“Have I done it right.
Have I got it proper?”

 
 
 
 

 
 

The Beginning Of The End

This the last section of the Wake.

It is perhaps the most strange of all, for he ventured into the world of possible – impossible with intention of showing things probable, possibly, as he might say, yet to be.

Strange; indeed, perhaps a possible reconstruction of that which has gone before, then on the last page a clear statement of belief; a statement which says, all that has gone before is nonsense.
 

“Lif laf and laughter.”

Most of this section devoted to intangibles; but it is no dream!

P597
 

“_ _ _ _ Of all the stranger things that ever not even in the hundred and bodst pageans of unthowsent and wonst nice or in eddas and oldels bokes of tomb, dyke and hollow to be have happened! The untireties of livesliving being the one substrance of a stream becoming. Totalled in toldtell and teldtold in tittletell tattle. Why? Because graced be God and all giddy gadgets, in whose word were the beginnings_ _ _ .” 

“_ _ _ _Why? It is a sort of swigswag, systomy, dystomy, which everabody you anywhere is all doze. Why? Such me.”

There is and are, pages of such musing. We are enjoined to wake up; 
 

“Inattendance who is who is will play that whats that to whats that; what.” 

This is no vision! But a statement of belief.
 

“As we have seen, so we have heard, what we have received, that we have transmitted, thus we shall hope, thus we shall pray, till; in the search for love of knowledge, through the comprehension of the unity in altruism through stupefaction, it may again how it may again _ _ _ _ _ _ death and life are these.”

So he seems to come to terms with the blunt basic, that we are on our own, whatever happens, and we will do well to make the most of it.
 

“Yet is no body present here which was not there before. Only in order othered. Nought is nulled.”

“Well, we have frankly enjoyed more than anything these secret workings of nature, (thanks ever for it, we humbly pray), and, well, was really so delighted with this lights time.”

So, he is reasonably happy with this reasonably reasonable world. Well knowing the chaosmos out there. That’s the universe, we’re happy enough in our place.
Toward the end of this section he remembers Anna Livia (he has been talking of himself and many other things up until now); he remembers that all the way thru, he has had a good companion, Mother of his children; so with all the grace of an Irish gentleman remembered those lovely days he has had walking with her.
P619
 

“Alma Luvia, Polabella.”

Again, the Irish Jest.
 

“Soldier Rollo’s sweetheart.”

“A princeable girl. My lips went livid for from the joy of fear. Like almost now. How? How you said, how your world give me the keys. The keys to me heart. And we’ll be married till death do us part. And though dev do copart. O mine! Only, no, now its me who’s got to give _ _ _.”

There are eight-nine pages. One paragraph, an intimate telling of his love for Anna Livia. This is heart talking, the real thing!

Truly, clearly and indeed, despite the words and all the thought behind that which he wrote, he has not yet sorted “things” out to his satisfaction.

As with millions of others the best part of life, of our experience on earth is Love. That strong companion who makes all, whatever “all” is, worthwhile. 
Plurabella, the sweet river of life, that creative flow which animated all things.

He wonders, as do many of us, if Life exists elsewhere in the chaos – out there; and we well may wonder, for it seems to be a product of this world, starting in tiny creations; experimenting with size, designs in colour and form; delighting in variety; millions of forms of infinite diversity explored, and, surely, working thru eons toward a greater and a richer consciousness. 

But why on earth?  Why this tiny planet?

And, why on earth does Joyce disguise his musings in such manner.

His own Orange Book of Kells is rich in creative variety. He explores or exploits the literary styles of half a millennium; humour; narrative; personality; and makes a rare but deep incursion into that most dark, unfathomed and misunderstood entity, the human subconscious; this the world of internal monologue; the dark subconscious creativity of the mature mind.

That unceasing stream of chatter which dogs mankind by day, and which he attempts to show with Finnegans Wake, is also the begetter of all our dreams.
All the tributary streams come together – in the river of life; and all are destined to find their rest in the infinite sea.

But now, there is now a dilemma; a quandary; a vast contradiction; and the key to the puzzle, the enigma, the mystery of Life is revealed.

The key is given; all begins again; there is no choice; nothing other than a return to the beginning, and Joyce aka Finnegan, is returned to Howth Castle; and all that has been, is; and all that shall be; again.

This, the ultimate pessimist!
 
 

 
 

Joycean Literature

There is a great distance – several Irish miles; between the reading of Joyce for pleasure, and the study of the work for critical comment.

In respect of Joyce, his work has developed almost to the level of Higher Criticism; well over a thousand books devoted to the cause. The studies, thanks to such literary theories as Realism and Modernism has extended to the life of the man himself – his family friends and even the many places in which the family lived have been traced, and so another book. This also to engage the attention of the professors.

The professors are in a slightly different category; he has been warned about them; on the cards that his friend Ezra Pound quite seriously warned Joyce about them.

Pound had a rather profound influence on Joyce; this very generously in the form of strong support for his work and good companionship as a personal friend.

But there is, with no intention of becoming yet another critic; ample evidence in the Wake of an awareness in Joyce of the future interest of the professors in his work.

It seems also, that this awareness caused him some bitterness of mind; a bitterness which he exorcises by wit. The most acid of his comments on life and literature are directed against the very men who will keep his work alive for a thousand years.

Chapter VII of Part I of the Wake presents, in voluble abundance, words to this issue.
 

“The more murphies you peel _ _ _ the merrier fumes your Irish stew _ _ _ (thanks, I think that describes you.) Europasianused Afteryank.”

Is but one instance, of the mocking Jest.

Some pages before the above he writes bitterly of 
 

“Matter not protected in the United Stars of Ourania _ _ _.”

“ _ _ _ This double dye, brought to bloodheat, gallic acid on iron ore, though the bowels of his misery _ _ _.”

 These words, with others, possibly referring to the pirating of “The Portrait of the Artist” by an American publishing house.

The banning of Ulysses in both America and England, and here in Australia, meant possible great loss to him in sales; when the ban was lifted, more than ten years later, there were thousands of new books on the market; public response was mainly from the academic audience, and though offering Joyce and family a more secure lifestyle, by no means brought him fortune.

However Ezra Pounds opinion was justified. The American market was main support, and this interest was given strength in the American Universities where Ulysses was welcomed with typical American verve.

Some Universities established Chairs in Joyce studies; Ulysses became a standard text in Literature in many courses; Joyce studies became formalized, some Universities, produced style books for work on Joyce; Clubs and Societies, chat rooms, websites, and a vast too and fro on the Web supported and encouraged the study of Joyce, his family, and work.

Finnegans Wake, with flaws, printing errors and the reputation of sheer unreadability but added to the task confronting the professors, and despite Joyces own doubts about the Affreyanks, it is they who will carry his work thru this millennium.

As a reader, and with a University education, Joyce would be well aware that this kind of future lay before him and his work.

Vast numbers of books are written and published about those of us who have gone before; Publishers will look at a new version of Homer; - the Greek philosophers; Roman & old Persian thinkers; Spenser; Shakespeare, Donne – almost any of the Elizabethans of our own times. Time will sort out writers to be read and discussed in a thousand years.

Joyce would know also that his work would influence others.

It is possible that Ulysses, and Dubliners, the short stories, were written with the hope that they might stir minds of readers into a better awareness of the possible wellness of a better way of living; and that their style might stir writers out of the conventional way of writing.

Charlie Chaplin, with his comic tragic acting had similar hopes.

Serious thinkers dabbled in a dozen “isms”; formatted ideas about improving Art, Literature and Life. Even the scientists were struggling with a new physics, motor cars, new economic and social theories; the creative ferment of those years touched most lives.

Picasso and a dozen other Artists, introduced modern Art to the World.

Joyce, Shaw and a dozen other writers set Modernism on its feet; an improvement on the stolid rational thinking of the nineteenth century; the rigours of Realism.

The new energy reached into social ideas; improved public health; new understanding about food, diet, exercise, lifestyle; new transport modes, new cities to house millions; new inventors and inventions; the motor car and aeroplanes; a thousand new things, and amongst the hurley burley, a better life for millions.

All this, and much much more; despite two World Wars, several global epidemics, the Great Depression, the Cold War, a new and vigorous society with a new wealth; a rich bounty flourished. Soon TV and Coke in far Tibet and in parts of Africa.

Such the power and resilience of human beings.

Many saw these brave years as a second Renaissance, equal to that of the sixteenth century beginning with Elizabeth I, and equated it with Elizabeth II.

Literature in England; art in Italy; creativity through all Europe.

They may be right.

There is a rather similar belief that the writers of the early years of the last century did much to arouse the spirit of unrest and change.

That Joyce chose to arouse the professors with two books, his Blue Book and his Orange Book, the first difficult, boring; the second unreadable in any readable way, is a mystery yet to be resolved.

So far, despite the thousand books, the 28 million hits on the WWWeb, the Joyce societies and the chat rooms, not one has been able to isolate the mythic quality within the Work, which has fathered this astonishing world wide interest.

For there is something different; something felt, but not yet seen, “the beat of angels wing”, or as Shakespeare heard, the “West wind, singing of love”, something hidden; go, and find it, something within the wraith word, the dreamdorry, the heaps of baggish; something; despite the mystery, attracts and leads us on, destination unknown!

That so many do not pass Page 19, is a reflection of the reader, never the work.

Or is the elusive thing, the puzzle, wrapped in a paradox, concealed in a mystery, hidden in an enigma, something much closer to home; his view of the frisson between man and maid, but the eyes of the Nora Barnacles of the world searching ever for the best mate?

Perhaps that simple basic fact of life, as seen by Joyce and other visionaries is indeed the absolute, the source of our wars and of our triumphs; most certainly seems to be at the heart of the housing problem, the huge credit card debt; and the very stuff of our Olympics, our Universities and Kindergartens, and thus Joyce, a little wiser that the rest of us.

His Anna Livia indeed the river of Life; the giddy gabby gossipaceous liddle lovey lady of mens dreams.
The world as it is, her Brave New World, and no doubt about it, the world that will be for ever and ever. Amen.
So to hell with the money grubbers, the warlords, the lawyers. Put the bounty to its proper use; every country, every city, every street, every home, a garden; each of us in our own Eden. 
As Joyce says,

“A Magnificent Transformation Scene _ _ _ the Dawn of Peace, Pure, Perfect and Perpetual _ _ _.”

Sadly, before that Mag Trans, theres the thousand years of scratching round in the midden heap of his words.
As Joyce says somewhere,

 “Ah, me! A men!”
 
 

 
 

Reincarnate To Be?

There is, in this last chapter of the Wake, much to stir the interest, stir the soul of man; writ plain for men to read; the Word to declare a hope and a promise for mankind.

In these paragraphs, there is no deception. He exposes his very soul, his deepest feelings; but all is hidden in Word.

He tells us plainly, he has been here before, in another lifetime; that he recalls a life “out there”. He is an “old one”, back here to teach us. He is speaking of his impending death; but the death, for him, is but a passing; he will return.

This he knows.

To be sure that we know, he tells us 
 

“There is a key.” 

This key is mentioned thru the Wake. It is also a sub theme in Ulysses, so it is of some importance not only to Joyce, but to students of Joyce.

With his last words, he speaks of this key, 

On P628, the last page
  

 “The key is given.”

So what is this key?

For want of more precise information the Key used in these small essays is simply, the discarding of the exotic word, the simple preservation of the Queens English; the mad words rejected, the crooked words straitened out, and hey presto, the Word is revealed, the way strait before us.

So P627 offers;
 

 “Yes you are changing and turning.” 

This seems to relate to a life here as a woman; such the mystery of life; an earlier reincarnation; or one yet to be experienced.
 

“I shall be daughter or wife again, I see her, just a whisk, brisk sly, spry sprink, spank, sprint of a thing.”

 “How I pity the self I used to be.”

“Be happy dear ones, I’ll be much the same as I was, this time round. I could have stayed up here forever."

“But something fails us; first we feel then we fall. Whatever for my time is come.”

“I did my best, thinking always if I fail, its too bad.”

“A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles, and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand years!”

“I’ve always lived my life among them, but now I’m finished, going back again.”

“I thought you were great in all things, in guilt and in glory, but you’re only a puny.”

“Home!"

“My people were not your sort! Out there, beyond as far as I can see.”

“In all their wild dances I am with them; the wild Amazia! The haughty Niluna. They are my stormies!”

“Forget your name here! I am passing, oh bitter end, they will never miss me. How sad and weary I am, so I go back to my old Father.”

So we have here a very personal – intimate statement of a view expressed so often in the Wake, all in respect of a Mr Finnegan; but now there is no dissimulation.

He speaks for himself; and with longing for his Amazia, his Niluna. He surely hopes to meet them.

But why? Surely they too, must move on?

His work here, this time round, is completed: he is sad to say goodbye, he knows full well that he will quickly be forgotten, only those that love him will remember; so its goodbye, and oh, here is the key, given to you.

This is indeed a declaration of experience in the mystery of Metempsychosis, the transmigration of souls. We recall that Bloom talks of this in Ulysses.

Hidden in his wraith wonder of word, to be revealed only as the life of James Joyce, author of books, expires, the key offered to whomsoever may read in these last words of his epic Orange Book of Kells.

His wild valedictory; or better perhaps, the last sermon of the failed priest explodes thru the carpet of word, all through this last Part IV of the Wake.

He sings, it is clear; a verse of the tone poem, clear and simple, as it takes his fancy – a pattern glimpsed, a revealing sentence, sometimes an Irish lower class phrase, to bring our senses back to the job, such as in the small paragraph at the bottom of 
P612
 

“_____ That wasthing, bygotter, the thing bogcotton, the very thing begad. Even to toptoputty Bilkilly, Belkelly, Balkally.”

Why, other than to divert the reader, play the fool with the vowels in such wicked humour. But theres more and it is not so nice – not by an Irish mile.
 

“Who was for shouting down the shatto on the lamp of Jeeshees. Sweating up to stonker and throw his seven. As he shuck his thumping fore features apt the hoyhop of this Ards.”

But this little cinder of Irish idiom is not there, or here, for simple fun, for it is but an introduction to a more serious display of word.
 

“Good safe firelamp I hailed the helots goldselfore imp! Hailed they. Awed. Wherer therapon the sky fold high trampatrampatramp Odie. Per ye comdoom doominoon noonstroom. Yeasome priestomes. Fullyhum toowhoom. Teawhaat? Sants and sogs, cabs and cogs, Kings and Karls, tents and taunts.”

So, having offered these two so opposite paragraphs of his creativity which may be interpreted as,

This is the real thing, despite the nonsense about Balkelly, and the offence against Jesus.
 

 “God save the light.” 

“And they were in awe as answer fell from the sky!”

For the foregoing is to lead us, in Joycean mode to;
P613
 

“Tis gone, in farover. So fore now, dayleash. Pour deday. To trancfusureashone. Feist of Taborneccles, seenopegia, come! Shamwork, be in out scheining. And let every crisscouple be so crosscomplimentary, little eggons, youlk and meelk, in a farbiger pancosn as. With a hotyhammyum all round. Gudstruce. Yet is no body present here which was not there before. Only is othered Nought is nulled.”

This barrage of word may be interpreted as,
 

“Now all is clear as daylight. His Finnegans transmutation is close. Let the Feast of Tabernacles, come! Let it happen!"

May the shamrock (the national flower of Ireland) be seen in the shining and let every couple be happy in the new cosmos, the new life to be.

We will all be there, only of course, all things will be changed.

Nothing is lost; only changed; so he has used several hundred words, to tell us this; but read with care; reflect on his words. There is nothing new; no revelation in his Eccles Book of Kells; all has been said before, and there can be no doubt but that it will be said again, and more than ONCE.

But it is all speculation. There is no Divine Revelation about Reincarnation; hearsay; suburban myth; anecdote; speculation; a few learned words, and hope; that weakest of walking sticks; the aiery faiery upon which we lean, but no certainty.

His features now cast in deathless bronze, by courtesy the Irish Tourist Board, but that 'His soul goes marching on' is but the hope in the words of an old song. A sub theme of his dreamdoory.

But that word, in the reality of life, of no more worth than the maelstrom of word in Finnegans Wake.

He has used a forest of word, ash and elm; oak and rowan; the elderberry and the ancient yew; but says nothing of Beech, the tree in whose strength he found courage to persevere; he speaks not of the Weaver, the bird in the branches of the Beech, not of Nora, the strong cane on which he leaned; these great trees in whose shade he worked and lived.

Perhaps he thought of them as he toiled thru night and day in the perverted invention of Word; perhaps he saw them as leaves; red, bronze and gold, floating on the bosom of his Anna Livia, the rivering Water of Life whom, he says, he loves.

But there is no perceptible nod in their direction in the closing chapters of either the Work or his Life. 

It may be that he does indeed love “her” but, as we read it is clear, that his love is an intellectual fixation. There is little of any of the steadfast affection; little of the passion of love. Words, yes words in plenty, but of that deep, sweet, empathy, there are no words.

He never, ever, understood women or their creative purpose in life, in general, or in his own life in particular.

James missed out on so much of the good that Life offers.

It is possible to feel sad for this man, despite his great talent; these last pages of the Wake are a sad Adieu.
 
 

 
 

A Little Talk About God

James makes no secret of his theology.

He tells us in as many words, in many places; and often with many a shock!

So, P258

“Of their fear they broke. -- -- They are wind; they fled; -- -- of their first they fled, they brokeaway. Go to, let us extol Azrael -- -- -- to Mezourzalem -- --

Yup! Yup! Yurrak! -- -- -- And shall not Babel be with Lebab. If Nekulan be havanfalled surely Makal haven heavens. Go to; let us extell Makal, yes let us exceeding extel. -- -- --My excellency is over Israel. Great is him who is over Israel, and he shall mekanek of Mak Nakulon. And he deed! _ _ _.”

“For the Clearer of the Air from on high has spoken -- -- -- the unhappitents of the earth have terrerumbled from firmament unto fundament and from tweedledeedumms down to twiddledeedees. Loud hear us. Loud, graciously hear us!”

“Even if I get life for it, upon the Open Bible and before the Great Taskmaster, and in presence of the Diety itself (I lift my hat) _ _ _?"

“Yes, before all this has time to end, the golden age will return again, with a vengeance.”

“She, the All Merciful; the world is filled with fairness _ _ _.”

“Rocked of agues, cliffed for me.”

 Or
 

“Pass the fish, for Christs sake.”

 And scores of similar reverent interest including;
 

  “MATTAHAHA!  MARAHA! LUAHAH!  JOAHANAHANAHANA!”

“Now have they children entered into their habitations -- -- -- God be thanked. Thou hast closed the portals of the habitations of thy children, and thou hast set thy guards thereby -- -- -- that thy children may read in the book of the opening of the mind to light and nor not in the darkness. -- -- -- Loud hear us, -- -- -- grant sleep in hours time. -- -- -- Loud heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughter low. Ha he hi ho hu. Mummum.”

Utterly unexplorable, an Irish stew of mutton and turnips; the sublime to the ridiculous.

The blank spaces in the quotation above, stand silent witness of wilful words!

 On one of my regular, more or less glances into Joyces Finnegan, scribbled out this little fantasy. Enjoy.
 
 

 
 

A short history of us

The Greek theme intrigues, entroys us, but them eggheads, they got our beginnings wrong.

 It was a lady chimp said, “I’ve had a gutful of foolin round in these dam trees.  Dangerous for the kids.  I’m off.”

 So she hopped it; down into savannah.  Her mate called, “Hey, where ya going?”  She yelled back.  “I’m off ta see the world.  Coming?”

 So he went, and they was the Homo Sapiens thing; built a house; started a garden.  Been that way ever since.  Always been them kids, getting into trouble.

 Abels fault, not keeping his dam goats out of the sage patch.

 Joyce, with the Wake intended to restores somewhat our faith in history, and possibly in the word; so we offer this happy little vision of history.

 Everything since, just a variation on this eternal theme, the Holy Grail of woman kind. The unholy wars of mankind, and now they have women in the army. God help us please, and some fools want to fight in the firing line. If only they knew! A better deal for our kids; and its ever that lady chimp, prodding us blokes along; getting the job done.

 Sure, some like things the old way; too lazy to get out of asking for help; some crooks, some con man; some this or that; so its been a bit uphill all the way.  None of the big shots, Caesar, Napoleon nor that fella Hitler and his pal Nemesis, none of them beat us; we just go on, steady as it goes boys; thru all the troubles, and now, we’ve had our big flat feet on the moon and we got satellites, and our kids have computers and we have TV and credit cards, and hand phones, and we’ve got one of our toys sailing serenely thru the uncharted abyss of deep space.  Oh, my volkalabratatory!

How my daemon rejoyces to tweedledum and tweedledee with wraithwords, following that thread through the maze of thoughtfuls.  Do you get me?  Do you perceive the purpose?  Glimpse in the numinous halo the dim outline of the Reality; glimpse the sweet dancing filament; just a whisk a brisk sly spry spink spank sprint of a thing; feel the vibrat energy; there she is. Grab her; it is indeed that lady ape, still elusive, exploring the world with her kids, or as us stronger minded people say, her children.

Dear James; much have we learned from your book, roaming the Labyrinth of your deep understanding; plunging the deeps of your depths; and no fears, tho the water is oft over our heads, but in lower end of Dubline ya shoulda got in with Yeats or Lady Gregory, and made it in Ireland.

So many others in the turgid stream of that infernal internal monologue; that inpouring of our emotionabilities; such our days in the maze; our daze in the Labyrinth of this worlds literature. Ya might have found that soul. If ya stuck to Ireland – even in Dublin.

Despite the wiles of Shem the Penman, all has been said before; the limits reached, back in King Solomons daze, “There is nothing much new under the sun;” just the bells and whistles indifferent. The Queen of Seba had no metal rings in her knows, or Ibet, on her belly button. Oh no, she was a lady.

Today our literatures, are discoloured with Wilde Joycean imaginations and so the ageless girl woman is a bit different; the children smarter.

Bill Gates, and young Apple and hoary old IBM and satellites have opened windows for us into what looks like eternity.

Let Mandelbrot get his fractals into their modems any day now, we may reach them, out there; or God help us, they may reach us.  One of the hackers, clever little devils, will lead them to us.  As the Master said, “A little child shall lead them.”

Soon, we will all believe in Eternity; those avatars in Los Angeles will be talking to us about immortality, a pleasant change from immorality. It was always that way and always will be.

Mrs Hoyles little boy Freddy, right after all!

The Universe is infinite and immortal. We must begin to thin in such terms, such concepts.

Its time the boffins gave us the dinkum oil about ourselves.  Who was it said, “The proper study of mankind, is Man.” Seems like we are just a clever arrangement of quantum physics, or atoms, to you blokes, for the purpose of giving our understanding a brush up – our consciousness a run on Earth. And what of Earth? Of every celestial body we know, this is unique – not only unique but lovely, not only lovely but bounteous. What a silly stupid bunch we are fighting each other – go home, George Bush, and play army games with your dog.

So, now, Finnegans Wake. It shoulda been Bygmeisters dream.

So life goes on.  Day after wonderful day.  If its not wonderful, p’haps you’re looking at things the wrong way.  Go home, have a chat with Mum or try probing the mind of a Priest, but get a good one. Priests are like the rest of us, some good, some bad, most of them indifferent.

First it was the lady chimp; did the sensible thing.  Got down from the tree, out in the world; then it was Cybele, then Lilith, Eve; then Athena flitting about, then there was Helen – what a foolish child, and then Cleopatra and Elizabeth I; then things changed and we had a Mary and Isolde and a Moira, and lately a Diana, and, you can put your shirt on it mate, sooner or later another Eve or an Ashtoreth or Athena will lead us back into the garden, home at last. But it was good fun while it lasted.

We shoulda never have left it.
 
 

 
 

Law And Lawyers

P572 offers an extremely ugly essay on human relations when contesting the Law.

These pages are not nice. They begin

 “The procurator Interrogarius Mealterum”

Then follows an hilarious but obscenely lewd legal argument about something better not mentioned, and which, in the end tells us nothing much about anything. With the proviso that Joyce has but ‘creaked a joke’, yet again.

This time he is throwing words against that sacred cow, the Western legal system.

Solon of Athens told the assembly, “That the laws are made necessary because of the folly of the people.”

The priests were well established as law makers many years before Solon.

The ten commandments very soon multiplied by hundreds; all designed to govern and control a “Stiffnecked People.”

Today there is a macrogable of literally tens of thousands of laws and regulations; so many, as to render meaning unclear, purpose contradictory, and the effects become rank injustice; frequently demanding years of micro – even nannogabble to resolve.

That we submit to such inanities is contemptible; that we pay the often scandalous fees demanded is further proof of our folly; that we tolerate the prolonging of proceedings into months and often years yet further evidence of folly.

That we do not take immediate steps to resolve these complexities is a divine paradox.

We have invented the motorcar, the cell phone; the credit card; in our spare time put a man on the moon and explored the planets; we have created a reasonable society from our natural pagan state; we have made a happy marriage possible from our primitive sexuality; all these wonders; but seem incapable of resolving this ridiculous slavery of our legal system.

That we should and must place the creature under control is inevitable.

How? When? Joyce gives no answer other than, “Bring the system into ridicule”; laugh it out of existence; or as commonsense, rather than Joyce might say, simplify, simplify, simplify; and put the fees under the same regulatory process we use for other services and commodities.

That the law can be terribly unjust, every Irishman knows full well; the aboriginal peoples of the United Staples of Armorica; of Canada; South Africa, Australia, NZ and other places, also have such understanding. The Law has little power when it applies to colonizing or War, but may have a terrible power in individual lives.
Surely we, who have achieved so much, can cleanse these Augean stables.

In the present circumstance we should perhaps try to resolve the paradox of Joyce admitting such a story into his dreamdoory. It is no dream.

Perhaps, but only perhaps, he dreamed that we just might do something!
 
 

 
 

The Essence Of The Book

Part IV of the Eyrewyggle is indeed the recollected essence of a dream; either that or the infernal internal monologue of an Irish literary man, musing on things eternal, a merry mixture of religious imagery; of the myth of the dark North, all blessed with a strong impulse to write, and a strong compulsion to mix metaphor, imagination; and Irish patois, in a style so highly personal as to be unique; a notable singularity in the world of literature.

It should be read, as he wrote it; this endpiece; the first segment of Work in Progress; is this Part IV, and as it becomes evident as one reads, could and probably should have had no more added to it, for this Part is the Kernel of the whole. Not one word needs be added to it.

Beyond his interpretation of early Christian theology; the early dreams of the evangelist; he moves on to the theme song; in a fanciful praise of Anna Livia. Some aspects of this reverie are not nice; but as he admits earlier, P579
 

“She, she, she! But on what do you again leer? I am not leering, I pink your pardons. I am highly sheshe sherious.”

But despite his professed love of Anna, this part IV is mostly of himself and that nightmarish dream; but the segment is indeed the intimate story of his love; his hopes about death, just an afterthought.

The contradictions are often extreme; but it is his book!

The last few pages a lament; he hates life here; he’s off; back to the old girl friends; he’s tired and old;
 

 “A tithe of cares, and is there one who understands me?”

No James, of course not. We are all in the same boat, all on our own, despite the crowd, the shove and push; and a couple of millennia ago it was cut and slash; today with luck, you might even hear an ‘excuse me’ as he shoves past.

It is no longer necessary for ones safety to walk abroad with a sword at hand; we no longer kill our enemies at war; they are simply casualties; the guns are trained on ‘selective targets’. On our warships, we no longer throw the wounded overboard; this to clear the decks for action; our sprawling suburbs are relatively safe by night; and our children are taught to be good men and women in truly wonderful schools.

Yes James, things are better; just a little better than they were, and will be better still over the next thousand years. 

But only if we are careful!
 
 

 
 

The West Wind, Singing Of Love

The last, or in truth, the first pages of the Wake, are more, much more than merely a literary composition. Even in the love songs, there is ever the light and the dark; the ecstasy and the drab; the sublime and the downright ridiculous; the Good and the Bad in the dream talk of saint and sinner.

P599, an excellent example!
 

“See you not soo, the pfat they pfunded, oura vatars that erred in Himmel, harroued bather namas _ _ _ .”

This, his version of, “Our Father, that art in Heaven, hallowed be thy Name _ _.”

This gem is followed by much about nothing, followed by a paragraph in clear lucid English, but only in part; he tells of the growing of forests,
 

“Eminently adapted for the requirements of panicstriken humanity _ _ _.”

Then tells us that if the old man of the sea, and the old women of the sky, dont do something about something, nothing will happen.

But there are some compensations. Ultimately, he tires of the arcane; becomes a man again, talks of his Anna Livia in loving terms, writes of his love, the love of his life; extols her; reveals her; relives the heat of passion, the desire of the heart; yearning and longing; and the darker shades are manifested with the light.
 

 “Soft morning, city! Lsp. I am leafy speaking _ _ _.”

“But that night after, all you wanton Bidding meds this and that and the other _ _ _.”

“I’ll close my eyes, so not to see. Or see only a youth in his florizel, _ _ _ a boy in innocence _ _ _.”

 “Not a soul but ourselves _ _ _.”

“I only hope the whole heavens sees us. For I feel I could near to fade away. Into the deeps _ _ _.”

“How you said you’d give me the keys to my heart. And we’d be married till death do us part _ _ _.”

There are long passages of exalted word. Read them aloud, but quietly, gently and to a friend, a lover, a confidant.

These pages the heart and soul of Finnegans Wake.

Thus one may gain an insight into the soul of Ireland; and of James Joyce.
 
 

 
 

Hope, Blind Hope

There is much about the very old standby threat of the evangelist; the threat of doom – “The End in Nigh!”

The church of the believers have a mind fright about the END of all, every now and then.

The time – the day; is forever being put forward. Many believers are now placing their faith in the year 2012 – the year in which the Aztec and Mayan calendars end.

There will be a new dispensation – a new day; a new man and with luck a new woman. Who? Adolph Hitler reincarnate? Or perhaps, like Fermat with the xyz problem, there was simply not enough space left to continue!

We hope not! Perhaps William Booth of the Salvation come again to show the world the better way? But whatever, Joyce in a vibrant burst of verbosity, appears to be writing – at great length about such an ancient belief. He would never have picked this up in his early Jesuit training. The Church ever of practical mind.

Then there is a section in which he draws the many loose ends of his story together – the realization of his own impending departure from this world is growing – firming up in his mind.

P608 
 

“Passing. 
One. We are passing. 
Two. From sleep we are passing. 
Three. Into the wike awades world we are passing. 
Four. Come hours, be ours! But still. Ah diar, oh diar! And stay.”

Again the promise of things, but often peons of purple; the patch of pathos which so often descends, falls off, into bathos.

P613 
 

“Yet is no body present here which was not there before. Only in order othered. Nought is nulled. Lo, the lasid of laurens now orielising, benedictively when saint and sage have said their say.”

And he points out,
 

 “A spathe of calyptrous glume involcrumines the perinathean Amenta_.”

There is much such gloom; pages of it; so,
 

“Begin to forget it. It will remember itself from every sides, with all gestures, in each our word. Todays truth, tomorrows trend. Forget, remember.”

Sadly, the man is turning his face to the wall; thru his mind run the streams of his imaginings; he is wandering in the maze; walking, in sleep beside that beautiful river of life, Anna Livia, his thoughts ever for her, and she, utterly oblivious of him, turning and twining thru the woods and the dales of his dream; peaceful in the long reaches; darkly storming in mood.

In his last moments he recalls the life before this life; the far country. His heart longs for; the place to which he hopes to return; to meet again his wild Amazia; the haughty Niluna.

But the voice says,
 

“Don’t be in a hurry Mr Finnegan we’ll call you when your time is come again”

So Joyce ends Finnegans Wake with the hope of new life, but sadly, finds just a return to this one, back by a commodius recourse of recirculation back to Howth Castle.
 
 

 
 

Faith; So Much Stronger Than Hope

There are, amongst us, people with vision and who know with a clear understanding, that Life itself is the one colonizing force of this planet. That all else is but its creation – we like to think of ourselves as the Children of Life. And we are, but in common with all other creation. Life is the one line; the vitality of existence.

The words and the sentences he creates in his lyrical praise of Anna Livia are ample evidence of this subconscious belief. This song of praise, so unlike the man, is expressed with the same jesting dreamwraithword of the discussions with Browne and Nolan; but with an added element; his words on Anna are a song of love.

But not all is jest; and he means it! Gracehoper with a vengeance! 

So, P64
 

“Just one moment. A pinch in time of the ideal, musketeers. Alphos, Burkes and Ceramus, leave Astrelea for the astrollojerries and for the love of the sauces and the honour of Keavens pike puddywhackback to Pamintul. And roll away the reel world, the reel world, the reel world! And callall you smokeblushes, Snowhite and Rosereds, if you will have the real cream! Now for a strawberry frolic! Filions, filoush _ _Famm! Fammfamm!”

Surely this is plain enough. Its going to be an adventure (the three Musketeers) childrens stories; all in honour of Kevin, or HCE, or whatever; so roll away the real world, we’re in for a romp, a frolic, the real thing; and note please, his phonetic use of Australia. So many in Oz, pronounce the word thus.

There are moments when the human animal, lifts his eyes to heaven or deep into his own mind, and says, “My God!”

Moments of exaltation; of rare and penetrating beauty; of a fear; an awe; the sudden understanding; Cortez, with eagle eyes; silent; upon a peak in Darien, the vast Pacific before them! James has deserted the Church, but knows, all his life, that the faith has not deserted him. 

Forsaking both Heaven & Hell, he turned to reincarnation, but in all those precious moments when we are stirred to our deep unknown, it is to that unknown, it is to the unknown God we turn.

It is made plain, thru all the Work.

Usually in jest.
 

“Reverend, may I say majesty?”

“Loud hear us.”

“Loud heap merceries upon us.”

“Even if I get life for it, _ _ on the Open Bible, _ before the great Taskmaster – (I lift my hat) _ _  in the presence of the Diety Itself _ _ and Bishop and Mrs Micran of the High Church of England _ _ there is not one tittle of truth, allow me to tell you in that purest of fabrications.”

All in one sentence, the joke, the jest touched with honesty!
 

“History as her is harped; God has Jest. The old order changeth and lasts like the first.”

In the end its dear little Anna.
 

“Little, old fashioned mummy, little wonderful mummy, ducking under bridges, bell hopping the weirs, dodging by a bit of bog, rapidshooting round the bends _ _ _ _ _ as happy as the day is wet, babbling, bubbling, chattering to herself,  _ _ _ giddy giddy, grannyma, gossipaceous Anna Livia. He lefts the lifewand and the dumb speak. Quoiquoiquoiquoiquoiquoiquoiq!”

This is the real challenge of the Wake; some understanding of his understanding; the real meaning of the jest; and of the lyrical moments a strange and powerful mind.
 
 

 
 

A New Age

This essay has ‘cherry picked’ but three or four of the subthemes of the Wake.

There are others. Some such themes are fairly obvious; others more deeply hidden in the extravagant writing.

His interest in girlies invades many pages, will provide rich entertainment whenever decoded transcribed and published; they are a masculine dream world, described in dreamworde!

A seasoned essay could extract his thoughts and words on the Deity. Usually expressed in an amusing Irish idiom with a typical Joycean twist or perhaps tweak; but to read further and deeper, there is a certain something in his words.

It seems close to his heart; through his youth, his ‘florizel’ he believed; and it is not an easy thing to throw away the certainties of youth.

Those impressionable years.

It was a simple thing to forsake the Church, the tribal God, the impossible theology, the vestments, the ancient Hebrew priesthood, the archaic ritual, but even the agnostic tends to treasure the faith, as preserved through millennia.

Some, caught up in the ritual, still call it God; but it is a strong confidence in Life, and in ones self.

So with James; he clearly left the Church but preserved the faith; his belief colours his work. The vital energy of his Word. So be prepared to look beyond such idle words as,
 

 “Your Ominence, Your Highness, and Rocked of Agues _ _ _.”

Be prepared to look beneath the surface.

Another intriguing subtheme is his wordplay with the opposites; the uncertainties in which we are immersed.

Up or down; left or right; in or out; then or now; light or dark; thou or I; good or evil.

Ever the quandary imposed by the uncertainties of choice.

Its all a systomy or a dystomy; bringing interesting insight to when pursued thru the Word.

Then there is the philosophical quandary; is the particular but an aspect of the general; or the general but the form of the collective particular?

This the heart of the New Age theory, and probably of Chaos theory also.

Neither James nor the New Age Avatars have gone so far in imagination or dream or word, as have Isaac Asimov. Or other sci-fi writers. These so often with a vision of other worlds, galaxies and a long view of eternity; a glimpse of immortality, and the infinity. Modern physics is compelling us to consider infinity and possibly eternity.

James and the others, Church and New Age, content with personal growth in this world. The old promise of heaven, the threat of hell gone, James and the New Age seem focused on reincarnation; but this only a hope.

But very interesting to track Joyce thru the book in this matter of faith. Or was he attempting to track down his Karma?

He seems to have some ideas of the Gaia theory. This gaining ground in the science world, for he has thousands of words on the Unity underlying human affairs.

Joyce wrote fifty years before Dr Lovelock wrote on Gaia, but Joyce would be well aware of her standing in Greek mythology, therefore his thoughts more intuitive than scientific.

Joyce writes of gender, male and female; speculates that each are but aspects of one life. This deep sense of ‘oneness’ we lucky ones may experience in the ecstasy of orgasm; that wonderful feeling of ultimate togetherness, often sensing a sadness as we return to this world again.

This, some early Hebrew poet noted with, ‘In heaven there is neither male nor female’.

The dim conception of this unity underlies the ‘compassionate society’.

There are other subthemes, all reaching below the hustle and bustle of the daily grind.

Perhaps Joyce realized this need – wrote a difficult tract, to compel us to go slowly, to ‘read, learn and inwardly digest’.
 
 

 
 

Anna Livia

We become aware of Anna Livia early in his Book; but no real introduction. Just a paragraph here and there in long paragraphs on Mister Finnegan, or Haroun Childerik Eggeberth; some loose wordy talk of the dream.

Never a dream such as this in all the world before! 

Through the dream, reams, pages and paragraphs, phrases, six hundred or so improbable and often impossible pages of his dream.

Anna Livia runs thru all, as he intended; like a river;

P102
 

“Theres a little lady waiting. Her name is A.L.P. And you’ll agree. She must be she. -- -- -- Poppy Narancey; Giallia, Chlora, Marinka, Anileen, Parme. And elk a these dames had her rainbow huemoures -- --- -- Tifftiff today Kissykissy tonay -- -- -- we have hanged our hearts upon trees, and we lest, as she bibs on by the waters of babalong.”

This tiny vignette of English literature sets the tone for Anna.

But he surely loves her. In the dream, and he ever the dreamer, the dream drifts to Anna; “Tell me more,” he writes, “I want to hear more of Anna Livia”, but ever he drifts away from her, either to himself his everlasting self again, or she becomes but one with his girlies, his pipettes; his beautiful young women.

P146
 

“_ _ _For hes so loopy on me and Im so leapy like since the day he carried me from the boat, my saviored of eroes, to the beach, and I left on his shoulder one fair hair to guide hand and mind its softness. -- -- -- Move your mouth toward minth, more preciousest, more on more _ _ _.”

So many such interludes within; and possibly without; the dream!

It continues;
 

“Close your must not look. Now open, pet your lips, pepette, like I used my sweet panted lipsabuss -- -- -- up Smock Alley the first night he smelled powder and I coloured beneath my fan ‘pippetta mia’ -- -- -- are you enjoying, this same little me, my life, my love _ _ _.”

So much of loving or is it just sex? No, I think its loving; so a page or ten of loving then back on the wings of dream to himself, his book or to Anna Livia.

P 547 takes us by a different track along the riverside;
 

“Even so, for I have waged love on her, and spoiled her -- -- and she wept. O my lors! Till we meet! Ere we part! Tollollall! This time a hundred years. But I was firm with her. And I take the reached of my delights, my jealousy, ymashkt, beyashmakt, earswathed, snoutsnooded, and did raft her flumingworthily and did leaflead her overland the pace, from lacksleap to liffsloup, tiding downm, as portreeve should, whimpering by Kevins creek _ _ _.”

 
This ‘paragraph’ goes, like Anna Livia, sweet River of Life for six full pages, some two and a half thousand words – all in praise of his prowess with the dear Anna!
As he writes someplace, “The man in the street can see whats coming” so when reading his ‘sacred word’, the Word which is his wife to espouce and espond, one learns to skip such vast paragraphs. They are, so often much the same; the words reinvented, but the theme, is the same; girlies and pipettes, or at his pleasure, Anna Livia.

There is talk, too much perhaps, of the four positions of lovemaking – but the suburban myth says that there are more than four; millions of us live our lives, thanks be to the High Gods, without such ribald imagery, but Joyce is a master of wit; and a touch of the ribald is a pleasant change from the daily river of misery in the 6 oclock news.

At the end, it is Anna Livia herself, but a few lines only; he is waking from the dream; it is no longer Anna; it is Nora, the good companion with the cup of tea, and the ‘reel world, the reel world; back again.

But ‘Ulysses’ is selling steadily; he has new clothes, is a literary celebrity; friends; the good life as offered in Paris.

Why waste time with such dreams when Life is on ones side; is good to us!

Thus P572,
 

“Hues of rich unfolding morn.”
“Wait!”
“What!”
“Her door!”
“Ope?”
“See!”
“What!”
“Careful!”
“Who!”

Why it is the General Jinglesome himself, and his Anna Livia.
 
 

 
 

The End

So it is the last day, come as it must, at the end.

A true lament; but no triumph.
 

 “I pity your oldself I was used to -- -- Be happy, dear ones!”

 “Its something fails us. First was feel. Then we fall _ _ _.”

“I done me best when I was let, thinking always, if I go, all goes. A hundred cares; a tithe of troubles, and is there one who understands me.”

 “One in a thousand years of nights.”

 “How small it all.”

“I thought you the great in all things, in guilt and in glory. Youre only a puny.”

 “Home my people were not their sort out beyond so far as I can.”

 “I can see myself among them, allaniuvia pulchrabelled.”

 “The wild Amazia -- -- the haughty Niluna.”

“I am passing out. O bitter ending. Ill slip away before theyre up. Theyll not see. Nor know. Nor miss me. And its old, and old and its sad and old, and its sad and weary I go back to you my cold father.”

“Whilst! A gull calls. Coming, far! End here. -- -- A way, a lone, a last, a love, a long the _ _ _.”

“The Key is given.”

Ave James

Let Nora, his good companion, mother of his children have the last word;
 
 

 “My dear Jim. He was such a good man.”

 
 

Machans Beach
Cairns
2007