale, for the land itself serves as a witness.
There's a brief interlude exploring how gossip, violence, and blackmail will always rule the day. But, "by memory inspired," the narrator "turn wheel again" (turns the wheel again, or turns we again) to the "whole of the wall" (the whole in the wall at Phoenix Park, or the whole of the law). This wall/law has been there forever ("Ere ore or ire in Aarlund."), and it was here that HCE -- "the suroptimist" -- bought a shack by the wall and built it into a homestead. At some point he constructed an "applegate" to keep donkeys off the property and to keep the cat from getting gout (or getting out or getting at the goat), and eventually the gate was "triplepatlockt" on HCE by his faithful friends to keep him on his property (and, it stands to reason, out of the park).
Suddenly (or, as the narrator says, "by the by"), the narrator draws a connection from this tale of the wall to "a northroomer, Herr Betreffender," who's another version of HCE. (McHugh translates "Herr Betreffender" as German for "the person concerned" or the "before mentioned," HCE was previously depicted as carrying a fender, and he's also an offender.) This foreigner is in town swapping broken Irish with broken German and reporting on the Fall of Adam. How does this version of HCE fit in with the ones that came before? That's for tomorrow's passage . . . .
There's a brief interlude exploring how gossip, violence, and blackmail will always rule the day. But, "by memory inspired," the narrator "turn wheel again" (turns the wheel again, or turns we again) to the "whole of the wall" (the whole in the wall at Phoenix Park, or the whole of the law). This wall/law has been there forever ("Ere ore or ire in Aarlund."), and it was here that HCE -- "the suroptimist" -- bought a shack by the wall and built it into a homestead. At some point he constructed an "applegate" to keep donkeys off the property and to keep the cat from getting gout (or getting out or getting at the goat), and eventually the gate was "triplepatlockt" on HCE by his faithful friends to keep him on his property (and, it stands to reason, out of the park).
Suddenly (or, as the narrator says, "by the by"), the narrator draws a connection from this tale of the wall to "a northroomer, Herr Betreffender," who's another version of HCE. (McHugh translates "Herr Betreffender" as German for "the person concerned" or the "before mentioned," HCE was previously depicted as carrying a fender, and he's also an offender.) This foreigner is in town swapping broken Irish with broken German and reporting on the Fall of Adam. How does this version of HCE fit in with the ones that came before? That's for tomorrow's passage . . . .
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
"But resuming inquiries."
(66.10-68.11) This past week got pretty hectic, so now I'm way behind pace. I've resolved to get back at it, though, so here's hoping that this week will be different.
Today's passage begins with two short interludes. First, we hear about a post officer delivering a letter. The narrator asks whether the day will ever come when the post officer will hand in "a huge chain envelope" (H-C-E, again) signed by "A Laughable Party" (A-L-P, again) to "Hyde and Cheek, Edenberry, Dubblenn, WC?" More questions abound. Will the letter be clear, speaking in terms of black and white, or will it just be mixed-up confusion? Will it be a blight upon us, or will it bring brightness upon us? Will the "litterish fragments" (this calls to mind the literary fragments of Work in Progress, Joyce's serialized draft of Finnegans Wake) of this letter (Finnegans Wake?) lurk dormant in the postbox until it's found by some locals (to whom it's not addressed)?
The second interlude involves a coffin, "a triumph of the illusionist's art," that's been stolen from a funeral parlor. Why was it stolen? In one sense, it's for the attendees of some warped fairy tale ball who, after a night of fornicating, collapse into ashes. The secondary sources indicate that there's more talk of letters and coffins to come.
Those secondary sources also indicate that the second page of today's reading is the beginning of HCE's trial. The elements in the air are altered, and a police officer named Long Lally Tobkids takes the stand. Tobkins describes an encounter with "a right querrshnorrt of mand," a butcher who, after making his deliveries "hickicked" at a door (this could be either kicking at the door or drunkenly hiccuping at the door). When Tobkids accosted the butcher about the "pretended hick," the butcher said, "I appop pie oath, Phillyps Captain." I believe it's Tobkins replying in the next sentence: "You did, as I sostressed before." This passage is a bit perplexing to me. Is this the same man as in the story on page 63, and if so, is it HCE that's approached by the officer (rather than the Cad, as I had suspected earlier)? This is all something for me to ponder more, but maybe it doesn't really matter so much, because Tobkins' testimony is interrupted by someone (who may be a relative of the butcher) who says, "You are deepknee in error, sir, Madam Tomkins . . . ."
The next paragraph begins with the words, "Now to the obverse." So it looks like we're going to get the rest of (or at least another side of) the story. In one sense, the narrator notes that from the teenage years to dementia is barely a five decade span, "and hence these camelback excesses" (H-C-E, again) are thought to be caused by one of the two young women ("hollow heroines" -- McHugh notes that the Hollow is in Phoenix Park) in the park. The women are now painted as prostitutes. The first, Lupita Lorette (McHugh identifies "lorette" as French slang for "whore"), killed herself. The second, the soiled dove Luperca Latouche (McHugh identifies "soiled dove" as slang for "prostitute") discovered that she could make an easy living as a stripper. She soon began to really rake in the cash (she "soon found her fruitful hat too small for her") engaging in all manner of lascivious behavior: necking, partying, and selling favors in hay piles, closets, parks, and even church yards. Before we judge her too harshly, though, the narrator notes that she's doing the same thing that our mutual grandmother did for Oscar, the grandson of the legendary Irish hero Finn McCool (or is it Oscar Wilde?).
I can't say it enough. The Wake is as entertaining as it is bewildering.
Today's passage begins with two short interludes. First, we hear about a post officer delivering a letter. The narrator asks whether the day will ever come when the post officer will hand in "a huge chain envelope" (H-C-E, again) signed by "A Laughable Party" (A-L-P, again) to "Hyde and Cheek, Edenberry, Dubblenn, WC?" More questions abound. Will the letter be clear, speaking in terms of black and white, or will it just be mixed-up confusion? Will it be a blight upon us, or will it bring brightness upon us? Will the "litterish fragments" (this calls to mind the literary fragments of Work in Progress, Joyce's serialized draft of Finnegans Wake) of this letter (Finnegans Wake?) lurk dormant in the postbox until it's found by some locals (to whom it's not addressed)?
The second interlude involves a coffin, "a triumph of the illusionist's art," that's been stolen from a funeral parlor. Why was it stolen? In one sense, it's for the attendees of some warped fairy tale ball who, after a night of fornicating, collapse into ashes. The secondary sources indicate that there's more talk of letters and coffins to come.
Those secondary sources also indicate that the second page of today's reading is the beginning of HCE's trial. The elements in the air are altered, and a police officer named Long Lally Tobkids takes the stand. Tobkins describes an encounter with "a right querrshnorrt of mand," a butcher who, after making his deliveries "hickicked" at a door (this could be either kicking at the door or drunkenly hiccuping at the door). When Tobkids accosted the butcher about the "pretended hick," the butcher said, "I appop pie oath, Phillyps Captain." I believe it's Tobkins replying in the next sentence: "You did, as I sostressed before." This passage is a bit perplexing to me. Is this the same man as in the story on page 63, and if so, is it HCE that's approached by the officer (rather than the Cad, as I had suspected earlier)? This is all something for me to ponder more, but maybe it doesn't really matter so much, because Tobkins' testimony is interrupted by someone (who may be a relative of the butcher) who says, "You are deepknee in error, sir, Madam Tomkins . . . ."
The next paragraph begins with the words, "Now to the obverse." So it looks like we're going to get the rest of (or at least another side of) the story. In one sense, the narrator notes that from the teenage years to dementia is barely a five decade span, "and hence these camelback excesses" (H-C-E, again) are thought to be caused by one of the two young women ("hollow heroines" -- McHugh notes that the Hollow is in Phoenix Park) in the park. The women are now painted as prostitutes. The first, Lupita Lorette (McHugh identifies "lorette" as French slang for "whore"), killed herself. The second, the soiled dove Luperca Latouche (McHugh identifies "soiled dove" as slang for "prostitute") discovered that she could make an easy living as a stripper. She soon began to really rake in the cash (she "soon found her fruitful hat too small for her") engaging in all manner of lascivious behavior: necking, partying, and selling favors in hay piles, closets, parks, and even church yards. Before we judge her too harshly, though, the narrator notes that she's doing the same thing that our mutual grandmother did for Oscar, the grandson of the legendary Irish hero Finn McCool (or is it Oscar Wilde?).
I can't say it enough. The Wake is as entertaining as it is bewildering.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
"And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world!"
(64.22-66.9) Is it tomorrow? I had promised to get this post up yesterday, but once again I'm a day late and a dolor short. No time/use for excuses, let's just jump into this great passage.
Today we get to go to the movies! The passage begins with an interruption: "Just one moment. A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers!" This "pinch in time" has us taking a break from the tale of the Cad's encounter with HCE and brings us in a (seemingly) totally different direction. Joyce's book predated The Mickey Mouse Club, but I feel like he might have foresaw the musketeer-mouseketeer connection. Anyway, sometimes when I'm reading this book, I feel like Annette Funicello. (Whatever that means.)
The first paragraph of this relatively straightforward passage continues with the seating of the moviegoers and the film's opening fanfare. The narrator tells us that the leg of "ordinary man" (both the moviegoers and us) is "getting musclebound from being too pulled." We've been getting bamboozled, but, the narrator tells us, the actor Noah Beery was able to burn fat fast, so why not us?
We may be balding old men, but there's still ways to keep up appearances. A prime example of someone who's able to thrive in his old age is the hero of the film, a grandfather with an eye for young women. He "calls on his skirt" and makes elaborate vows of love to her. But this skirt is pretty slick. She wants cash from the old man so she can buy a nice, new wardrobe and run off with another man. She thinks the old man's a bit crazy, but he's actually pretty slick himself. He's secretly got another affair in waiting, and while he's got the hots for woman #1, he's perfectly fine with canoodling with woman #2. The story ends with a vision of all three finding their happiness, "afloat in a dreamlifeboat, hugging two by two." I read this as Noah's Ark turned into The Love Boat, with the old man happy with his second flame and the first flame happy with the younger man she wooed with the old man's money. The film ends: "Finny."
The final paragraph of today's passage provides what Campbell and Robinson refer to A Skeleton Key as the moral of the story: There's no use in really talking about these crazy love affairs because this type of stuff is happening all the time all over the world. The narrator also points to a parallel between the film's characters and HCE ("the fender") and the Cad ("the bottle at the gate"). HCE's the old man lusting after two women, and the Cad's the interloper.
Before we leave the theater, we get two final messages on the screen. The first alerts us to an eventual sequel to the film: "To be continued." The second gives us the name of the studio that produced the film: "Federals' Uniteds' Transports' Unions' for Exultations' of Triumphants' Ecstasies." In his Annotations, McHugh explains that the studio's initials form an acrostic for a certain colorful Latin word: F-U-T-U-E-T-E." For those of you who (like me) didn't get this far in your Latin, Joyce is gleefully ending this section on a "high" note. "Futuete" is Latin for "fuck." So think of this as a high art foreshadowing of the Britney Spears song "If You Seek Amy."
And I'll end this post on a "high" note of my own. I particularly enjoyed the rhythm of the last paragraph in this passage, so here's a video of me reading (read: flailing through) the paragraph. Enjoy.
Today we get to go to the movies! The passage begins with an interruption: "Just one moment. A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers!" This "pinch in time" has us taking a break from the tale of the Cad's encounter with HCE and brings us in a (seemingly) totally different direction. Joyce's book predated The Mickey Mouse Club, but I feel like he might have foresaw the musketeer-mouseketeer connection. Anyway, sometimes when I'm reading this book, I feel like Annette Funicello. (Whatever that means.)
The first paragraph of this relatively straightforward passage continues with the seating of the moviegoers and the film's opening fanfare. The narrator tells us that the leg of "ordinary man" (both the moviegoers and us) is "getting musclebound from being too pulled." We've been getting bamboozled, but, the narrator tells us, the actor Noah Beery was able to burn fat fast, so why not us?
We may be balding old men, but there's still ways to keep up appearances. A prime example of someone who's able to thrive in his old age is the hero of the film, a grandfather with an eye for young women. He "calls on his skirt" and makes elaborate vows of love to her. But this skirt is pretty slick. She wants cash from the old man so she can buy a nice, new wardrobe and run off with another man. She thinks the old man's a bit crazy, but he's actually pretty slick himself. He's secretly got another affair in waiting, and while he's got the hots for woman #1, he's perfectly fine with canoodling with woman #2. The story ends with a vision of all three finding their happiness, "afloat in a dreamlifeboat, hugging two by two." I read this as Noah's Ark turned into The Love Boat, with the old man happy with his second flame and the first flame happy with the younger man she wooed with the old man's money. The film ends: "Finny."
The final paragraph of today's passage provides what Campbell and Robinson refer to A Skeleton Key as the moral of the story: There's no use in really talking about these crazy love affairs because this type of stuff is happening all the time all over the world. The narrator also points to a parallel between the film's characters and HCE ("the fender") and the Cad ("the bottle at the gate"). HCE's the old man lusting after two women, and the Cad's the interloper.
Before we leave the theater, we get two final messages on the screen. The first alerts us to an eventual sequel to the film: "To be continued." The second gives us the name of the studio that produced the film: "Federals' Uniteds' Transports' Unions' for Exultations' of Triumphants' Ecstasies." In his Annotations, McHugh explains that the studio's initials form an acrostic for a certain colorful Latin word: F-U-T-U-E-T-E." For those of you who (like me) didn't get this far in your Latin, Joyce is gleefully ending this section on a "high" note. "Futuete" is Latin for "fuck." So think of this as a high art foreshadowing of the Britney Spears song "If You Seek Amy."
And I'll end this post on a "high" note of my own. I particularly enjoyed the rhythm of the last paragraph in this passage, so here's a video of me reading (read: flailing through) the paragraph. Enjoy.
Monday, June 9, 2014
"This battering babel"
(62.26-64.21) Alright, I'm back in business after another weekend away from the Wake. It's looking more and more like I'm not going to be able to maintain the two-page a day pace over the course of the year, but as I've mentioned before, there's some wiggle room built into the plan since the book's 628 pages long, meaning there's roughly 314 daily readings. So, I'll continue to soldier on as best I can . . .
Fortunately today's reading begins at a good spot to pick up at following the short hiatus. The section today details two new accounts of the encounter between HCE and the Cad. The first account picks up on/at "Wednesdbury" (nice job of Joyce there giving a place and time with one word). HCE, "that one tall man, humping a suspicious parcel," is coming home late at night amid a "dense particular" (a shout-out to Dickens' "London particular" fog in Bleak House) from a minstrel show, when from out of nowhere an "unknowable assailant" points a "barkiss revolver" (a shout-out to Dickens' Mr. Barkis in David Copperfield -- I particularly like this reference, because Mr. Barkis is great) in HCE's face and says "you're shot, major." The dispute apparently arises out of some jealousy involving either or both of two women, Lotta Crabtree and Pomona Evlyn. The waylayer says he's got a knife and another gun, "a loaded Hobson's," and he must choose between "twin alternatives": either shoot/rape the aunt (ALP?) or "bash in Patch's [HCE, I'm guessing] blank face beyond recognition." The assailant then asks the assailed what he's doing with "that Kane's fender," to which HCE responds that this is a question for the assailant "to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able."
But wait: the narrator interrupts the story, saying, "But how transparingly nontrue, gentlewriter!" So this is just another wild rumor. We now get the second account. The incident occurred either because of a dispute involving "Myramy Huey or Colores Archer, under Flaggy Bridge" or because of the Cad's apparent desire to draw the local law enforcement's attention outside of HCE's pub, "Haveyou-caught-emerod's temperance gateway."
This latest account continues by describing the state of the Cad when he's found outside of HCE's pub. To put it simply, he's trashed. He spent the day paying visits to an impressive list of local pubs: "House of Blazes, the Parrot in Hell, the Orange Tree, the Glibt, the Sun, the Holy Lamb and, lapse not leashed, in Ramitdown's ship hotel." The Cad drunkenly explains that he's a process server and was trying to open up a bottle of stout by banging it against the pub's door. The noise attracted Maurice Behan (identified in my secondary sources as a pub employee), who was awoken by the Cad's pounding and rushed outside to see what was going on. The ruckus also caused HCE's daughter, "the young reine" (French for "queen," and, I speculate, a young Rhine River, in line the ALP-river motif), to come down to the scene of the crime. It also upsets ALP, "the old liffopotamus."
Once again, we got another fun and fascinating passage today. I will be back tomorrow.
Fortunately today's reading begins at a good spot to pick up at following the short hiatus. The section today details two new accounts of the encounter between HCE and the Cad. The first account picks up on/at "Wednesdbury" (nice job of Joyce there giving a place and time with one word). HCE, "that one tall man, humping a suspicious parcel," is coming home late at night amid a "dense particular" (a shout-out to Dickens' "London particular" fog in Bleak House) from a minstrel show, when from out of nowhere an "unknowable assailant" points a "barkiss revolver" (a shout-out to Dickens' Mr. Barkis in David Copperfield -- I particularly like this reference, because Mr. Barkis is great) in HCE's face and says "you're shot, major." The dispute apparently arises out of some jealousy involving either or both of two women, Lotta Crabtree and Pomona Evlyn. The waylayer says he's got a knife and another gun, "a loaded Hobson's," and he must choose between "twin alternatives": either shoot/rape the aunt (ALP?) or "bash in Patch's [HCE, I'm guessing] blank face beyond recognition." The assailant then asks the assailed what he's doing with "that Kane's fender," to which HCE responds that this is a question for the assailant "to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able."
But wait: the narrator interrupts the story, saying, "But how transparingly nontrue, gentlewriter!" So this is just another wild rumor. We now get the second account. The incident occurred either because of a dispute involving "Myramy Huey or Colores Archer, under Flaggy Bridge" or because of the Cad's apparent desire to draw the local law enforcement's attention outside of HCE's pub, "Haveyou-caught-emerod's temperance gateway."
This latest account continues by describing the state of the Cad when he's found outside of HCE's pub. To put it simply, he's trashed. He spent the day paying visits to an impressive list of local pubs: "House of Blazes, the Parrot in Hell, the Orange Tree, the Glibt, the Sun, the Holy Lamb and, lapse not leashed, in Ramitdown's ship hotel." The Cad drunkenly explains that he's a process server and was trying to open up a bottle of stout by banging it against the pub's door. The noise attracted Maurice Behan (identified in my secondary sources as a pub employee), who was awoken by the Cad's pounding and rushed outside to see what was going on. The ruckus also caused HCE's daughter, "the young reine" (French for "queen," and, I speculate, a young Rhine River, in line the ALP-river motif), to come down to the scene of the crime. It also upsets ALP, "the old liffopotamus."
Once again, we got another fun and fascinating passage today. I will be back tomorrow.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
"the premier terror of Errorland"
(60.22-62.25) Today we pick up with the entertaining "man on the street" accounts of HCE. As in yesterday's passage, the reports cover a wide range of opinions, and sometimes individuals are completely ambivalent (or "antipodal," in the case of Mr Danl Magrath, aka "Caligula"). Take, for example, Missioner Ida Wombwell, who characterizes Earwicker as "a brut!" before adding, "But a magnificent brut!"
I liked the lisping account of Sylvia Silence, "the girl detective," who gives her account while sitting in "a truly easy chair" in her "cozy-dozy bachelure's flat." "Bachelure" in one sense indicates that her home is a bachelor pad, but in another sense it's a lair from which she lures bachelors. In her lisping voice, she addresses the narrator, now referred to as a reporter: "Have you evew thought, wepowtew, that sheew gweatness was his twadgedy?" Even though she speculates that HCE may have been Great, she still feels he's liable for his actions, and says that he should be prosecuted pursuant to subsection 32 of section 11 of the C.L.A. act of 1885. In the Annotations, McHugh points out that this is the law under which Oscar Wilde was prosecuted, suggesting another parallel between the two Deviant but Great sinners, HCE and Wilde.
The accounts end with a Navy man, Meagher, who sits with two women, Questa and Puella, with which he may or may not have just had sex (he's "seated . . . for the usual aireating after the ever popular act," and one of the women tells him, "saddle up your pance"). I've gone back and forth here as to whether Meagher or Questa is speaking at the end of the paragraph on page 61 (sometimes the gender pronouns are slippery in the Wake). I'm pretty sure it's Meagher, but not completely sure because the speaker addresses "fiancee Meagher." I'm guessing Joyce inserted this phrase of address to add some confusion to the book, but McHugh helpfully notes that "mea" is Latin for "mine," so I'm reading this as Meagher addressing "my fiance." Anyway, assuming that it's Meagher speaking, he says that HCE bears the blame for his fall, but, "I also think, Puellywally [Puella must be the "fiancee Meagher"], by the siege of his trousers there was someone else behind it -- you bet your boughtem blarneys -- about their three drummers down Keysars Lane." So, add Meagher to the list of people who suspect the three soldiers were more than just witnesses to HCE's crime.
The narrator shifts gears in the next paragraph, asking whether these stories are all just "meer marchant taylor's fablings" and adding, "Is now all seenheard then forgotten?" We don't really know who to trust, and despite (or perhaps because of) the unreliability of our sources, the narrator says "we, on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens on that account" ("pricking pens" -- obvious phallic joke alert!).
We're told that HCE fled Dublin and traveled "beyond the outraved gales of Atreeatic." McHugh notes that across the Adriatic from Dublin is Trieste, the city where Joyce and his wife, Nora, settled after leaving Dublin. So there's a connection between Joyce and HCE. Another connection is suggested when we learn that HCE changed "clues with a baggermalster," further emphasizing HCE as a descendant of Finnegan (two pages into the book, Finnegan is "Bygmester Finnegan"). Across the sea, HCE marries ALP ("a papishee").
Today's reading ends with a great passage that portrays the Dubliners as forsaking, condemning, and convicting the Christ-like "Humpheres Cheops Exarchas." The paragraph winds up with the narrator saying that HCE tried live a just and honorable life, "but for all that he or his or his care were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland." Of course, though, this is Finnegans Wake, so we can't be sure whether this synopsis of HCE is accurate or not. After all, the final word in this paragraph is, "(perorhaps!)."
I liked the lisping account of Sylvia Silence, "the girl detective," who gives her account while sitting in "a truly easy chair" in her "cozy-dozy bachelure's flat." "Bachelure" in one sense indicates that her home is a bachelor pad, but in another sense it's a lair from which she lures bachelors. In her lisping voice, she addresses the narrator, now referred to as a reporter: "Have you evew thought, wepowtew, that sheew gweatness was his twadgedy?" Even though she speculates that HCE may have been Great, she still feels he's liable for his actions, and says that he should be prosecuted pursuant to subsection 32 of section 11 of the C.L.A. act of 1885. In the Annotations, McHugh points out that this is the law under which Oscar Wilde was prosecuted, suggesting another parallel between the two Deviant but Great sinners, HCE and Wilde.
The accounts end with a Navy man, Meagher, who sits with two women, Questa and Puella, with which he may or may not have just had sex (he's "seated . . . for the usual aireating after the ever popular act," and one of the women tells him, "saddle up your pance"). I've gone back and forth here as to whether Meagher or Questa is speaking at the end of the paragraph on page 61 (sometimes the gender pronouns are slippery in the Wake). I'm pretty sure it's Meagher, but not completely sure because the speaker addresses "fiancee Meagher." I'm guessing Joyce inserted this phrase of address to add some confusion to the book, but McHugh helpfully notes that "mea" is Latin for "mine," so I'm reading this as Meagher addressing "my fiance." Anyway, assuming that it's Meagher speaking, he says that HCE bears the blame for his fall, but, "I also think, Puellywally [Puella must be the "fiancee Meagher"], by the siege of his trousers there was someone else behind it -- you bet your boughtem blarneys -- about their three drummers down Keysars Lane." So, add Meagher to the list of people who suspect the three soldiers were more than just witnesses to HCE's crime.
The narrator shifts gears in the next paragraph, asking whether these stories are all just "meer marchant taylor's fablings" and adding, "Is now all seenheard then forgotten?" We don't really know who to trust, and despite (or perhaps because of) the unreliability of our sources, the narrator says "we, on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens on that account" ("pricking pens" -- obvious phallic joke alert!).
We're told that HCE fled Dublin and traveled "beyond the outraved gales of Atreeatic." McHugh notes that across the Adriatic from Dublin is Trieste, the city where Joyce and his wife, Nora, settled after leaving Dublin. So there's a connection between Joyce and HCE. Another connection is suggested when we learn that HCE changed "clues with a baggermalster," further emphasizing HCE as a descendant of Finnegan (two pages into the book, Finnegan is "Bygmester Finnegan"). Across the sea, HCE marries ALP ("a papishee").
Today's reading ends with a great passage that portrays the Dubliners as forsaking, condemning, and convicting the Christ-like "Humpheres Cheops Exarchas." The paragraph winds up with the narrator saying that HCE tried live a just and honorable life, "but for all that he or his or his care were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland." Of course, though, this is Finnegans Wake, so we can't be sure whether this synopsis of HCE is accurate or not. After all, the final word in this paragraph is, "(perorhaps!)."
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
"Paw! Once more I'll hellbowl!"
(58.23-60.22) While today's passage was somewhat confusing at first (shocking, I know), this one was a lot easier to go through on subsequent reads. It's lots of fun, too. The basic premise here is that we're getting to hop around town and listen to a boatload of Dubliners give their opinions on HCE. For those of you who have read Ulysses, this passage is sort of like a lightning-round version of that novel's Wandering Rocks chapter (at least that's what it looks like if you squint). The confusion in this passage arises from the way Joyce mashes all of the characters' statements together, back-to-back-to-back, without much indication of when we're switching voices. On first reading, it's hard to distinguish where one character's account ends and another's begins, but once you get a sense for each character's distinct language, it's smoother sailing.
I'm not going to go through and summarize each individual's thoughts here. By Tindall's count in his Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake, we hear from 12 different colorful characters or groups of characters over the course of these two pages. I'll just hit on some of the ones I found amusing or interesting.
The passage starts off pertinently enough with the three soldiers -- "three tommix, soliders free" -- who allegedly witnessed HCE's misdeed. We hear the sounds of them marching down Montgomery Street -- "[t]ap and pat and tapatagain" -- then hear the narrator encourage them to dish out the dirt: "fire firstshot, Missiers the Refuseleers! Peingpeong!" (As an aside, McHugh identifies Montgomery Street as a street in Dublin's Nighttown. I wonder if these soldiers have a connection to the soldiers in Ulysses who clash with Stephen Dedalus in Nighttown.) The soldiers concur in assigning the blame for the fall of HCE, the new new Adam, to a woman who tempted HCE in Phoenix Park, the new new Eden: "It was the first woman, they said, souped him, that fatal wellesday, Lili Coninghams, by suggesting him they go in a field."
Some of the people we meet here are sympathetic to HCE. Mrs F . . . A . . . , for instance, hopes he gets Christmas gifts because "the worryld had been uncained (in one sense, "the world has been unkind," but in another "the world has been freed from the despicable Cain"). Others have some harsh words. Kevin the dustman says his buddies all say "he is a cemented brick, buck it all." As McHugh points out, this can be "translated" to "he is a demented prick, fuck it all."
Another bawdy figure is Brian Lynsky, "the cub curser," who delivers the misogynistic line, "I am for cavemen chase and sahara sex, burk you! Them two bitches ought to be leashed, canem! Up hog and hoar hunt!" (I think ol' Lynsky's thoughts are pretty self-explanatory.)
Not wanting to end on a completely brash note, I'll leave for today with the kind words of the Daughters Benkletter. (McHugh writes that "benklaeder" is Danish for "drawers." I guess this wouldn't be a book written by Joyce without some references to panties . . . ) These daughters, who again are on the sympathetic side, murmur in "uniswoon" "Golforgilhisjurylegs!"
I'm not going to go through and summarize each individual's thoughts here. By Tindall's count in his Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake, we hear from 12 different colorful characters or groups of characters over the course of these two pages. I'll just hit on some of the ones I found amusing or interesting.
The passage starts off pertinently enough with the three soldiers -- "three tommix, soliders free" -- who allegedly witnessed HCE's misdeed. We hear the sounds of them marching down Montgomery Street -- "[t]ap and pat and tapatagain" -- then hear the narrator encourage them to dish out the dirt: "fire firstshot, Missiers the Refuseleers! Peingpeong!" (As an aside, McHugh identifies Montgomery Street as a street in Dublin's Nighttown. I wonder if these soldiers have a connection to the soldiers in Ulysses who clash with Stephen Dedalus in Nighttown.) The soldiers concur in assigning the blame for the fall of HCE, the new new Adam, to a woman who tempted HCE in Phoenix Park, the new new Eden: "It was the first woman, they said, souped him, that fatal wellesday, Lili Coninghams, by suggesting him they go in a field."
Some of the people we meet here are sympathetic to HCE. Mrs F . . . A . . . , for instance, hopes he gets Christmas gifts because "the worryld had been uncained (in one sense, "the world has been unkind," but in another "the world has been freed from the despicable Cain"). Others have some harsh words. Kevin the dustman says his buddies all say "he is a cemented brick, buck it all." As McHugh points out, this can be "translated" to "he is a demented prick, fuck it all."
Another bawdy figure is Brian Lynsky, "the cub curser," who delivers the misogynistic line, "I am for cavemen chase and sahara sex, burk you! Them two bitches ought to be leashed, canem! Up hog and hoar hunt!" (I think ol' Lynsky's thoughts are pretty self-explanatory.)
Not wanting to end on a completely brash note, I'll leave for today with the kind words of the Daughters Benkletter. (McHugh writes that "benklaeder" is Danish for "drawers." I guess this wouldn't be a book written by Joyce without some references to panties . . . ) These daughters, who again are on the sympathetic side, murmur in "uniswoon" "Golforgilhisjurylegs!"
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
"Before he fell hill he filled heaven"
(56.20-58.22) I feel like today we're starting to get back into some familiar, or at least less hostile territory. The passage begins with a "Traveller remote" lifting his eyes to the "semisigns of his zooteac," or a Wake-ian zodiac. This traveler "quasi-begin"s to smile before the narrator interrupts (using a parenthetical, again) to tell us that there wasn't really anything going on in the traveler's head as he gazed at the sky. (McHugh notes in his Annotations that this parenthetical both references the writer Wyndham Lewis -- "windy Nous" -- and parodies Lewis's criticism of Joyce as someone who never has much of anything going on inside his head. Score another point for Mr. Joyce.)
The next paragraph seems to ask why the traveler was really smiling. To get an answer, the narrator turns toward the Four Magi of the Wake, who are formally introduced here for the first time as the "forefarther folkers," Armagh, Clonakilty, Deansgrange, and Barna. These four represent the four points of the compass and, as McHugh notes, their names are places in the four corners of Ireland: Armagh in the North, Clonakilty in the South, Deansgrange in the East (in Dublin, notably), and Barna in the West. The four men say (in one sense) that before HCE fell ill he filled heaven. (You could also say that before he fell to hell he filled heaven, or before he filled hell he felled heaven.) His heaven was the stream, "alplapping streamlet," or in other words a small, lapping stream but also his wife, ALP. The rise of one generation at the expense of the next is also indicated by the four men saying that they were "wee wee" "thermites" during HCE's days, and the fall of HCE "wonderstruck" them as thunder. Now, with HCE gone, they are like four all-seeing sages.
But maybe it's wrong to call them "all-seeing." They go on to say that even if we had the "unfacts" of HCE's story, we still wouldn't have enough information to be certain about what happened to him. After all, his judges are "freak threes" (the three soldiers in the park) and his jury are "minus twos" (the two young women in the park). But there's always a story to tell, and this time we look to Madame Tussaud's (the National Gallery is "now completely complacent") to see a wax figure. From one angle, the figure looks like HCE looking maudlin as he watches the sun set. But from another angle, it's Lewis Carroll, with a mildewed cheek, joined by his Alice, who's not in Wonderland, but standing at his side with her hand in his. (Atherton's The Books at the Wake has an extended and insightful discussion of Joyce's treatment of Lewis Carroll in the Wake.) Here Carroll, whose close friendship with young children has generated a lot of speculation and rumor over the years, merges with HCE, whose night in Phoenix Park also generated a great deal of speculation and rumor.
The next paragraph begins by using a lot of legal language to give various (and sometimes conflicting) accounts of HCE's trial. HCE is given the name Greatwheel Dunlop (after the British tire manufacturer), and our debt to him is acknowledged. But this "priest and king" is gone now, "torn limb from lamb." We get another appearance of our old buddy Manneken Pis -- here "Mannequins pause!" -- before we realize that we're at HCE's wake, which bears a striking similarity to Finnegan's wake. And as the new king approaches to replace HCE we see "the unforgettable treshade" loom "up behind the jostling judgments."
The chapter seems to be picking up steam, but maybe that's just me. I guess we'll see tomorrow . . . .
The next paragraph seems to ask why the traveler was really smiling. To get an answer, the narrator turns toward the Four Magi of the Wake, who are formally introduced here for the first time as the "forefarther folkers," Armagh, Clonakilty, Deansgrange, and Barna. These four represent the four points of the compass and, as McHugh notes, their names are places in the four corners of Ireland: Armagh in the North, Clonakilty in the South, Deansgrange in the East (in Dublin, notably), and Barna in the West. The four men say (in one sense) that before HCE fell ill he filled heaven. (You could also say that before he fell to hell he filled heaven, or before he filled hell he felled heaven.) His heaven was the stream, "alplapping streamlet," or in other words a small, lapping stream but also his wife, ALP. The rise of one generation at the expense of the next is also indicated by the four men saying that they were "wee wee" "thermites" during HCE's days, and the fall of HCE "wonderstruck" them as thunder. Now, with HCE gone, they are like four all-seeing sages.
But maybe it's wrong to call them "all-seeing." They go on to say that even if we had the "unfacts" of HCE's story, we still wouldn't have enough information to be certain about what happened to him. After all, his judges are "freak threes" (the three soldiers in the park) and his jury are "minus twos" (the two young women in the park). But there's always a story to tell, and this time we look to Madame Tussaud's (the National Gallery is "now completely complacent") to see a wax figure. From one angle, the figure looks like HCE looking maudlin as he watches the sun set. But from another angle, it's Lewis Carroll, with a mildewed cheek, joined by his Alice, who's not in Wonderland, but standing at his side with her hand in his. (Atherton's The Books at the Wake has an extended and insightful discussion of Joyce's treatment of Lewis Carroll in the Wake.) Here Carroll, whose close friendship with young children has generated a lot of speculation and rumor over the years, merges with HCE, whose night in Phoenix Park also generated a great deal of speculation and rumor.
The next paragraph begins by using a lot of legal language to give various (and sometimes conflicting) accounts of HCE's trial. HCE is given the name Greatwheel Dunlop (after the British tire manufacturer), and our debt to him is acknowledged. But this "priest and king" is gone now, "torn limb from lamb." We get another appearance of our old buddy Manneken Pis -- here "Mannequins pause!" -- before we realize that we're at HCE's wake, which bears a striking similarity to Finnegan's wake. And as the new king approaches to replace HCE we see "the unforgettable treshade" loom "up behind the jostling judgments."
The chapter seems to be picking up steam, but maybe that's just me. I guess we'll see tomorrow . . . .
Monday, June 2, 2014
"the clad pursue the bare"
(54.20-56.19) Ok, I'm back in ackshun after four days away from the Wake. I hope/intend to eventually get ahead far enough that I can miss a day or two without falling behind, but for now I'm back to playing catch up. But enough housekeeping . . .
I'm not sure if my brief time away reduced my Finnegans Wake Comprehension Level, but I am sure that I struggled through today's passage. After going through the two pages a few times, though, I feel like I've got a decent enough sense of what might be going on.
Coming off the two challenging transition paragraphs in the publican's tale(s) of HCE, it seems that he picks up his story in the voice of HCE addressing "Cod," who in one sense must be the Cad. (Maybe also God? I'm not sure.) Basically, HCE seems to be attesting to the upstanding nature of his life and actions. "Meggeg, m'gay chapjappy fellow," HCE stutters to the Cad, "I call our univalse [universe] to witness." Part of the challenge in this paragraph comes from the narrative interruptions to HCE's address. These appear here (like the other narrative interruptions we've seen so far in the book) in parenthetical form (just like my own narrative interruptions in this sentence). The lengthy narrative interruption in this paragraph contains further subinterruptions and lasts about eight lines and appears in the middle of a single word: "gllll . . . lobe." Nobody said reading Finnegans Wake was easy. Leaving the interruptions aside, HCE says that his wares, real property, and business practices are as straight as Wellington Monument. In the interruption, it seems like the publican is telling us that while saying the word "globe," HCE perhaps reverentially raises his hat and encourages the Cad to do the same (and to be more like HCE in general).
It's not immediately clear if the paragraph beginning on page 55 is voiced by the publican or HCE, but I think it's the publican talking directly. He says, "The house of Atreox is fallen indeedust." McHugh notes that "Atreox" both references Atreus (father of Agamemnon, whom you'll remember from the Iliad) and includes the Latin word "atrox," meaning cruel. This suggests the literal reading "The house of cruel Atreus is fallen, indeed, into dust," but obviously Joyce's phrasing of it is more economical and fun. The house is fallen, but it will "arise again." The narrator interrupts the next sentence by stating that HCE's "biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon." "Biografiend" can be read both as Joyce engaging in a little comical self-deprecation and as a thinly-veiled shot at Herbert Gorman, Joyce's authorized biographer (even though Gorman incorporated material written by Joyce and allowed Joyce to make certain changes to the biography, Joyce had a number of problems with Gorman's process and product). Regardless, we're told that HCE once said, "Life . . . is a wake." I love this next bit:
We can't become functional human beings without relying upon the both the literal and figurative "crops" of those who came before us, but we can't be ultimate breadwinners -- or the people who are the bosses/rulers of the world -- without supplanting those who came before us. On the bed of our victory lies the corpses of those seedfathers. And yeah . . . "manorwombanborn." Awesome.
McHugh notes that the rest of the paragraph (particularly the bit at the bottom of page 55) contains more references to old actors, which makes sense because the narrator describes "one of that puisne band of factferreters" who "later in the century" reenacts the story of HCE and the Cad. Some tourists (I think maybe the publican's listeners, who are still on their literal or figurative tour of Phoenix Park) circle around "the gagantig's lifetree" and see a scene in which humanity seems to be in an endless cycle of evolution/de-evolution. Then, on page 56, the reenactor salutes Wellington Monument in the style of HCE.
Today feels like one of the heavy load days, during which most of my mental energy is dedicated to figuring out what's happening. There's a sort of intangible deeper understanding coming together in my head, but for now I'll have to put off fully formulating it for later.
I'm not sure if my brief time away reduced my Finnegans Wake Comprehension Level, but I am sure that I struggled through today's passage. After going through the two pages a few times, though, I feel like I've got a decent enough sense of what might be going on.
Coming off the two challenging transition paragraphs in the publican's tale(s) of HCE, it seems that he picks up his story in the voice of HCE addressing "Cod," who in one sense must be the Cad. (Maybe also God? I'm not sure.) Basically, HCE seems to be attesting to the upstanding nature of his life and actions. "Meggeg, m'gay chapjappy fellow," HCE stutters to the Cad, "I call our univalse [universe] to witness." Part of the challenge in this paragraph comes from the narrative interruptions to HCE's address. These appear here (like the other narrative interruptions we've seen so far in the book) in parenthetical form (just like my own narrative interruptions in this sentence). The lengthy narrative interruption in this paragraph contains further subinterruptions and lasts about eight lines and appears in the middle of a single word: "gllll . . . lobe." Nobody said reading Finnegans Wake was easy. Leaving the interruptions aside, HCE says that his wares, real property, and business practices are as straight as Wellington Monument. In the interruption, it seems like the publican is telling us that while saying the word "globe," HCE perhaps reverentially raises his hat and encourages the Cad to do the same (and to be more like HCE in general).
It's not immediately clear if the paragraph beginning on page 55 is voiced by the publican or HCE, but I think it's the publican talking directly. He says, "The house of Atreox is fallen indeedust." McHugh notes that "Atreox" both references Atreus (father of Agamemnon, whom you'll remember from the Iliad) and includes the Latin word "atrox," meaning cruel. This suggests the literal reading "The house of cruel Atreus is fallen, indeed, into dust," but obviously Joyce's phrasing of it is more economical and fun. The house is fallen, but it will "arise again." The narrator interrupts the next sentence by stating that HCE's "biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon." "Biografiend" can be read both as Joyce engaging in a little comical self-deprecation and as a thinly-veiled shot at Herbert Gorman, Joyce's authorized biographer (even though Gorman incorporated material written by Joyce and allowed Joyce to make certain changes to the biography, Joyce had a number of problems with Gorman's process and product). Regardless, we're told that HCE once said, "Life . . . is a wake." I love this next bit:
. . . and on the bunk of our breadwinning lies the cropse of our seedfather, a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn.
We can't become functional human beings without relying upon the both the literal and figurative "crops" of those who came before us, but we can't be ultimate breadwinners -- or the people who are the bosses/rulers of the world -- without supplanting those who came before us. On the bed of our victory lies the corpses of those seedfathers. And yeah . . . "manorwombanborn." Awesome.
McHugh notes that the rest of the paragraph (particularly the bit at the bottom of page 55) contains more references to old actors, which makes sense because the narrator describes "one of that puisne band of factferreters" who "later in the century" reenacts the story of HCE and the Cad. Some tourists (I think maybe the publican's listeners, who are still on their literal or figurative tour of Phoenix Park) circle around "the gagantig's lifetree" and see a scene in which humanity seems to be in an endless cycle of evolution/de-evolution. Then, on page 56, the reenactor salutes Wellington Monument in the style of HCE.
Today feels like one of the heavy load days, during which most of my mental energy is dedicated to figuring out what's happening. There's a sort of intangible deeper understanding coming together in my head, but for now I'll have to put off fully formulating it for later.
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