finnegans wake

Sundog Rising!

Reflections on living the life literary by the Urban Sundog

Boompsey-Daisy, Jim!

It has been quite plausibly stated that the only thing more pretentiously literary than James Joyce writing Finnegans Wake (1939) is someone saying they’ve read James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.

I’ve read it.

Twice.

The first time was sheer pretension. I indeed only wanted to say that I had read it, so I plowed through fifty pages a day until it was over. I did little more than look at the words. Afterwards, I felt embarrassed. What was I thinking? Like I knew anyone who cared, for one thing …

But the strange thing was, after flipping through the pages so fruitlessly once, I kept on being drawn back to the book … Even considered reading it again. One page a day. Paying attention this time.

Which I finally did, the year I turned forty. I set myself a quest that year. Read 40 great books the same calendar year. With the climax being Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. By this point I had renamed the event The Year of Reading Impossible Books. So to make it easier to get through Proust, I decided to reread Finnegans Wake at the same time. 25 pages of Proust a day, 15 of Joyce.

The two played off each other surprisingly well. And as much as I was enjoying the Proust, I found it was the Joyce I woke up in the morning looking forward to.

Now, Joyce was famously quoted as saying, “It took me 17 years to write the book. It should take you 17 years to read it.” I always questioned whether we should take that statement — or the book — seriously.

A person can read the book trying to make sense of it. Trying to work out all the different languages thrown into any single sentence — including imaginary words — and all the literary and cultural references the text is rumoured to be full of. Let’s open it at random and give an example:

(from pg. 317:)

    — Nohow did he kersse or hoot alike the suit and soldier skins, minded first breachesmaker with considerable way on and

    — Humpsea dumpsea, the munchantman, secondsnipped cutter the curter.

    — A ninth for a ninth. Take my worth from it. And no misteank, they thricetold the taler and they knew the whyed for too.

Just for the record, the book is 628 pages of that sort of thing. And the last sentence runs  back into the first, so it’s really one gigantic loop that never actually does begin or end.

When exploring the question of whether or not the best way to approach the book is to try to make sense of each sentence as you go along, laboriously chipping away at the outlandish concept that there might actually be a plot, I am naturally reminded of a certain lady wrestler I used to enjoy watching. She was asked once if she could do the fancy acrobatics other wrestlers did, leaping off the top rope and such. She answered: “Sure. But why?”

Has Joyce developed a language that deliberately demands interpretation or one that only sows confusion? You could waste an awful lot of time working that out. It’s better just to pick up the damn book and see what you find.

So what is the first impression reading any section of Finnegans Wake produces? Not being engrossed in a tension-filled unfolding plot created through the portrayal of distinct characters with defined personalities and clear action in the story, certainly. No, your first impression, as long as you’re hearing the words written clearly in your mind, is — hey. This sounds neat. This is fun.

So that’s my answer to James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. Don’t read it for the plot. Don’t read it for the story. If you were meant to, Joyce wouldn’t have made those two aspects of the book so damn difficult to figure out. Read Finnegans Wake for the fun of it. Go back to the sheer base experience of the book, the ebb and flow of whatever words you might find there and their physical effect upon you. For the sheer rhythm of it, if nothing else. There are few works that roll off the tongue so delightfully. If you don’t have the inclination for 628 pages of that sort of thing, open it at random and apply as necessary. In fact, let’s try that again.

(From page 102:)

    Wery weeny wight, plead for Morandmor! Notre Dame de la Ville, mercy of thy balmheartzyheat! Ogrowdnyk’s beyond herbata tay, wort of the drogist. Bulk him no bulkis. And let him rest, thou wayfarre, and take no gravespoil from him! Neither mar his mound! The bane of Tut is on it. Ware! But there’s a little lady waiting and her name is A.L.P. And you’ll agree. She must be she.

I would now revise my opening statement to say the only pretentious thing about reading James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake is pretending you understand it. Just letting it put a smile on your face is something else entirely.

Take my worth from it. I know the whyed for too.

And if all else fails, and you really want to get through it but find you can’t, try reading Remembrance of Things Past at the same time. Then everything makes sense everywhere!

*****

REALITY FICTION AND BEYOND!

The fish is afoot! The Reality Fiction Contestants take on Sherlock Holmes in Episode Four’s “Mak the Kipper”! The first half of the story posted Monday, with the finale revealing who or whutdunnit on Friday, February 13th! An appropriate date for a revelation of conniving evil. Reality Fiction Three: The Interrupted Edition continues at:

http://realficone.blogspot.ca/

When you eliminate the yadda yadda all you’ve got left is the improbable. And there’s nothing more improbable than this group trying to apply clear deductive reasoning.

Episodes to Date:

Episode One: Dante-Ish — Mak’s Inferno

Episode Two: Chaucer-Ish — The Hermit’s Tale

Episode Three: Malory-Ish — Le Morte de Mak

Episode Four: Doyle-Ish — Mak the Kipper

All with illustrations by the author. Working through the Contestants in the order of their appearance.