(52.18-54.19) Today's passage begins with an almost McLuhanesque statement on communication technology:
Television kills telephony in brothers' broil. Our eyes demand their turn. Let them be seen!
Pretty awesome, if you ask me, and this is significant coming from Joyce, who was particularly attentive to the interplay of sight and sound because he suffered from poor eyesight throughout his life and experienced some extended periods where he was effectively blind. Once we have media that can project images to us as well as sound, our eyes take over, and anything less immersive is unsatisfying. The mysterious publican acts accordingly by giving a detailed description of the attire worn by "The first Humphrey," aka HCE. This introduction out of the way, he "sketche[s] . . . the touching seene" and describes how this "might a fin fell" (or mighty Finn fell). The scene is "like a landescape from Wildu Picturescu" or "some seem on some dimb Arras." This "dimb Arras" and the language following sounded familiar to me when I first read it, and I understood why when I looked in McHugh's Annotations, which contain a note that refers to the fourth part of Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (which contains a sentence beginning, "Like a scene on some vague arras . . . ."). This is classic Joyce: incorporating and parodying his own inimitable work in a manner that can only be called Joycean.
The mysterious publican proceeds to take his listeners on either a literal or figurative ride through Phoenix Park, the proverbial scene of the crime. He points out "La arboro" (the tree) and "lo petrusu" (the rock), both of which are supposed to be prominent later in the book. He also calls attention to the "the monolith," which our favorite Wake landmark, Wellington Monument. The publican then tells two very brief stories about HCE's encounters with the Cad. First is a new version of their midnight encounter in the park. Instead of telling the Cad what time it is, becoming frightened, and giving his defense (as he does in the second chapter), this time HCE pulls out his imitation "sharkskin smokewallet," gives the Cad some cash, and apparently says that he's going to smoke a cigar. (Two pages ago, the publican was smoking a pipe. Pipe smoking is a characteristic of the Cad. Maybe the publican isn't HCE, as I had previously suspected, but instead is the Cad. I guess I'll see how things progress . . . .) The second story builds off the first. The Cad meets "Master" at "Eagle Cock Hostel" (E-C-H) and gives a somewhat perplexing greeting. In one sense, he wishes "his Honour" the blessings of God, Mary, St. Brigid, and St. Patrick, as well as "a starchboxsitting in the pit of his St Tomach's." Maybe that's a stomach full of bread? Regardless, the publican characterizes this as "a strange wish" that would "poleaxe your sonson's grandson utterly" even though it's been used many times before. The next paragraph serves as a kind of transition. We're told that while we're able to keep track of some of the figures of the past, we often forget others. The narrator names three figures -- "Farseeingetherich," "Poolaulwoman Charachthecruss," and "Ann van Vogt" -- and says that these three are dead ("D.e.e.d!") and possibly in a mystical paradise ("Edned"), turned to dust ("ended") or waiting to rise again ("sleeping soundlessly"). What follows is, at this point in the Wake, one of the most confusing paragraphs to read. In one sense, we're told that, as sure as Halley's Comet will come around, we'll still hear old men, Jewish women, store boys, and dumb girls as they pass outside our doors. McHugh notes that the words Joyce uses for old men/Jewish women/store boys/dumb girls are also the words for a Persian council of holy men and the Bulgarian, Norwegian, and Tsarist Russian parliaments. The rest of the paragraph is a Babel of seemingly trite phrases spoken in a wide variety of languages. Sometimes multiple languages are used in the same sentence. I won't attempt to transcribe these sentences here, but they basically detail people (particularly ladies) arriving somewhere, people interacting, and then people catching cabs and parting politely. I get the sense that in this paragraph, we're seeing the endless cycle of humanity continue on despite the death of the figures in the last paragraph. Like Bob Dylan sang, "Meanwhile life goes on all around you."
(50.6-52.17) Whew. I feel like getting through today's passage was a true accomplishment. This isn't easy stuff to read. After my first go through, I was thoroughly bewildered. The Skeleton Key provided a little help in getting my bearings, but McHugh's Annotations saved the day. I've found the process of going through the Wake, line by line, at the same time as I check the references in the Annotations forces me to give the text of the Wake a slow, careful reading while also turning on a number of lights in my bedimmed head. At this point, I can't recommend the Annotations enough. I'm almost to the point where I'd say it's the essential tool for making sense of and enjoying Finnegans Wake.
On to the text. We pick up with the "Where are they now?" look at the various figures from the Wake's second chapter. As I noted yesterday, the characters are getting new names (and shifting genders), and the first one we're introduced to here is the spouse of Treacle Tom/Sordid Sam: "her wife Langley." McHugh identifies Langley as Treacle Tom's associate, Frisky Shorty. In the Skeleton Key, Campbell and Robinson don't even bother trying to link Langley with another character. In his Reader's Guide, Tindall doesn't bother either, and what's more, he thinks that all the people we've been reading about on the past two pages are actually potential aliases for Hosty. (I'm strongly inclined at this point to differ with Tindall -- sorry, Tindall!) Given what I said above, I'm apt to agree with McHugh's interpretation, but I wanted to find some evidence of my own. I think I've got it. The text reads:
Disliken as he was to druriodrama, her wife Langley, the prophet, and the decentest dozendest short of a frusker whoever stuck his spickle through spoke, disappeared . . . .
The key for me is in the phrase, "short of a frusker." I think "frusker" indicates "Frisky" and "short" indicates "Shorty." In the dreamworld of the Wake, I think that satisfies our burden of proof in making the case that Langley is Frisky Shorty.
With that said (isn't this fun?), it seems "clear" that Frisky/Langley has disappeared "from the sourface of this earth." But it's never that easy. Lately I've been doing a lot of very basic summary on this blog, but since I've already fallen this far down the Langley rabbit hole, it can't hurt to fall a little further. Consider this the latest in my series of examples of the Wake's depth and complexity.
The narrator says that because Frisky/Langley disappeared "so entirely spoorlessly" (ok, that's easy -- he left without leaving even a spore as a trace, and he's a poor case like those I wrote about yesterday) and because "the Levey who might have been Langley may have really been a redivivus of paganinism or a volunter Vousden," (more name/role confusion, I'll leave this alone for now) the speculative "all but opine" that he "had transtutled his funster's latitat to its finsterest interrimost." That last quoted phrase, like much of the Wake, can be taken in any number of interpretive directions. For now, with the help of McHugh's illumination, I'll follow the path that feels easiest to me. McHugh notes that "transtulit" is Latin for "transferred." Frisky/Langley is a "funster," or a sort of carefree vagabond (he's called a "hobo" on this page, too). Let's go with the sound-alike "habitat" for "latitat." McHugh writes that Cape Finisterre is on the northwestern tip of Spain (it was also the site of a British naval battle -- those British battle sites have been making a lot of appearances). "Interrimost" can mean "most interior." So there we have it: the speculative have a hunch that the funster Frisky/Langley transferred his habitat to the middle of Cape Finisterre.
Yeah. The rest of the paragraph gets more complex, for it involves our old multifaceted friend, "Father San Browne," who is the priest that hears HCE's story from the Cad's wife. I've already noted the depth inherent in Father Browne and will leave that for later, as well. Suffice it to say that nothing's really clear about him, but it sounds like he got caught doing something bad (he was "semiprivately convicted of malpractices"), possibly (probably) with the Cad (who I think McHugh is correct in identifying here because he's referred to as "that same snob of the dunhill, fully several yearschaums riper" -- the Cad smokes a pipe, and according to McHugh, "Meerschaum" is a German word for pipe).
In the next paragraph, the narrator says it's a fact that "the shape of the average human cloudyphiz, whereas sallow has long daze faded, frequently altered its ego with the possing of the showers." In other words, we're in a world where people's faces and identities will change with the passing of the showers. This word of caution comes just before a mysterious figure appears on the scene. Three boarding school truants ask him to tell the story of the "haardly creditable edventyres of the Haberdasher, the two Curchies and the three Enkelchums in their Bearskin ghoats!" This familiar sounding lineup, with its double "H-C-E" initials, must be the story of HCE, the two girls and three men in the park, i.e., the story of HCE's fall. The mysterious man, who I suspect is either HCE or a successor to HCE, apparently is enjoying his usual custom of smoking a pipe ("culubosh" -- McHugh says a "calabash" is a gourd that can be made into a pipe) and practicing his shooting with empty stout bottles. After he "reprime[s]" his gun and resets his watch, he tells his three visitors of the "One" and "Compassionate."
I guess today's post is longer and more rambling than usual because I've enjoyed making some sense out of this passage. Rewarding nights like tonight are keeping me fired up to keep reading. Until tomorrow . . .
(48.1-50.5) Chapter three of Finnegans Wake picks up where the previous chapter left off. These opening pages detail the fallout left after the performance of "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly" and include a lot of language related to the theater, in a sense likening the figures from the last chapter to stage actors. The performance of the ballad had a significant effect: it "released in that kingsrick of Humidia a poisoning volume of cloud barrage."
What follows is a sort of "Where are they now?" look at the characters we met in the last chapter. Everyone associated with the ballad's composition and performance is long gone. They are "as much no more as be they not yet now or had they then notever been." Foremost in this "Eyrawyggla saga" (the "whole wholume" of which the narrator says is "readable to int from and," "from tubb to buttom all falsetissues," and "antilibellous and nonactionable" -- all characteristics of the Wake as well) is, of course, Hosty (here "poor Osti-Fosti"). What ultimately became of Hosty isn't known, but he's described as having been "quite a musical genius in a small way" and it seems like he's still beloved. O'Mara (here "poor old A'Hara") became crestfallen, joined the military, and died with his (in the dream of the Wake, O'Mara seems to have switched genders) unit overseas. Peter Cloran (here "Poor old dear Paul Horan") became mentally ill and was institutionalized.
Treacle Tom (here "Sordid Sam" -- I guess he wasn't poor) died painlessly one Halloween evening while drunk and "in the state of nature" (i.e., not in a state of grace). At the time of his death, Tom/Sam is "said . . . to have solemnly said" that his dream came true. He also waxed philosophical, basically saying that now the multitudinous selves of his "egourge" can "by the coincidance of their contraries reamalgamerge in that identity of undiscernables" in a peaceful afterlife. That word "reamalgamerge" is great. It's a succinct way of saying that Tom/Sam's selves are going to amalgamate and merge for the Nth time, but it's also a word that does what it means: it takes two synonyms for "mix" and puts them together. Nice work, Joyce.
(46.5-47.29) Today's the last of my Memorial Day weekend Finnegans Wake doubleheaders. Who needs hotdogs when you've got the finest intellectual meat to chew on?
My first passage today is the concluding pages of the Wake's second chapter. This also happens to be the last two-thirds or so of "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly." The text of the ballad picks up with the townfolk saying that they will soon burn O'Reilly's property in a bonfire and the sheriff will soon liquidate O'Reilly's business. O'Reilly's painted as a viking invader of Ireland, and it's at this point where the "simplicity" I noted yesterday gives way to some Joycean complications. The eighth verse of the ballad recounts O'Reilly's arrival on Ireland's shores, and the language incorporates some foreign words and a Norwegian accent. O'Reilly gives his Norwegian name as "Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface," which, it's explained in McHugh's Annotations, is an amalgamation of Oscar Wilde's full name ("Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde"); the slang word "Bargearse" (someone with an ass that's . . . shaped like a barge); and the generic last name of innkeepers, "Boniface." I feel like this also has to encompass Saint Boniface, who in a sense was an English invader who sailed to Europe to attack paganism (or, like O'Reilly, to promote religion's reform).
The ballad -- which, it's important to remember, is based upon HCE's original defense of himself to the Cad after it's been retold by a number of dubious sources -- says that HCE's fall was caused when he "Made bold a maid to woo." As a result of HCE's wooing -- the balad says he "shove[d] himself that way on top of her" -- the maid "lost her maidenloo." HCE, then, is the invading force that emerges "victorious" in this version of Waterloo (which, like the version in the Wellington Museum, takes place in Phoenix Park). The ballad implies that HCE's wife will secure her revenge by placing "Big earwigs on the green, / The largest ever you seen." This doesn't faze the balladeer too much, though. After all, the ballad concludes that all the king's horses and all the king's men won't be able to put this Cain back together again. Within the text of the ballad are a few interruptions, which are the shouts of the crowd encouraging Hosty. For instance, "Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye!" and "Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!" (equating Hosty with the likes of Sophocles, Shakespeare, Dante, and Moses). I'm sure Joyce got a kick out of assigning such high popular praise to the writer of the ballad, which, in reality, is Joyce. I'd say he wasn't overrating himself.
Yesterday I said I would search for a recording of "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly." Perhaps unsurprisingly, there's not a real wealth of great recordings out there, but as Joyce might have said, "Buggers can't be choosers." Maybe once I finish reading the Wake, I'll record the definitive (U.S. Midwestern-accented) version.
In the meantime, I found two versions that get my begrudging seal of approval. First is "Humpty Dumpty" as performed by the Dubliners, which is a performance that I like, but it's unfortunately an abridged version of the original ballad.
This second version is performed by Freddi Price (not Freddie Prinze). His version is laudable for staying fairly faithful to Joyce's text, but he does flub a few things up. Those flub-ups, combined with his borderline-obnoxious introduction, make this a commendable, but imperfect version.
(44.6-46.4) It's now time for Hosty's song. The opening phrase of the first full paragraph on page 44 -- "around the lawn the rann it rann" -- is a rich one. On one literal level, it can mean "around the lawn the rain it ran," indicating that rain begins to fall on the crowd assembled for the ballad's debut. There's so much more, though. "Lawn" can also mean "land." "Rann," as McHugh writes in his Annotations, is also Irish for "verse" and Greek for "flowed." So, the phrase could also mean "around the land the verse it flowed" or "the rain it flowed" or "the verse it rained." As always, you'd probably be correct in saying it means all those things.
This is a fun paragraph. The sentence "Here line the refrains of." means both "here's the song" and "here lie the remains of HCE's life/reputation." There's a list of all the names by which HCE might be called, but the narrator ends this by saying, "I parse him Persse O'Reilly else he's called no name at all." "Persse O'Reilly" sounds a lot like the French "perce-oreille," which McHugh translates as -- you guessed it -- "earwig." But McHugh also notes that the name also evokes Pearse and O'Rahilly, who were involved in the Easter Rising, as well as John Boyle O'Reilly of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, whose unit composed treasonous ballads. Moving on, Hosty is cheered by the crowd for producing "the rann, the rann, the king of all ranns." In the Skeleton Key, Campbell and Robinson explain that this recalls the verse sung on St. Stephen's Day in Ireland: "The Wren, the Wren, the King of all Birds." As part of this tradition, a wren is killed and carried about the town. Campbell and Robinson accordingly link the wren, which is a symbolic scapegoat, to HCE, who is the scapegoat of this story.
Before "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly" begins, Joyce inserts another thunderword (heard after a glass crashes). McHugh notes that this third thunderword (the first appears on the opening page, and the second appears during the story of the Prankquean) contains a number of foreign words for "clap," so in addition to the thunderword symbolizing a fall as usual (the fall here is literally the glass held by an audience member falling and shattering on the ground and figuratively HCE's fall from public grace), it's also the audience's applause.
The ballad itself is the easiest reading so far in the Wake. It's "simple," but still well-written (and entertaining). It equates HCE with Humpty Dumpty who falls and crumples by the Magazine Wall in Phoenix Park. He was once "our King of the Castle," but now he's on his way to "the penal jail of Mountjoy." Among the sins of this revolutionary "fafafather of all schemes for to bother us" are introducing "immaculate contraceptives for the populace" and promoting "Openair love and religion's reform." Criticism of his business practices are summed up in the nickname given to him by the local lads: He'll Cheat E'erawan."
I'll get to the rest of the song (and the end of the second chapter) in tomorrow's first reading. I'm also going to spend some time scouring the web to see if I can find a recording of "The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly." Joyce gives us the music for the ballad, but given my very rudimentary musical literacy (if you can play music by ear, why learn how to play off of sheet music?), it would probably take me a few hours to play a passable version on my piano.
(42.17-44.6) Time for a second Memorial Day weekend doubleheader. As of yesterday, I had read 19 passages in 21 days, putting me two days "behind" my intended pace. If I can swing a doubleheader today and a doubleheader tomorrow, I'll be back on track.
Today's first reading sets the scene for the grand debut of Hosty's ballad. The song is "poured forth where Riau Liviau riots and col de Houdo humps." In his Annotations, McHugh points out that the Riau Liviau stands for the River Liffey and col de Houdo stands for the hill of Howth. Of course these locations tie in with the rest of the novel, for the book's opening paragraph begins with the river ("riverrun") and ends in Howth ("Howth Castle and Environs"), and these two have been popping up almost continually ever since. After all, the river also is a form of HCE's wife, ALP, and Howth Hill is also a form of HCE.
The next page or so is dedicated to highlighting many of the figures who have gathered to form "a singleminded supercrowd" in anticipation of the ballad's performance. Notable among these notables are "a jolly postoboy" and "a plumodrole" who are HCE's sons, Shaun the postman and Shem the penman (McHugh notes that in Provençal "plumo" means "pen" and "drole" means "boy").
After the key members of the supercrowd are identified, the instruments and players in the band are listed. McHugh notes that among these on one level are Joyce's hero, the Irish nationalist political leader Charles Stewart Parnell ("that onecrooned king of inscrewments," or the uncrowned king of Ireland); Parnell's rival Pigott; and Patrick Delaney, who gave testimony against Parnell to secure his release from life imprisonment for his role in the Phoenix Park murders (Phoenix Park again . . . it's all connected). Of course, the "onecrooned king of inscrewments" can also be the organ (it has been nicknamed "the king of instruments"), and Pigott could also be the man who played the cello at Dublin's Theatre Royal. With these preliminaries over, the conductor, "'Ductor' Hitchock" takes his place and starts the performance. The song is "chantied there chorussed and christened" by "Saint Annona's Street and Church."
In Post #2 of today's doubleheader, it looks like we'll get to "hear" the first part of Hosty's ballad.
(40.14-42.16) Alright, time for Post #2 in today's doubleheader. Glancing at the near horizon, I see that the end of chapter two of the Wake is quickly approaching. The plan is to try for another doubleheader tomorrow so I can wrap up the chapter on Monday. Leave it to a recovering English major to spend a significant portion of a beautiful Memorial Day weekend indoors f(l)ailing through Finnegans Wake.
As the sentence that began on page 39 continues, we meet the trio (I diverge here from the interpretation set forth in Tindall's Reader's Guide that there's actually a quartet here) who is listening to Treacle Tom's alcoherent tale of HCE. First there's Peter Cloran, the "small and stonybroke cashdraper's executive." Then there's O'Mara, also known as Mildew Lisa, "an exprivate secretary of no abode" who has lately been sleeping on the streets. (Tindall counts O'Mara and Mildew Lisa as separate people. I think it's relatively clear that Joyce is just giving us two names for one exprivate secretary.) Finally, there's Hosty, the defacto leader of the band. Hosty is "an illstarred beachbusker" who lacks "rootie" and "scrapie" (McHugh identifies these in his Annotations as slang for "bread" and "butter") and is "on the verge of selfabyss" "with melancholia over everything in general." Hosty's in a bad way, and he's working on a plan to procure a "parabellum" (McHugh notes that this is a type of pistol) and "blow the sibicidal napper off himself." He's unsuccessfully tried to get into a series of hospitals, and now he's sharing a bunk with Midew Lisa (now "Lisa O'Deavis") and Cloran (now "Roche Mongan"). Life isn't looking too grand for ol' Hosty.
After "a goodnight's rave," though, Hosty "was not the same man." Rejuvenated (like all the other heroes of the Wake who undergo a type of resurrection after a fall has brought them to death's door), he makes breakfast for everyone ("bakenbeggfuss"), and he and his crew then travel across Dublin. Much like horse racing lingo was sprinkled throughout the previous passage, language related to music and musical instruments now begins to appear. Hosty and his two associates cross "Ebblin's chilled hamlet" (the HCE initials again) "to the thrummings of a crewth fiddle." Along their way, this music is heard by the the "halfpast atsweeeep" (and better off) Dubliners who are resting, not in shared bunks, but in "flavory fraiseberry beds" "in brick homes of their own." Along the way, the trio stops by a pawn shop "for the prothetic purpose of redeeming the songster's truly admirable false teeth," and then they start hitting the pubs. The "trio of whackfolthediddlers" begin to add more members to their merry band, and they eventually leave a pub having composed "a wouldbe ballad" of "the vilest bodeyer but most attractionable avatar the world has ever had to explain for."
With this, we're prepped to hear more about what has to be a ballad of HCE. It will be interesting to hear the ultimate lyrical result of this chain of gossiping.
(38.9-40.14) After another missed day this week, I'm back for Post #1 of a Saturday doubleheader. It's actually a good time for a doubleheader because it looks like the sentence beginning at the bottom of page 39 doesn't end until page 41. Rather than extend the reading to three pages, I figure I can double up and read through page 42 later this afternoon.
We pick up here with the story of the Cad, whose habit for spitting attracts the attention of his wife (or, as she's called here, the Cad's "bit of strife"). After the Cad's meal is finished, she "glaned up as usual," meaning that she both cleaned the room after the meal and gleaned the gist of HCE's defense after hearing the Cad recite what HCE had said. What follows is an interesting illustration of how rumors spread. The Cad's wife tells what she knows of HCE's story to her priest, who she trusts will keep the story a secret. (The priest is an interesting figure embodying a number of elusive contradictions. He is identified as a member of both the Jesuit and Vincentian orders. He is also alternately Mr. Browne and a Nolan, and accordingly represents Giordano Bruno, the Nolan, one of Joyce's favorite philosophers (and heretics), whose writing on contradictory natures forms a basis for the Wake. A lot could be said about the priest, but now isn't the time to get bogged down in all that . . . .)
The priest ends up going to the racetrack after speaking with the Cad's wife, and while he's there he whispers what he's learned about HCE to Philly Thurnston, "a layteacher of rural science and orthophonethics." We learn the results of the "classic Encourage Hackney Plate" (there's those initials again: c-E-H). There seems to be general confusion from readers of Finnegans Wake as to which horse actually wins the race, but I read it as Saint Dalough winning the race by two noses over Bold Boy Cromwell. After all, the plate is "captured by two noses in a stablecloth finish . . . from the cream colt Bold Boy Cromwell after a clever getaway by . . . Saint Dalough." This would imply an Irish victory over the invading force from across the waters, which also means a victory for the locals over the immigrant HCE. Maybe I'm spending too much time thinking about the results of this horse race, but the Belmont is two weeks away and California Chrome's trying to win the first Triple Crown in my lifetime, so maybe I've got the horses on my brain. Anyway, the conversation between the priest and Philly Thurnston about HCE is overheard by two lowlife types, Treacle Tom and Frisky Shorty. These two are out looking for a quick buck and "ear the passon . . . touchin the case of Mr Adams." (Mr Adams here stands for HCE, the First Man/Adam figure of the book.) Treacle Tom's been taking it relatively easy, but he loves race nights and consequently ends up getting drunk. He spends the night at the housingroom "Abide With Oneanother" and "alcoh alocho alcoherently" "resnore[s]" what he's heard from "the evangelical bussybozzy." This now fourth-hand account of HCE's defense of himself is told "in parts" "oft in the chilly night" "during uneasy slumber," so it's fairly clear that the original message is being very diluted and distorted in this Joycean game of telephone. Who's listening to Treacle Tom's account? That's what we're about to find out.
(36.7-38.8) Today's reading picks up with HCE continuing to defend himself to the Cad. Standing before the scene of his alleged crime, HCE salutes Wellington Monument (also the site of Willingdone Museyroom, which we toured in chapterone) before addressing the Cad with a stutter. "Shsh shake, co-comeraid!" he says. He feels like he's equal to the Cad (as opposed to his accusers, who outnumber him five-to-one). HCE firmly believes that he's in the right, and he tells the Cad that he's "woo-woo willing to take my stand, sir, upon the monument, that sign of our ruru redemption" and to make an oath on the open Bible before his countrymen, royalty, God, and clergy -- as well as "every living sohole" in every corner of the British Empire -- that "there is not one tittle of truth . . . in that purest of fibfib fabrications."
With HCE's defense complete, the Cad -- now referred to as "Gaping Gill" takes his leave (rather politely) and goes about his business "saulting corpses, as a metter of corse." On his way home, the Cad meditates on his encounter with HCE and repeats "in his secondmouth language as many of the bigtimer's verbaten words which he could balbly call to memory." Once home, the Cad spits (a rather rude gesture, but one done "in careful convertedness") and then enjoys a hearty meal. The Cad tops off the meal by enjoying some wine, and we're left with the image of him "obdurately" sniffing the bottles' "cobwebcrusted corks."
As I venture further into this second chapter of Finnegans Wake (I'm actually almost halfway through this chapter -- it looks like it's one of the shorter ones), I'm beginning to get a sense how the book will be expanding upon some of the material introduced in the opening chapter. The first chapter, for example, detailed the Fall of both Finnegan and Wellington. Each of those falls is situated in Phoenix Park, which is also the site of HCE's crime and the place where he encounters the Cad. In a sense, HCE's salute to Wellington Monument in today's passage serves as recognition of HCE's link to Finnegan and Wellington, and it further establishes him as another figure in their lineage.
(34.9-36.7) Picking up with the second chapter's introduction to HCE, we get the first detailed telling of HCE's somewhat mysterious fall, which has been alluded to throughout the Wake. Slander has not been able to convict HCE of anything graver than this, and it's veracity is in doubt because it was witnessed only by a few drunks. Getting to it, though, HCE is accused of "having behaved with ongentilmensky immodus [i.e., ungentlemanly immodesty] opposite a pair of dainty maidservants." No two stories seem to match up, but it appears that these two young women answered the call of nature (Ã la our old friend Jeanneke Pis), which resulted in an "incautious, but at its wildest, a partial exposure." Joyce plays off the old "women: can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" quip in beginning the next paragraph: "We can't do without them. Wives, rush to the restyours!" HCE has maintained his guiltlessness "of much laid to him," and people have taken his word for it. But they still tell the story (the absorbing amalgam referenced in this post's title) of how HCE met a man we'll call the Cad. "[A]ges and ages after [HCE's] alleged misdemeanour," HCE was strolling through Phoenix Park when he came upon "a cad with a pipe." The Cad, who is referred to as "the luciferant," accosts HCE with a greeting spoken in Irish and then asks Earwicker what time it is (evidently, the Cad's watch is broken). HCE is startled and frightened by the Cad, so, "unwishful as he felt of being hurled into eternity right then, plugged by a soft-nosed bullet from the sap," he tells the luciferant that it's twelve o'clock just as the nearby church bells toll the hour. Still frazzled, HCE begins to defend himself from the accusation concerning the young women, pleading that the person who made the accusation "was quite beneath parr and several degrees lower than yore triplehydrad snake." The reading's starting to get a bit tougher now that I'm getting deeper into the second chapter. Every day I'm impressed with how much Joyce loads into the Wake. One thing from this passage that caught my eye in McHugh's Annotations involved the word Joyce uses to express that the Cad's watch is broken. The phrase reads, "his watch was bradys." On a literal level, this can mean his watch was brakyn/breaken/broken. But wait, there's more. McHugh notes that "bradus" is Greek for "slow." So, on the translingual level, the phrase can read "his watch was slow." Then there's the Irish history level. McHugh points out that Joe Brady was one of the perpetrators of the infamous Phoenix Park murders. If the Cad's watch was "Joe Brady's," then in a sense he's a witness to the Phoenix Park murders, and HCE, as the Cad's counterpart and someone accused of a crime in Phoenix Park, stands in the role of the nationalistic murderers. Perhaps it's HCE's perception of the Cad as a witness to his crime that makes him so defensive.
(32.2-34.9) Today's reading picks up with the conclusion of the story explaining the origin of HCE's last name. The narrator implores us to "[h]eave . . . aside the fallacy, as punical as finikin" that is was not the king, but rather his two "inseparable" sisters who actually named Earwicker. With that out of the way, we learn that from that fateful day forward, every "exhumed" "holograph" initialed by our hero bears the siglia "H.C.E." Since one can never have enough names in Finnegans Wake, the narrator explains that the patrons of HCE's pub call him "good Dook Umphrey," his "cronies" call him "Chimbers," and the general populace recognizes his status as Everyman by referring to him as "Here Comes Everbody."
Joyce makes sure that we don't miss HCE's importance by beginning the next sentence with clear but significant language: "An imposing everybody he always indeed looked, constantly the same as and equal to himself and magnificently well worthy of any and all such universalisation . . . ." This very long sentence continues by situating HCE as "folksforefather" with "the entirety of his house about him" in a packed theater for the 111th performance of the play about HCE's life, the "problem passion play of the millentury," A Royal Divorce. But, as we're already well aware (given what we've learned about HCE's archetype, Finnegan), HCE's life isn't care- or slander-free. The narrator explains that "a baser meaning has been read into these characters the literal sense of which decency can safely scarcely hint." Some say that HCE "suffered from a vile disease." The narrator refutes this attack by (as McHugh notes in his Annotations) paraphrasing/lampooning a reviewer who took issue with Joyce's portrayal of the cruder aspects of everyday life in Ulysses: "To such a suggestion the one selfrespecting answer is to affirm that there are certain statements which ought not to be, and one should like to hope to be able to add, ought not to be allowed to be made." We also learn that others believe HCE is "a great white caterpillar capable of any and every enormity in the calendar" and say that he annoyed Welsh fusiliers in Phoenix Park. The almost too-fervent tone of this defense of HCE continues when the narrator says that this charge "rings particularly preposterous" to "anyone who knew and loved the christlikeness of the big cleanminded giant H.C. Earwicker." With this said, there remains one accusation that the narrator is compelled to address, and that address is located in tomorrow's reading . . . . Obviously, one of the faults (which I think I've noted before) with my method of reading two pages a day is where to stop when I'm in the middle of a long paragraph. For instance, the second chapter's first paragraph -- which I started reading yesterday and finished today -- is three pages long. This can make for some disjointed reading for me. There's only so many hours in the day, though, so for now I'm going to continue sacrificing neatness (and, I suppose, reason) in favor of manageability. And really, when a man spends more than a quarter of his lifetime writing something, the least you can do as a reader is take the time to savor it.
(30.1-32.2) As foretold in the first chapter's concluding paragraph, the second chapter of the Wake focuses on HCE. And this introduction to HCE begins appropriately enough with the origin of Harold/Humphrey Chimpden's last name. This christening event occurred long ago: "in the presurnames prodromarith period."
The narrator makes it clear that HCE doesn't spring from the Earwickers of England's southern coast or from the Vikings. Instead, as far as anyone can tell, "in the beginning," the king took a break during a foxhunt on a road close to where HCE was working. The king was going to ask about the potholes on the road, but, seeing HCE carrying "a high perch atop of which a flowerpot was fixed eathside hoist with care," he instead asks HCE whether there's better methods for catching lobsters. HCE replies in his blunt manner, "Naw, yer maggers, aw war jist a cotchin on thon bluggy earwuggers." The king, amused by this response, remarks to his hunting companions that his "red brother of Pouringrainia would audibly fume did he know that we have for surtrusty bailiwick a turnpiker [HCE approached the king while "jingling his turnpike keys"] who is by turns a pikebailer no seldomer than an earwigger!"
Of course, after telling this story, the narrator mentions that there's a question as to whether this is the true story after all. It looks like there will be more to come on that score tomorrow . . . .
In his Reader's Guide, Tindall notes that Joyce wrote this chapter early in the Finnegans Wake drafting process, and that this might account in part for why it's less complex than other parts of the Wake. On my first reading, today's short passage from the beginning of the second chapter came across as much clearer than most of the material from the first chapter. We'll see how this progresses, but my first impression is almost that if someone wants to decide whether to accept the challenge of reading Finnegans Wake, this second chapter might serve as the best introduction in the same way that the fourth chapter of Ulysses serves as an "easier" way to get a quick taste of that novel.
(27.31-29.36) The end of the first chapter is here. We start off with the mourner continuing to bring Finnegan up to date with what's been happening since his fall. We learn that Finnegan's wife is doing ok -- she's been singing, gossiping, going to concerts, and keeping up with the news. She's also kept her looks: "Her hair's as brown as it ever was. And wivvy and wavy." The mourner wraps up his address by telling Finnegan to repose himself and releases him with the words, "Finn no more!," both dissolving and absolving (like the repentant sinner leaving the confessional) him. With Finnegan disposed, the mourner heralds the coming of HCE as Finnegan's "replacement." HCE, we are told, owns a pub in the Dublin suburb Chapelizod ("Shop Illicit") and has a wife, twin sons, and a daughter. Like Finnegan, HCE is both father and universal progenitor: "Creator he has created for his creatured ones a creation." He is an immigrant and a sinner who, like Finnegan, experiences a monumental fall, as noted by the chapter's concluding words: "he who will be untimendly respunchable for the hubbub caused in Edenborough."
And so, two weeks into this endeavor, I've finished reading the first chapter of Finnegans Wake. It's been challenging but also rewarding, entertaining, and stimulating. The general consensus indicates that once you make it through the first chapter, the rest of the book is . . . less challenging. I guess I'll see if that holds true soon enough.
(26.25-27.30) I tackled a slightly shorter passage here because there were less than four full pages left in the first chapter of the Wake after yesterday's reading. This was the quickest read I've had so far, thanks to the passage's short length and straightforward nature. I'm not expecting things to go so smoothly for long.
The passage begins with the mourner continuing to address Finnegan. We learn that world's been pretty much the same since Finnegan fell. People are sick, people eat, and the same "slop" is in the windows of the local shops. The mourner mentions that the kids are progressing in school, and gives a more formal introduction to Finnegan/HCE's children: Kevin/Shaun, who seems like a perfect little angel (but we've already learned that appearances can be deceiving in the Wake); Jerry/Shem, the seemingly devilish one, who literally writes "a blue streak" over his "bourseday shirt" (or birthday suit); and Hetty Jane/Isabel, the graceful daughter. The mourner also mentions Essie, also known Holly Merry and Pia de Purebelle, who represents the ALP figure here. Essie's making a living doing live performances with some kind of percussive instrument, and the mourner tells Finnegan it would "dialate" his heart to see her in action.
At this point, Finnegan begins to stir, and the mourner says, "Aisy now, you decent man, with your knees and lie quiet and repose your honour's lordship!" The mourner summons some of the men at the wake to help hold Finnegan down and remarks that it's "our warm spirits" -- both the alcohol at the wake and the living presence of the mourners -- that are reanimating Finnegan. The passage ends with the mourner once again exhorting Finnegan to sleep, saying, "O sleepy! So be yet!"
Coming up: the conclusion of the first chapter. I feel like I'm rolling right along.
(24.16-26.24) Today's passage offered the Wake's smoothest sailing yet (at least on the surface level). Part of this must be attributable to this passage's narrator. We're still at the wake, where the whiskey has just woken Finnegan. Seeing this, a person attending the wake begins an extended address to Finnegan, essentially telling him that it's better that he stay dead. The mourner (as I'll call the narrator for now) implies that the world has changed since Finnegan's been out of commission. After all, the mourner explains, the roads have changed, and Finnegan could get lost wandering around Dublin. Or he might come across "some sick old bankrupt" or "a slut snoring with an impure infant on a bench," either of which " '[t]would turn you against life."
The mourner recognizes that it's hard to leave this world, but he tells Finnegan that he's better off where he is now before listing the attractive features of Finnegan's funeral plot and the distinguished company he'll have in "the land of souls" (said company includes "Guinnghis Khan" -- a mixture of Arthur Guinness and Genghis Kahn). The mourner promises that the living in attendance at the wake will take good care of Finnegan's grave and will bring him "offerings of the field," including opium, honey, and goat's milk.
The mourner then goes into detail explaining how Finnegan's fame has spread throughout the world. The implication here is that since he's become a legend in death, he ought not to go about messing it up by coming back to life. In keeping with this idea, the mourner gives an extended near-quotation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead that in sum tells Finnegan that he's been given a good burial, and now isn't the time for him to be waking up. The first paragraph of this address ends with the mourner exhorting Finnegan to "steep wall" -- or sleep well (with a reference to the steep wall from which he fell).
As someone who hails from the U.S., I dug this passage's many references to Huckleberry Finn (which McHugh's Annotations helped me to catch). These references blended with numerous additional references to the Egyptian Book of the Dead (again, props to McHugh) to create a sense of Finnegan floating down the Mississippi into eternity (to paraphrase Ulysses). As I mentioned, the reading was easier today, but still plenty rich.
(22.17-24.15) Today's passage picks up with the story of the Prankquean, who after turning Hilary into a "tristian," returns to Howth Castle. Upon making her request a third time (now for "three poss of porter"), Jarl van Hoother finally comes out of the castle. Van Hoother gives the order to "shut up shop," and in response "the duppy shot the shutter clup." That last phrase can be (probably properly) interpreted in any number of ways on any number of levels, but to me the key clue comes in the text immediately following the phrase: the second 100-letter (yes, I counted) thunderword. The thunderwords indicate a fall. In this passage's context, the thunderword indicates van Hoother's fall, so I read (at least on the literal level) "the duppy shot the shutter clup" as van Hoother's dummy (the "the duppy") shooting up van Hoother ("the shutter" -- he just ordered the door shut) or, in other words, the dummy shooting and killing van Hoother.
The narrator wraps up the story by noting that "they all drank free." With van Hoother/HCE dead, they rest of the characters are able to close the castle/pub and drink freely. The narrator calls this story "the first peace of illiterative porthery in all the flamend floody flatuous world" -- a fundamental and universal story. In wrapping up the story, the narrator says that the prankquean adopts the dummy, the twins keep the peace, and van Hoother serves "to git the wind up" -- as a corporeally absent god, he gets the wind up, or frightens the general populace.
The next paragraph on page 23 further establishes HCE and ALP as Adam and Eve types from which the human race and civilization spring. The first full paragraph of page 24 again discusses HCE as Adam, "our ancestor most worshipful," and it also emphasizes that HCE is a figure who would, could, and will rise from the dead to live again.
I'll wrap up for the day by unpacking/marveling at the word that I've used as the post's title, "Usqueadbaugham." It concludes the paragraph I just discussed and appears after it has been made clear that we are back at Finnegan's wake. As highlighted in McHugh's Annotations, this word's foundation is the Anglo-Irish word "usquebaugh," which means "whiskey." McHugh further notes that the introduction of the letters "ad" also indicate the Latin "usque ad necem," which means "even unto death." Finally, McHugh smartly points out that Joyce's "usquebaugh" contains two more additional letters beyond the "ad." It ends with "am." Put those four letters together, and you've got "adam." So, in one single combo-word, Joyce tells us that whiskey turns this corpse into Adam, the first man. This once again links the old Irish song -- in which Tim Finnegan is awoken during his wake when he's splashed with whiskey -- with Joyce's fundamental theme of the father-figure's rebirth. If you can pronounce "usqueadbaugham," I'd suggest using it as a toast when you next enjoy a shot of Irish whiskey.
(20.19-22.17) While yesterday's passage was the most challenging one I've tackled so far, today's passage was the least perplexing. That's not to say it was straightforward or easy to read. It made some sense on the first reading, though, and on subsequent readings I was able to "sail" through the two pages in "basic understanding" mode while still catching some of the depth of the passage.
The first full paragraph on page 20 begins with the narrator telling us to "Cry not yet!" for the Wake's narrative circle remains unbroken and "every busy eerie whig's a bit of a torytale to tell." In other words, there's plenty of stories to tell about the countless incarnations of HCE (aka H.C. Earwicker). There's a short catalog of the various moments in human history that the narrator might chronicle, and then the narrator tells us to "lay it easy" because "we are in rearing of a norewhig" (i.e., take it easy because we're within the hearing of the Norwegian immigrant/invader HCE). Before beginning to tell the next story, we are alerted that it's going to be a tale of HCE and ALP: "Hark, the corne entreats! And the larpnotes prittle." Now it's time for the Joycean fairytale of Jarl van Hoother and the Prankquean. The secondary sources detail how on one level this is a telling of the story (dating back to the 16th century) of Grace O'Malley, who it is said wasn't let into Howth Castle when she tried to visit the Earl of Howth. (Remember, the hill of Howth is the head of the giant HCE interred in the Dublin landscape.) Perhaps understandably upset over this slight, she kidnapped the Earl's heir. In the Wake, when the Prankquean arrives at the castle, Jarl van Hoother is inside, along with his "jiminies" (Geminis, or twins), Tristopher and Hilary, and the household dummy. At the door, the Prankquean asks "why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease?" Maybe he's confused by this question, maybe he doesn't want to give the Prankquean any porter, or maybe it's something else, but van Hoother simply replies, "Shut!" Denied her request, the Prankquean kidnaps Tristopher and has him "convorted" into a "luderman." (So in one sense he becomes a Lutheran, and in another sense he becomes a crazyman.) The Prankquean eventually returns to Howth castle, where van Hoother is up to his heels in malt (i.e., drunk). This time the Prankquean asks "why do I am alook alike two poss of porterpease?" Again, van Hoother replies, "Shut!" In response, the Prankquean returns Tristopher and kidnaps Hilary, who she has "punched with the curses of cromcruwell" and "provorted" into a "tristian." (So in one sense he becomes a Christian, and in another he is made into a duplicate of his brother, Tristopher.) The paragraph containing the Prankquean's story is a long one -- over two pages -- so I've broken it off halfway through and left the rest for tomorrow. That's one downside of my two-pages-a-day plan: sometimes there's no clean way to break the Wake into neat two-page increments. I'm interested, though, to see whether the fact that I've studied up on the first half of the Prankquean story will mean that the rest of it will read smoother on the first go-round tomorrow.
(18.17-20.18) I'll readily admit that I struggled through my first read through today's passage. I caught a description of St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland, as well as a reference to how loaded Finnegans Wake is, but other than that I was fortunate when I caught snippets of meaning. Days like today make me appreciate the more than 75 years of Wake scholarship that preceded my own attempt to read Joyce's book, and I feel empathy for his contemporaries, who struggled to make even the slightest sense of what became the Wake as it was published serially (more accurately in unordered bits and pieces from various sections of the book as Joyce completed them) as Work in Progress.
After going through my secondary sources, I still found this section perhaps the toughest yet. It begins with an abrupt shift from the Mutt and Jute dialogue with the command "(Stoop)." We're apparently being guided around a sort of archeological site and being asked if we can "rede" its world. This could be another version of the littered post-war battlefield, but it is definitely the Wake itself: "It is the same told of all. Many." This "allaphbed" contains the continuing and endlessly repeated story of all life -- "They lived und laughed ant loved end left." -- arising out of the fall: "Forsin." We see primitive tools that indicate the presence of HCE -- "A hatch, a celt, an earshare" -- as well as figurines representing the diametrically opposed warring sons (set forth in two sentences, each consisting of the same words, but written in reverse order) and a provocative effigy of the daughter figure. We're then given an interpretive hint when we're told that when a small part stands for the whole, the whole will soon stand for a small part. Another interesting passage contains a listing of the odds-and-ends found at the site written in puns on the letters that begin the Hebrew and then the Greek alphabets: "Olives, beets, kimmels, dollies, alfrids, beatties, cormacks and daltons." (Props to McHugh for pointing that out in his Annotations.) Following that is the bit where "snake wurrums" appear everwhere ("Our durlbin is sworming in sneaks.") before Saint Patrick ("Paddy Wippingham") catches them.
The next paragraph sets forth some of the numerology prevalent in the Wake. I've got a vague grasp on that, but not enough of a grasp to explain it on my own right now. This confusing paragraph ends with a damning of the Father figure in all of his countless incarnations: "Damadam to infinities!"
(15.29-18.16) One of the few similarities between my father and Joyce's father is that both of them seem to have undertaken more jobs than their respective sons could count. For a few years when I was a little Wadlinger, my father worked for a company that was headquartered in Brussels, which often required that he spend extended periods of time in Belgium. On his returns from Europe, he would regale my sister and I with stories of Manneken Pis, a small statue/fountain that has been a Brussles landmark/icon since the 17th century. If you're not familiar with Manneken Pis (and if you're not, you've got to get with it), it depicts a little boy . . . pissing.
Why am I writing about my boyhood fascination with some Belgian statue? Because it's in the Wake, obviously. More on this to come, but I'd like to take this opportunity to post a relevant photo of me and Manneken Pis from my visit to Europe in 2004:
At the beginning of the passage, our narrator (who at least for the moment seems to be Shem the Penman, one of HCE's sons) spies a lone, misshapen figure -- apparently a Neanderthal -- drinking out of a skull. Shem (I'm going with it for now) tries to speak to this creature, which he identifies as a "a Jute," in a variety of languages. Once Shem's found the right tongue, he hails the Jute and invites it to "excheck a few strong verbs." Thus begins the dialogue between Jute and Mutt (aka Shem). In the Reader's Guide, Tindall highlights the Jute-Mutt dialogue as a depiction of both a family conflict between sons and a public battle between the Irish and the Danes at Clontarf, with the interchange taking place at the time of early 20th century comic strip characters Mutt and Jeff, of the prehistoric cave men, and of the 11th century Irish king Brian Boru. On the literal level, this dialogue continues the Babel theme introduced in the previous passage, with the stutterer Mutt consistently failing to communicate with the deaf Jute. When the invading "Usurp" Jute causes Mutt to tremble, Jute attempts to bribe Mutt with a variety of currencies. At this point, Mutt suddenly identifies Jute as an incarnation of the fallen HCE, shouting, "Louee, louee!" McHugh notes that this corresponds with the Italian "Lui, lui!" -- "It's him, it's him!" (It might be a stretch to argue that Joyce foresaw that I'd be reading this on a night when new episodes of Louie were airing.)
Mutt realizes that it's on this "eggtentical spot" where HCE/humpty dumpty had his big fall. Mutt further references HCE's fall by noting that this new manifestation has occured "[t]here where the missers moony, Minnikin passe." Minnikin passe, as I hinted at above, references Manneken Pis, and it also foreshadows the eventual description of HCE's fall. Many can piss here, and this feature of Phoenix Park likely played a role in his downfall, for he is said to have been caught peeping on two young women who might have been in the act of urinating in the park. (Incidentally, Manneken Pis also has a lesser-known sister statue, Jeanneke Pis, which -- can you guess? -- depicts a little girl pissing. Jeanneke Pis wasn't installed until the 1980's. If she had shown up, say, 60 years earlier, odds are Joyce would have placed her in the Wake as well. I hereby conclude the most extended discussion of micturition that I've ever engaged in. Moving on . . . .)
Relations grow testier between Mutt and Jute. Frustrated with his inability to understand Mutt (". . . I can bueuraly forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic . . . "), Jute decries Mutt's language as obscene and takes an unfriendly leave of his counterpart. (It's worth noting here that Mutt/Shem is a manifestation of Joyce as the author of the Wake, which I suppose makes Jute a manifestation of the reader.) Mutt detains him for a while longer in order to explain both the presence of HCE in the Dublin landscape and to elaborate on the development of Ireland and the Irish race. Jute dismisses this as " 'Stench!" and thus prompts Mutt to note that they are in the midst of an eternal cycle -- that the Dublin they know is "crumbling" and the vanquisher will soon become the vanquish. Misunderstanding rules the day, though, and the passage ends with Jute saying, "Oye am thonthorstrok, thing mud." He is both the immortal god Thor come to lord over Mutt and his earthly home and a bewildered human who will soon be turned to dust.
I had underestimated this passage, thinking that the dialogue would be easier to get through than the previous material. It was just a dense as the rest of the book, though, but little hooks like Manneken Pis continue to draw me in.
(13.5-15.28) I was out of the Wake for three days (I wasn't quite resting in a lifeboat . . . more like I got caught up following a school of fish and it took me a while to get back behind Joyce's boat), but now I'm back. The overall goal is to finish Finnegans Wake within a year, so there's some wiggle room built into this where I can miss a day of reading every week or so. But I don't intend to miss three days in a row again. I guess this is a little like the baseball season, where there's more off days than usual built in to the early part of the schedule on account of April's inclement weather. And just like the baseball season, I'm bound to have some days where there's doubleheaders to make up for rainouts. It looks like today will be one of those days . . .
But, anyway, back to the reading. Having looked ahead, I tackled a slightly longer passage in anticipation of reading the entire upcoming Jute & Mutt dialogue next. There's a lot going on here. Picking up of the survey of "Dyoublong," we are given a quick warning -- "Hush! Caution! Echoland!" -- before the virtues of Echoland's capital are extolled: "How charmingly exquisite!" This doubl(in)ed H-C-E pattern reminds us that we're still focusing in on the book's central figure, and we once again hear the music accompanying the wake of HCE/Finnegan.
After we're reminded that this "funferall" will going on "foriver," we get a formal introduction to the four wise men (for lack of a better phrase at this early stage in the book) who will feature prominently throughout the Wake. They're introduced as our "herodatory" historians, "Mammon Lujius" (in one sense deriving from the authors of the four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John). We're told that their book contains four things that "ne'er sall fail" as long as the sun shines over Ireland. These four things are the four entities that form the family of HCE (and in the broadest sense the human race): the hunchbacked alderman HCE (the father); the "puir old wobban"ALP (the mother); the unfortunate "auburn mayde," their daughter; and finally their diametrically opposed twin sons.
On the pages of this book -- whose "leaves of the living in the boke of the deeds" are Finnegans Wake itself -- we read about episodes featuring the four units of the family in two separate timelines of human existence, one featuring the parents and one featuring the children, separated by an epochal silence. During this silence, the scribe who composed this history was apparently frightened away from his task, and a couple of possible culprits are listed. We then look up from the book to see beautiful pastoral Ireland. A listing of its flora and fauna blends into a catalog of the island's various invading and warring tribes, and it's noted how these ostensibly civilizing forces transformed the peaceful countryside into a Land of Babel. Nevertheless, Ireland's flora and fauna -- and its human inhabitants -- still propagate amidst the confusion, and we're accordingly left with an image of HCE as a whale in a "whillbarrow" washed upon the shores of Dublin to provide sustenance to its inhabitants.
This quick synopsis of the slightly less than three pages of this passage demonstrates how dense the Wake is. I was able to digest a decent amount of the text, but it was a lot to chew on. With that in mind, I think I'll try to keep my pass(ag)es right around the two-page mark for the foreseeable future. There's no reason to rush through such a rewarding and . . . exciting . . . endeavor.
(11.3-13.4) Today's passage is split into two distinct parts: a brief introduction of ALP and a look at Dublin. While still on the recently-deserted battlefield, we see ALP as a bird ("a peacefugle, parody's bird") who only comes out when the thunder of battle is over. An armistice has been declared, so ALP heads out to the battlefield to collect "all spoiled goods" -- things like buttons, bones, and maps -- and put them "into her nabsack." She picks up these "nickelly nacks" or "historic presents from the past propheticals," for our collective good. We then see ALP as the one who nurtures the nascent human race by reestablishing the land after the Flood and gathering the remnants of Humpty Dumpty so that "there'll be iggs for the brekkers come to mournhim, sunny side up with care" (is it bad if this part makes me hungry for an omelet?). While ALP's busy with her work -- "her behaviourite job" -- Joyce takes the opportunity to survey the Dublin landscape, once again with HCE's head at Howth and his toes in Phoenix Park. Between those two points is central Dublin, and it is here that everyone from St. Patrick and St. Brigid to everyday modern Dubliners are "hopping round his middle like kippers on a griddle" and "scraping along to sneeze out a likelihood." But even this place isn't free from strife, as it is here that Irish and English elements collide. Once again, today's passage felt like a continuation of the general (and extended) prologue, both developing the figure of ALP and emphasizing the general and universal nature of HCE. And, as always, the language was tough to get through on the first go 'round. I do, however, continue to feel more comfortable with the Wake, and I'm getting the sense that as I continue to read and blog, I just might "blong"in "Dyoublong."
(9.2-11.3) As I picked up in the tour of the Wellington Museum, I settled in to watch Joyce's dream-vision of the Battle of Waterloo, which begins with a volley of insults between Wellington and Napoleon. Napoleon's three male soldiers and two "jinnies" essentially act as the messengers. The battle then breaks out. Eventually the jinnies retreat, and Wellington takes advantage of this opportunity to pull out his telescope to watch the two women. Napoleon's three soldiers approach Wellington, who picks up the remaining half of Napoleon's hat from the battlefield and hangs it on the rear end of his horse (which is named Copenhagen) as a final insult.
With the museum tour nearing its conclusion, we begin to understand its significance, for we see a dream reversal of Waterloo when one of Napoleon's soldiers, angered by this final insult, shoots Wellington's horse. It is here in the museum -- which is located on the site of Finnegan's fall in Phoenix Park -- that we see Wellington's fall. Wellington, in turn, stands for HCE, for Wellington's fall -- "How Copenhagen ended." -- foreshadows how HCE will fall when three soldiers catch him ogling two women in this same park.
The museum scene ends with Kathe guiding the visitors to the exit: "Mind your boots goan out." Once we're safely outside, there's a one-word paragraph -- "Phew!" -- which feels like Joyce giving everyone a chance to catch their collective breath. We haven't left the idea of war behind, though, as the park outside bears the scars (and corpses: there's the phrase "Skud ontorsed." that I read as skull un-torso-ed) of battle. Today's passage ends with Joyce noting the horrors of war with a sense of jovial resignation: "Wail, 'tis well!" Once again, I've found the material in these two pages to be much more easily digestible on the second and subsequent readings after having consulted my secondary materials. It's also helping that I'm developing the instinct to watch for the themes/overarching figures that Joyce has been setting up since the first page, e.g., three men/two women, HCE, and ALP. Only good news today: As I continue to flail through Joyce's Wake, I feel increasingly compelled to push further in (rather than to swim out).
(7.4-9.2) The Wake's encyclopedic scope almost seems to have anticipated the Internet. One idea flows into another and into another and into another, and soon you realize you've been sucked down the rabbit hole. Today's reading took me from Finnegan's wake straight into the (mythical) Wellington Museum in Dublin's Phoenix Park.
Tindall writes in the Reader's Guide that the Wake's dense overture ends about three-quarters of the way through page seven. This lines up with my first impression while reading the passage. As we pick up at the wake, we see ALP and company preparing to engage in a eucharistic feast, with Finnegan's corpse functioning as the Body/Blood of Christ. The language here did seem dense to me, and it wasn't until I got to the secondary sources that I got a good handle of what was happening.
The reading went a lot smoother, however, after Finnegan's body vanishes, leaving only "a fadograph of a yestern scene," that the proverbial scales fell off my eyes. The scene shifts to HCE (joined by ALP) as the Finnegan figure asleep in both his bed bed and in the Dublin landscape, then zeroes in on Phoenix Park, which is identified as the site of Finnegan's fall (and foreshadowed to be the site of HCE's fall). This is also the site of the "Willingdone Museyroom," and we're kindly invited inside for a tour of its exhibits. While I didn't initially catch many of the references inside the museum, this passage made a good deal of literal sense to me on the first read through (the museum's got a fair amount of Russian, French, and English memorabilia), and after having gone through my secondary materials, I now find it thoroughly fascinating and entertaining.
I don't know if it says something about me beyond just being fairly well-acquainted with Joyce's other works, but in reading this a lot of the phallic puns/references jumped out (this could've gotten way more cringe-inducing) at me here. I guess it's kind of obvious, though, when we see a "big Willingdone mormorial tallowscoop" with "Sexcaliber hrosspower" that is trained on "the flanks of the jinnies." (Jinnies, in one sense, are the female soldiers under Willingdone's "wartrew" -- Waterloo -- rival, "Lipoleum.") Also, stops during the tour of the museum, which is conducted by "the mistress Kathe," are frequently punctuated by, "Tip." Here, "Tip." could be ol' Kathe looking for some change as a tip for her work as tourguide, or (as Campbell and Robinson note in the Skeleton Key) it could be a tree branch hitting the window (and Mother Nature looking for attention) as HCE sleeps, or it could be . . . another phallicism. It's probably all three.
(I think I'm going to start each post now with a parenthetical reference to what part I read each day, so here goes:) (5.5-7.3) As I alluded to in my introduction post, I've read some criticisms of Campbell and Robinson's Skeleton Key and Tindall's Readers Guide, at least from the standpoint that they offer selective "translations" of the Wake in a manner that reflects each individual author's interpretation, and that the works often can (perhaps by their intrinsic nature) be incomplete, out-of-date, or -- in a worst-case scenario -- erroneous. I recognize that there are some inherent limitations in these guides, but two days into this endeavor, I'm thankful that they're on my bookshelf (along with McHugh's Annotations).
On my first pass through today's passage, I found myself stumbling on the first part of the first full paragraph on page five (describing Finnegan's family crest) and the parenthetical at 5.30 through 6.7 (describing what I guess I'll call civilization's horrors). McHugh's Annotations were helpful in unpacking these parts, but everything seemed to fall into place when I reread the passage and kept in mind that these bits may be more "ornamental" then "narrative."
Anyway, this passage furthers the story of Finnegan, "the first . . . to bare arms and a name." At various points he merges here with (probably among others) the legendary Finn McCool (who I first learned about, appropriately enough, while sitting beside a campfire in rural Ireland) and HCE, the book's "hero." But mostly we're getting the Finnegan narrative: he's a heavy-drinking guy who falls to his apparent death from a ladder while at work. His body is taken to his house, where a group of people gather for his wake. On another level, his body is the Dublin landscape, and the passage is moving toward that direction (heralded by some watery language and the introduction of a number of musical instruments) at the point where I left off.
I feel like I'm starting to get a bit of a feel for the way Joyce is using the language, and I'm hoping that (sort of like with Ulysses), I'll hit my stride once I get through this first chapter. For the time being, though, I'm at least having fun.
It might be understating things to say that the first two pages of Finnegans Wake aren't easy to get through. This is dense, dense stuff. In the Skeleton Key, Campbell and Robinson spend 12 pages explaining what's going on in these two pages, and you get the sense that there was a lot more they could've written. But I feel like I have a good sense of what's happening, and when I reread the passage tonight after going through my secondary materials, I both enjoyed and appreciated Joyce's opening flourishes. It's helpful to keep in mind that the first four paragraphs -- which have been perennially headache-inducing for me -- essentially serve as the introduction to the book. At the most basic level, we're situated in Dublin, riding down the River Liffey into Dublin Bay and then moving along the shore up to Howth. On another level, we're in the Garden of Eden ("Eve and Adam's") at the dawn of existence. We're in prehistoric time, and we witness The Fall (denoted by the 100-letter thunderword . . . I could hear the rumbling as I very slowly tried to sound it out). The third paragraph takes us through human history -- love and war -- and promises us a resurrection: "Phall if you but will, rise you must . . . ." The last paragraph of today's passage (I read through the whole paragraph, onto the beginning of page 5) introduces Finnegan -- the master builder -- and while it's still dense stuff, it's not as rough as what came before. I'm looking forward to picking up on Finnegan tomorrow.
The opening word of the Wake -- "riverrun" -- got me thinking of "Rio Grande," the final song on Brian Wilson's self-titled solo album from 1988. I guess the song, which points to the Rio Grande as a source of life and a metaphor for the American Experience, is a kind of pop music parallel to Finnegans Wake. Anyway, "Rio Grande" is stuck in my head now. This may or may not be the last time that I create a link between James Joyce and the Beach Boys.
Over the past 12 years or so, I've flirted a lot with Finnegans Wake. I've thought about James Joyce's legendarily unread masterpiece off and on, and I've skimmed through short passages of the book here and there. But every time I've determinedly sat down to read it from the beginning, I've gotten a headache halfway through the first page and given up.
I've read Joyce's Dubliners, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and Ulysses. On the strength of those three books, Joyce is my favorite author. Having recently finished reading Richard Ellmann's authoritative biography of Joyce, and recognizing the fact that today is the 75th anniversary of the Wake's publication, I've decided that now's as good a time as any for me to finally dive into it.
Given the complexity of Finnegans Wake (which is written in kind of a dream-state version of English that uses infinite variations of spelling, is loaded with puns, and features liberal incorporation of words from other languages) and inspired by Frank Delaney's weekly Re: Joyce podcasts, in which he guides listeners through Ulysses while "unpacking" that challenging novel's dense language, I've decided to adopt a slow and careful approach to reading Finnegans Wake. By slow, I mean that I plan on reading about two pages a day. By careful, I mean that I'm going to be getting a lot of help from those who have entered into the Wake before me.
I intend to read each day's passage out loud to myself (the style of the Wake's language seems to demand that its words be heard as well as seen). After my first run through, I will supplement my reading by referencing the relevant passages from three books:
Roland McHugh's Annotations to Finnegans Wake, which offers line-by-line notes on the text of the Wake.
Joseph Campbell and Henry Morton Robinson's A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, which takes readers through the Campbell and Robinson's interpretation of the Wake.
William York Tindall's A Reader's Guide to Finnegans Wake, which, similar to the Skeleton Key, also breaks down the Wake in an attempt to guide the "average" reader through it.
(Additionally, I've also just finished reading James S. Atherton's The Books at the Wake, which details the many literary sources Joyce used as a foundation for his book and almost constantly alludes to throughout the work. It served as a helpful prologue to my attempt to make it through Joyce's book.) I recognize that these might be older and less-popular guides, but they looked helpful to me, so I'm going to roll with them.
After
I've gone through these secondary sources, I plan on rereading the
day's pages, hopefully with a decent level of general understanding and
in a better mindset to appreciate the passage.
As part of my trip through the Wake, I'm going to chronicle each day's reading on this blog. At a pace of two pages a day -- plus the inevitable days here and there when I won't get the reading done -- I figure I'll be done with the book in about a year, hence the blog's title. This will be a sort of reading diary -- I don't envision getting too in-depth or scholarly, but rather will just kind of riff on what I've read. Nothing's set in stone, so things might develop one way or another as I go along. Ultimately, I hope that this might serve as encouragement for those who, like me, have always wanted to read Finnegans Wake but haven't yet taken the plunge.
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