Episode 006: Tim Finnegan's wake (p. 24:16-29:36, End of Ch01)

July 11, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 006
TIM FINNEGAN’S WAKE

PAGE 24:16-29:36 | 2024-07-11

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]
Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall
[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. In this episode, number 6, we’ll hear Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte reading pages 24 to 29 to conclude Chapter 1 of Joyce’s last novel. I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the reading you’ll soon hear.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Adam Seelig: Finnegans Wake is a production of One Little Goat Theatre Company. For the next five years, One Little Goat will film and record all 17 chapters (roughly 30 Hours) of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake before live audiences in various locations, screening and releasing them along along the way, with the aim of completing the entire book in time for its 90th birthday, May 4, 2029. One Little Goat Theatre Company is an official charity in Canada and the United States — if you’d like to support our work, please visit us online at www.OneLittleGoat.org to make a charitable donation. And if monetary support is not an option, you can still help this podcast by rating and reviewing it and by spreading the word. To get in touch, you’ll find our email address on the One Little Goat Theatre Company website and we’d love to hear from you.

[Music fades out]

Richard Harte’s reading left off last time with Tim Finnegan rising from the dead, as he does in the eponymous folk song, following a splash of whiskey. We are—in these final 6 pages of Chapter 1 which you’ll soon hear Richard read—at Tim Finnegan’s Wake.

And there’s our novel’s title, of course. In podcast Episode 1, I commented on how Joyce’s removal of the apostrophe from the folk song title, ‘Finnegan’s Wake,’ allows us to hear ‘Wake’ as both a celebration of the life of the deceased and as a verb for awakening. I’m going to offer another gloss on the book’s title, because every word in the dream language of Finnegans Wake, starting with the title itself, can always evoke another meaning.

Fittingly for the end of Chapter 1, the title takes on an eschatalogical layer, a layer concerned with ending, with ‘the end’, with, in French, la fin, F-I-N, fin, as in fin de siècle to describe the end of a century. Similarly, we can see the Italian version of ‘the end’ in musical scores when the final bar is marked ‘fine’, F-I-N-E.

So the first letters of Joyce’s title, F-I-N or F-I-N-N-E, connote ‘the end’, and Finn-egan yields, paradoxically, ‘end again’. Finn-again, end again. Here (again) we have the central theme and movement of the novel, the cyclical fall and rise and fall of humanity, which goes hand in hand with ending and again-ing. When Tim Finnegan falls off the ladder in the Irish American folk song, he naturally dies; when he rises from his coffin, he (maybe-not-so-naturally) lives. When he falls again, he ‘ends again,’ but so, too, when he revives, he’s ‘Finn again’, Finnegan alive.

Already in the very first word of the title, one of the most brilliant devices of Finnegans Wake is at play. It’s a technique that in rehearsals I’ve been calling: ‘it and its opposite’. John Gordon describes it as ‘equal opposites’. In ‘Finnegan’ we have ‘the end’ and ‘again,’ ‘it and its opposite’. In other words, for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Where there’s a fall, there’s a rise; where there’s a death, a revival; for every Fin, an again; for every end, a ‘Finn again’; and for every ‘Wake’ of the deceased, an awakening — all we need is some whiskey. Sláinte, as Richard likes to say, or l’chaim, as I like to, to life.

We are at Tim Finnegan’s wake on page 24, addressing the deceased, with this ingenious ‘it and its opposite’ device in the very first sentence when our dearly departed is addressed as “good Mr Finnimore, sir”. “Finnimore”, finn-no-more, end no more, no more end — the end of Tim’s life also spells out his eternity. And we’ll hear this same ‘it and its opposite’ several pages later when he’s eulogized as “Finn no more!” (28:34)

Maybe our dead friend shouldn’t be so quick to revive and is better off taking it easy, “like a god on pension” (24:17). And anyhow, we continue to tell him, with all the crap you encounter these days in Dublin from Watling Street to Phibsborough, “You're better off, sir, where you are” (24:28). Joyce’s novel was definitely prescient here — the traffic in Dublin, ranked this year as the second slowest city for drivers in the world, can make you want to die, or as the Wake puts it, “’Twould turn you against life, so ’twould.” (24:24-5) (My city of Toronto, incidentally, ranked third-worst in the world right behind Ireland’s capital.) But our friend is not simply limited to his coffin. He has expanded into cosmic dimensions, traversing space from the stars of the sky to the shores of the sea — “Your heart is in the system of the Shewolf […] And that's ashore as you were born.” (26:11-14) — and traversing time — “Your olala is in the region of sahuls”, with ‘sahu’ indicating ancient Egypt’s eternal zone of souls.

“Everything’s going on the same” (26:25), we tell our friend, with the usual ups and downs of market prices: “Meat took a drop […] Coal's short […] And barley's up again” (26:32-3). Flu outbreaks are still imminent, as indicated by the name of our relative, “aunt Florenza” (26:27), and little horny teens like you once were are still around, hence “Timmy the Tosser.” (27:1)

But though we’ve been telling him he’s not missing much, our friend still tries to revive, so it looks like we’ll have to keep him dead, so to speak, by force: “Hold him here”! That seems to work, so we go on catching him up on the latest neighbourhood goings-on. We tell him about his wife, whom we idealize “Like the queenoveire” (28:1), combining the beautiful Guinevere of Arthurian legend with the Queen of Ireland. We even read him some of the latest sensationalized headlines: “News, news, all the news.” (28:21)

The last paragraph of today’s reading includes one of my favourite sentences of Chapter 1 — “Creator he has created for his creatured ones a creation.” — and suggests that our falling and rising friend, the ending and again-ing Finnegan, presages the coming, in Chapter 2, of H. C. Earwicker, the Adam-like protagonist responsible for the problems that began in the garden of Eden, which in Wake-speak takes on a Gaelic inflection, becoming “Edenborough.” (29:35-6) I initially saw this final word of Chapter 1 as a combination of Eden and Scotland’s capital, Edinburgh, until the resourceful Roland McHugh pointed out another possibility, one that most fittingly anchors the last word of Chapter 1 back in Ireland’s capital: Dublin’s Eden and Burgh Quays face one another on the River Liffey. It makes sense: where there’s HCE, the man of the mainland, ALP, the woman of the river, can never be far away. He’s her bridge above, connecting Eden and Burgh Quays, and she’s his waters below.

Richard Harte’s reading of Finnegans Wake Chapter 1 was shot and recorded in 2022 in my home in Toronto with a small audience. Aunt Florenza was not invited, nor was Uncle Covid, which is why the audience was masked at the time. Chapter 1 premiered at the Toronto Irish Film Festival, European Union Film Festival, and Bloomsday Film Festival at the James Joyce Centre in Dublin.

And now it’s time to welcome you all back into my home for Richard’s continued reading of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, page 24 line 16 to page 29 line 36 for the conclusion of Chapter 1.

[Richard Harte reads Finnegans Wake 24:16-29:36.]

[p24] Now be aisy, good Mr Finnimore, sir. And take your laysure
like a god on pension and don't be walking abroad. Sure you'd
only lose yourself in Healiopolis now the way your roads in
Kapelavaster are that winding there after the calvary, the North
Umbrian and the Fivs Barrow and Waddlings Raid and the
Bower Moore and wet your feet maybe with the foggy dew's
abroad. Meeting some sick old bankrupt or the Cottericks' donkey
with his shoe hanging, clankatachankata, or a slut snoring with an
impure infant on a bench. 'Twould turn you against life, so
'twould. And the weather's that mean too. To part from Devlin
is hard as Nugent knew, to leave the clean tanglesome one lushier
than its neighbour enfranchisable fields but let your ghost have
no grievance. You're better off, sir, where you are, primesigned
in the full of your dress, bloodeagle waistcoat and all, remember-
ing your shapes and sizes on the pillow of your babycurls under
your sycamore by the keld water where the Tory's clay will scare
the varmints and have all you want, pouch, gloves, flask, bricket,
kerchief, ring and amberulla, the whole treasure of the pyre, in the
land of souls with Homin and Broin Baroke and pole ole Lonan
and Nobucketnozzler and the Guinnghis Khan. And we'll be
coming here, the ombre players, to rake your gravel and bringing

[p25] you presents, won't we, fenians? And it isn't our spittle we'll stint
you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and
dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores. But offerings of the
field. Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, the madison man,
taught to gooden you. Poppypap's a passport out. And honey is
the holiest thing ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for
glory, (mind you keep the pot or your nectar cup may yield too
light!) and some goat's milk, sir, like the maid used to bring you.
Your fame is spreading like Basilico's ointment since the Fintan
Lalors piped you overborder and there's whole households be-
yond the Bothnians and they calling names after you. The men-
here's always talking of you sitting around on the pig's cheeks
under the sacred rooftree, over the bowls of memory where every
hollow holds a hallow, with a pledge till the drengs, in the Salmon
House. And admiring to our supershillelagh where the palmsweat
on high is the mark of your manument. All the toethpicks ever
Eirenesians chewed on are chips chepped from that battery
block. If you were bowed and soild and letdown itself from the
oner of the load it was that paddyplanters might pack up plenty and
when you were undone in every point fore the laps of goddesses
you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy. The game old
Gunne, they do be saying, (skull!) that was a planter for you, a
spicer of them all. Begog but he was, the G.O.G! He's dudd-
andgunne now and we're apter finding the sores of his sedeq
but peace to his great limbs, the buddhoch, with the last league
long rest of him, while the millioncandled eye of Tuskar sweeps
the Moylean Main! There was never a warlord in Great Erinnes
and Brettland, no, nor in all Pike County like you, they say. No,
nor a king nor an ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king.
That you could fell an elmstree twelve urchins couldn't ring
round and hoist high the stone that Liam failed. Who but a Mac-
cullaghmore the reise of our fortunes and the faunayman at the
funeral to compass our cause? If you was hogglebully itself and
most frifty like you was taken waters still what all where was
your like to lay the cable or who was the batter could better
Your Grace? Mick Mac Magnus MacCawley can take you off to

[p26] the pure perfection and Leatherbags Reynolds tries your shuffle
and cut. But as Hopkins and Hopkins puts it, you were the pale
eggynaggy and a kis to tilly up. We calls him the journeyall
Buggaloffs since he went Jerusalemfaring in Arssia Manor. You
had a gamier cock than Pete, Jake or Martin and your archgoose
of geese stubbled for All Angels' Day. So may the priest of seven
worms and scalding tayboil, Papa Vestray, come never anear you
as your hair grows wheater beside the Liffey that's in Heaven!
Hep, hep, hurrah there! Hero! Seven times thereto we salute
you! The whole bag of kits, falconplumes and jackboots incloted,
is where you flung them that time. Your heart is in the system
of the Shewolf and your crested head is in the tropic of Copri-
capron. Your feet are in the cloister of Virgo. Your olala is in the
region of sahuls. And that's ashore as you were born. Your shuck
tick's swell. And that there texas is tow linen. The loamsome
roam to Laffayette is ended. Drop in your tracks, babe! Be not
unrested! The headboddylwatcher of the chempel of Isid,
Totumcalmum, saith: I know thee, metherjar, I know thee, sal-
vation boat. For we have performed upon thee, thou abrama-
nation, who comest ever without being invoked, whose coming
is unknown, all the things which the company of the precentors
and of the grammarians of Christpatrick's ordered concerning
thee in the matter of the work of thy tombing. Howe of the ship-
men, steep wall!
Everything's going on the same or so it appeals to all of us,
in the old holmsted here. Coughings all over the sanctuary, bad
scrant to me aunt Florenza. The horn for breakfast, one o'gong
for lunch and dinnerchime. As popular as when Belly the First
was keng and his members met in the Diet of Man. The same
shop slop in the window. Jacob's lettercrackers and Dr Tipple's
Vi-Cocoa and the Eswuards' desippated soup beside Mother Sea
gull's syrup. Meat took a drop when Reilly-Parsons failed. Coal's
short but we've plenty of bog in the yard. And barley's up again,
begrained to it. The lads is attending school nessans regular, sir,
spelling beesknees with hathatansy and turning out tables by
mudapplication. Allfor the books and never pegging smashers

[p27] after Tom Bowe Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. 'Tisraely the
truth! No isn't it, roman pathoricks? You were the doublejoynted
janitor the morning they were delivered and you'll be a grandfer
yet entirely when the ritehand seizes what the lovearm knows.
Kevin's just a doat with his cherub cheek, chalking oghres on
walls, and his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, playing
postman's knock round the diggings and if the seep were milk
you could lieve his olde by his ide but, laus sake, the devil does
be in that knirps of a Jerry sometimes, the tarandtan plaidboy,
making encostive inkum out of the last of his lavings and writing
a blue streak over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane's a child of
Mary. She'll be coming (for they're sure to choose her) in her
white of gold with a tourch of ivy to rekindle the flame on Felix
Day. But Essie Shanahan has let down her skirts. You remember
Essie in our Luna's Convent? They called her Holly Merry her
lips were so ruddyberry and Pia de Purebelle when the redminers
riots was on about her. Were I a clerk designate to the Williams-
woodsmenufactors I'd poster those pouters on every jamb in the
town. She's making her rep at Lanner's twicenightly. With the
tabarine tamtammers of the whirligigmagees. Beats that cachucha
flat. 'Twould dilate your heart to go.
Aisy now, you decent man, with your knees and lie quiet and
repose your honour's lordship! Hold him here, Ezekiel Irons, and
may God strengthen you! It's our warm spirits, boys, he's spoor-
ing. Dimitrius O'Flagonan, cork that cure for the Clancartys! You
swamped enough since Portobello to float the Pomeroy. Fetch
neahere, Pat Koy! And fetch nouyou, Pam Yates! Be nayther
angst of Wramawitch! Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum,
where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O
sleepy! So be yet!
I've an eye on queer Behan and old Kate and the butter, trust me.
She'll do no jugglywuggly with her war souvenir postcards to
help to build me murial, tippers! I'll trip your traps! Assure a
sure there! And we put on your clock again, sir, for you. Did or
didn't we, sharestutterers? So you won't be up a stump entirely.
Nor shed your remnants. The sternwheel's crawling strong. I

[p28] seen your missus in the hall. Like the queenoveire. Arrah, it's
herself that's fine, too, don't be talking! Shirksends? You storyan
Harry chap longa me Harry chap storyan grass woman plelthy
good trout. Shakeshands. Dibble a hayfork's wrong with her only
her lex's salig. Boald Tib does be yawning and smirking cat's
hours on the Pollockses' woolly round tabouretcushion watch-
ing her sewing a dream together, the tailor's daughter, stitch to
her last. Or while waiting for winter to fire the enchantement,
decoying more nesters to fall down the flue. It's allavalonche that
blows nopussy food. If you only were there to explain the mean-
ing, best of men, and talk to her nice of guldenselver. The lips
would moisten once again. As when you drove with her to Fin-
drinny Fair. What with reins here and ribbons there all your
hands were employed so she never knew was she on land or at
sea or swooped through the blue like Airwinger's bride. She
was flirtsome then and she's fluttersome yet. She can second a
song and adores a scandal when the last post's gone by. Fond of
a concertina and pairs passing when she's had her forty winks
for supper after kanekannan and abbely dimpling and is in her
merlin chair assotted, reading her Evening World. To see is
it smarts, full lengths or swaggers. News, news, all the news.
Death, a leopard, kills fellah in Fez. Angry scenes at Stormount.
Stilla Star with her lucky in goingaways. Opportunity fair with
the China floods and we hear these rosy rumours. Ding Tams he
noise about all same Harry chap. She's seeking her way, a chickle
a chuckle, in and out of their serial story, Les Loves of Selskar
et Pervenche, freely adapted to The Novvergin's Viv. There'll
be bluebells blowing in salty sepulchres the night she signs her
final tear. Zee End. But that's a world of ways away. Till track
laws time. No silver ash or switches for that one! While flattering
candles flare. Anna Stacey's how are you! Worther waist in the
noblest, says Adams and Sons, the wouldpay actionneers. Her
hair's as brown as ever it was. And wivvy and wavy. Repose you
now! Finn no more!
For, be that samesake sibsubstitute of a hooky salmon, there's
already a big rody ram lad at random on the premises of his

[p29] haunt of the hungred bordles, as it is told me. Shop Illicit,
flourishing like a lordmajor or a buaboabaybohm, litting flop
a deadlop (aloose!) to lee but lifting a bennbranch a yardalong
(Ivoeh!) the breezy side (for showm!), the height of Brew-
ster's chimpney and as broad below as Phineas Barnum; humph-
ing his share of the showthers is senken on him he's such a
grandfallar, with a pocked wife in pickle that's a flyfire and three
lice nittle clinkers, two twilling bugs and one midgit pucelle.
And aither he cursed and recursed and was everseen doing what
your fourfootlers saw or he was never done seeing what you cool-
pigeons know, weep the clouds aboon for smiledown witnesses,
and that'll do now about the fairyhees and the frailyshees.
Though Eset fibble it to the zephiroth and Artsa zoom it round
her heavens for ever. Creator he has created for his creatured
ones a creation. White monothoid? Red theatrocrat? And all the
pinkprophets cohalething? Very much so! But however 'twas
'tis sure for one thing, what sherif Toragh voucherfors and
Mapqiq makes put out, that the man, Humme the Cheapner,
Esc, overseen as we thought him, yet a worthy of the naym,
came at this timecoloured place where we live in our paroqial
fermament one tide on another, with a bumrush in a hull of a
wherry, the twin turbane dhow, The Bey for Dybbling, this
archipelago's first visiting schooner, with a wicklowpattern
waxenwench at her prow for a figurehead, the deadsea dugong
updipdripping from his depths, and has been repreaching him-
self like a fishmummer these siktyten years ever since, his shebi
by his shide, adi and aid, growing hoarish under his turban and
changing cane sugar into sethulose starch (Tuttut's cess to him!)
as also that, batin the bulkihood he bloats about when innebbi-
ated, our old offender was humile, commune and ensectuous
from his nature, which you may gauge after the bynames was
put under him, in lashons of languages, (honnein suit and
praisers be!) and, totalisating him, even hamissim of himashim
that he, sober serious, he is ee and no counter he who will be
ultimendly respunchable for the hubbub caused in Eden-
borough.

[End of reading excerpt]

Adam Seelig: That was my friend and colleague Richard Harte reading the conclusion of Chapter 1 from Finnegans Wake, pages 24 to 29, recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Join us for Episode 7 for Richard’s reading of Finnegans Wake Chapter 2, which introduces us to the protagonist HC Earwicker. This podcast series is taking a short break this summer so I can focus on the film production of future chapters, so please note that the next episode, Episode 7, will release on Thursday, August 29th, when we’ll be resuming our fortnightly podcast releases. In the meantime, why not follow or subscribe to this podcast so you’re alerted for upcoming episodes. And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including transcripts of this podcast and trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

And thank you to the artists for this episode: Richard Harte; Sound by William Bembridge; Podcast production by Sean Rasmussen; Stage Management by Laura Lakatosh; Rehearsal Stage Management by Sandi Becker; Directed by yours truly, Adam Seelig.

Thanks to our live audience of Pip Dwyer, Kevin Kennedy, Cathy Murphy, Nomi Rotbard, Arlo Rotbard-Seelig. And thanks to our rehearsal audience of Jackie Chau, Jordy Koffman, Andrew Moodie & Shai Rotbard-Seelig. Thank you to the Embassy of Ireland in Ottawa and the Irish Consulate in Toronto. And to Production Consultants Cathy Murphy and Andrew Moodie.

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

Mentioned: Tim Finnegan, “Finnegan’s Wake” Irish American folk song, the title of Finnegans Wake, FIN FINNE & FINE as ‘the end’, EGAN as ‘again’, literary device of ‘it and its opposite’, at Tim’s wake, “Finn no more!”, better off dead?, Dublin (and Toronto) traffic, Aunt Florenza & Timmy the Tosser, “queenoveire”, neighbourhood news, Edenborough as Eden & Burg Quays in Dublin, synopsis.

Resources:
Transcript for this episode, including the text of Finnegans Wake pages 24-29.
Finnegans Wake (1939) by James Joyce: there are many free copies of FW to read online or download, e.g. finwake.com
James Joyce Digital Archive, “Chicken Guide” to Finnegans Wake provides a ‘plain English’ paraphrase of each chapter by Danis Rose.
Edmund Epstein, A Guide through Finnegans Wake. University Press of Florida, 2009.
William York Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to Finnegans Wake. Syracuse University Press, 1996.
Roland McHugh, Annotations to Finnegans Wake (4th edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2016.
John Gordon’s annotations on his Finnegans Wake blog.
Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce. Oxford University Press, 1982.

Episode 005: the prankquean (p.19:20-24:15)

June 27, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 005
THE PRANKQUEAN

PAGE 19:20-24:15 | 2024-06-27

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. In this episode, number 5, we’ll hear Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte reading pages 19 to 24 of Joyce’s last novel, which will include the famous “prankquean” fable. I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the reading you’ll soon hear.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: In 1899, forty years before James Joyce’s dream-language epic, Finnegans Wake, was published, Sigmund Freud pointed out in The Interpretation of Dreams that, “Words are often treated as things in dreams, and then they go through […] combinations, displacements, substitutions and […] condensations” (227). Dreams, in other words, play with words. They pun. Finnegans Wake multiplies such wordplay, often taking double entendres and doubling them (Dublin them?!) again.

Chapter 1 of Finnegans Wake, which can serve as an overture to the rest of the novel, has three standout scenes: the “museyroom” (which we heard in podcast Episode 3), Mutt and Jute (from our Episode 4) and the “prankquean”, which we’ll hear Richard Harte read in today’s episode.

While I’m eager to get you to Richard’s reading (and honestly, you can still enjoy the “prankquean” without an introduction so feel free to jump ahead), I’m going to outline and point out a few things in this brilliant, bewildering piece of writing. Deliberately bewildering, because this fairy tale for adults, like so much else in the Wake, takes us, readers and listeners, back to an almost pre-verbal state where sound can be pleasure before it is sense. That’s why I often think of the Wake as a kind of Mother Goose for grown-ups, as I mentioned in the first podcast episode. With the introduction of the “prankquean” we can now, to Mother Goose, add Hans Christian Andersen.

The “prankquean” is a rare case of sequential narrative in the famously nonlinear Wake. Like many children’s stories, it opens with ‘a long long time ago’ — or the Wakean equivalent of that proverbial beginning to a story — and follows the three-part structure of many fables involving conflict and resolution, from “The Three Little Pigs” to “The Three Billy Goats Gruff”: there’s a first event, a second similar event, and finally a most dramatic event, after which, you won’t be surprised to discover, ‘they all lived happily ever after’ — or the Wakean equivalent of that proverbial end to a story, which Joyce turns into something that sounds like ‘and they all drank tea’, but this being a fable for grownups, the Wake gives us, “And they all drank free.” (23:7-8)

The prankquean character is modeled on Ireland’s celebrated Sea Queen and Maritime Pirate, Grace O’Malley, and the story is modeled on a popular tale of her altercation with the Earl of Howth in Dublin in the late 16th century. So popular is the tale, that I’ll turn to a website representing one of the world’s most popular drinks — beer — for the tale’s retelling. Here is how Howth’s very own brewery, Hope Beer, summarizes it:

“According to the popular tale, [Grace O’Malley] was refused entry to Howth Castle in 1576 when she attempted to call in unexpectedly to the Earl of Howth. Furious with this social snub she kidnapped the Earl’s grandson and her ransom was a promise that unanticipated guests would never be turned away again. She also made the Earl promise that the gates of Deer Park, where the castle is located, would never be closed to the public again. The gates are still open to this day, and an extra place is set for unexpected guests during formal dinners in the dining room.”

*“Eve and Adam in the Garden of Eden,” oil on canvas by* *Heinz Seelig*.

In the Wake’s version, Grace O’Malley becomes the prankquean, who is also referred to as “grace o’malice”, and the Earl of Howth becomes Jarl van Hoother — “Jarl” meaning “chief” in Danish, a reminder of the cultural and literal clashes between the Irish and Ireland’s Viking invaders (as we heard in the previous episode with the dialogue of Mutt and Jute).

The tale begins a long time ago in an Edenic setting that references Adam and the woman born from his rib, the eternal “ribberrobber,” Eve (21:8). It’s a beginning that echoes and “recirculates” the very opening line of Finnegans Wake, which took us “past Eve and Adam’s […] to Howth Castle and Environs” (3:1). This being a kind of Paradise, we’re in a prelapsarian world of universal love when “everybilly lived alove with everybiddy else” (21:9, I love that phrase).

Enter Jarl van Hoother positioned high up in his fortress — the text initially calls it “his lamphouse,” which corresponds to the Baily Lighthouse in Howth — where we discover van Hoother suggestively “laying cold hands on himself.” (21:11) It can get lonely at the top, so who can blame him. We then hear of his children, described as “two little jiminies”, or Geminis, i.e. they are twins, and also introduced to “their dummy”, which continues to be a mystery for virtually everyone who reads this fable, myself included.

From there, the story carries out its three-peating structure: the “prankquean” spontaneously appears, she poses a riddle to van Hoother, gets denied or shut down (notice how the word “shut”, so close to “shit”, pops out at that moment), leading her to kidnap one of the twins, unleash a flood of rain, and disappear with the child for 40 years — 40 years being a Biblical number for the passage of an entire generation, echoing the 40 Biblical days of the flood survived by Noah. Then the prankquean returns and the event repeats with some variation. And again she returns for a third and final and most dramatic, explosive iteration that breaks the cycle of conflict between her and the Jarl, bringing the tale to its happy resolution: “And they all drank free.” This is followed by a summation of the story that foreshadows later moments in the Wake, establishes the novel’s family unit and closes with a riff on the official motto for the city of Dublin, that is (translated from the Latin), “The obedience of citizens produces a happy city”.

Of the many things that can be said about this story, here are four:

(1) “quean” in “prankquean” is spelled Q-U-E-A-N, allowing us to hear her as a ruler (Q-U-E-E-N) while reading her as the archaic, Old English definition of a Q-U-E-A-N quean, which my dictionary defines as, “an impudent or ill-behaved girl or woman; a prostitute.” (By the way, for those who want to read along with today’s excerpt, you can always find the complete text in the podcast transcript on One Little Goat’s website.)

(2) Of the 35 sentences comprising the “prankquean” fable, 21 of them begin with the word ‘And…’, with the other sentences beginning with the words ‘But…’, ‘So…’, and a few others. This highlights the oral quality of the storytelling — so called proper written grammar would never begin a sentence with the word ‘And’ — and it contributes to the continuous flow and stream of the tale. The Wake here, to my ear, is working with the cadences of ancient storytelling, exemplified by the rhythms of the Hebrew Bible. Take a look at the first chapter of the Bible’s first book, Genesis, referenced by the “prankquean” fable with its Adam-and-Eve beginning, and you’ll see that every single verse starts with the word ‘And…’.

(3) Jarl van Hoother’s stuttering, explosive response to the prankquean’s third and final visit includes the second of the Wake’s 10 famous 100-letter ‘thunderwords’, and just as the first ‘thunderword’ marked Tim Finnegan’s fall from the ladder (and by extension humanity’s fall from grace), this second ‘thunderword’ marks the Jarl’s fall from the heights of his fortress.

(4) Keep an ear out for the names of the “jiminies”, or twins, and how they go through those “combinations, displacements, substitutions and condensations” we heard Freud mention earlier. One is named Tristopher, which likely makes Tristopher sad, or in French, triste; while the other is named Hilary, which likely makes Hilary happy. After the prankquean abducts them, their names change: the syllables in Hilary swap to become “Larryhill” (22:19) and those in Tristopher become “Toughertrees” (22:24).

There’s so much more to say about the ever evocative “prankquean” fable. Much has been made of its relation to the rest of the Wake, especially in how it represents — or as Freud might put it, condenses — the establishment of the novel’s central family of ALP, HCE and their children. For those who’d like to read more about it, I’ll list some resources in this episode’s transcript, which again you can find on One Little Goat’s website.

It's time for a quick overview of the rest of today’s excerpt, which begins on page 19, a couple of pages before we meet the “prankquean”.

The “meandertale” we heard on the previous page and in the previous podcast episode has now grown into a “meanderthalltale” (19:25), so not only is it ancient and meandering, it also stretches the truth. And again we’re reminded of the Wake’s ancient underpinnings: “All was of ancientry.” (19:33)

One of my favourite phrases in the book comes up here: “But the world, mind, is, was and will be writing its own wrunes for ever, man” (19:35-6). It’s such an expressive moment, suggesting, among many things, that the world: rights (with an R) its wrongs, writes (with a W) its own ruins, and writes (with a W) its own wrunes (with a W), with that word alone, “wrunes” (with a W) connoting a whole range of writing and prophecy, including mysterious symbols, spells and incantations, ancient Norse wisdom poetry. “writing its own wrunes” — it’s one of the Wake’s many resonant phrases that keeps on giving.

The novel’s male and female protagonists, Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker and Anna Livia Plurabelle, are then invoked right before the “prankquean” fable begins: “Hark, the corne entreats! And the larpnotes prittle” (21:3-4) — the beginning letters of each word spelling out HCE and ALP.

The “prankquean” episode then unfolds.

And immediately after, we hear a motif that runs throughout the novel: “O foenix culprit!” (23:16) This is the first of many Wakean variations on the Catholic concept of felix culpa, referring to Adam’s happy fall — happy because without the fall there would be no redemption. With “foenix culprit” the Wake has combined felix culpa with the mythological Phoenix that falls and rises, the central movement of Finnegans Wake, as well as with Dublin’s Phoenix Park, the central location of the novel.

Our excerpt closes with what appears to be Tim Finnegan rising, as he does in the eponymous folk song, from the dead following a splash of whiskey. The alcoholic resurrection, though, really shouldn’t surprise us given that whiskey, formally known as usquebaugh, derives from the Gaelic uisge beatha [ishka baha], meaning ‘water of life’.

Richard Harte’s reading of Finnegans Wake Chapter 1 was shot and recorded in 2022 in my home in Toronto with a small audience. It premiered at the Toronto Irish Film Festival, European Union Film Festival, and Bloomsday Film Festival at the James Joyce Centre in Dublin.

And now it’s time to welcome you all back into my home for Richard’s continued reading of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, page 19 line 20 to page 24 line 15 in Chapter 1.

[Richard Harte reads Finnegans Wake 19:20-24:15.]

[p19] Axe on thwacks on thracks, axenwise. One by one place one
be three dittoh and one before. Two nursus one make a plaus-
ible free and idim behind. Starting off with a big boaboa and three-
legged calvers and ivargraine jadesses with a message in their
mouths. And a hundreadfilled unleavenweight of liberorumqueue
to con an we can till allhorrors eve. What a meanderthalltale to
unfurl and with what an end in view of squattor and anntisquattor
and postproneauntisquattor! To say too us to be every tim, nick
and larry of us, sons of the sod, sons, littlesons, yea and lealittle-
sons, when usses not to be, every sue, siss and sally of us, dugters
of Nan! Accusative ahnsire! Damadam to infinities!
True there was in nillohs dieybos as yet no lumpend papeer
in the waste, and mightmountain Penn still groaned for the micies
to let flee. All was of ancientry. You gave me a boot (signs on
it!) and I ate the wind. I quizzed you a quid (with for what?) and
you went to the quod. But the world, mind, is, was and will be
writing its own wrunes for ever, man, on all matters that fall

[p20] under the ban of our infrarational senses fore the last milch-
camel, the heartvein throbbing between his eyebrowns, has still to
moor before the tomb of his cousin charmian where his date is
tethered by the palm that's hers. But the horn, the drinking, the
day of dread are not now. A bone, a pebble, a ramskin; chip them,
chap them, cut them up allways; leave them to terracook in the
muttheringpot: and Gutenmorg with his cromagnom charter,
tintingfast and great primer must once for omniboss step rub-
rickredd out of the wordpress else is there no virtue more in al-
cohoran. For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed
of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. Till ye finally
(though not yet endlike) meet with the acquaintance of Mister
Typus, Mistress Tope and all the little typtopies. Fillstup. So you
need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry
three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of
Doublends Jined (may his forehead be darkened with mud who
would sunder!) till Daleth, mahomahouma, who oped it closeth
thereof the. Dor.
Cry not yet! There's many a smile to Nondum, with sytty
maids per man, sir, and the park's so dark by kindlelight. But
look what you have in your handself! The movibles are scrawl-
ing in motions, marching, all of them ago, in pitpat and zingzang
for every busy eerie whig's a bit of a torytale to tell. One's upon
a thyme and two's behind their lettice leap and three's among the
strubbely beds. And the chicks picked their teeths and the domb-
key he begay began. You can ask your ass if he believes it. And
so cuddy me only wallops have heels. That one of a wife with
folty barnets. For then was the age when hoops ran high. Of a
noarch and a chopwife; of a pomme full grave and a fammy of
levity; or of golden youths that wanted gelding; or of what the
mischievmiss made a man do. Malmarriedad he was reverso-
gassed by the frisque of her frasques and her prytty pyrrhique.
Maye faye, she's la gaye this snaky woman! From that trippiery
toe expectungpelick! Veil, volantine, valentine eyes. She's the
very besch Winnie blows Nay on good. Flou inn, flow ann.
Hohore! So it's sure it was her not we! But lay it easy, gentle

[p21] mien, we are in rearing of a norewhig. So weenybeeny-
veenyteeny. Comsy see! Hetwis if ee newt. Lissom! lissom!
I am doing it. Hark, the corne entreats! And the larpnotes
prittle.
It was of a night, late, lang time agone, in an auldstane eld,
when Adam was delvin and his madameen spinning watersilts,
when mulk mountynotty man was everybully and the first leal
ribberrobber that ever had her ainway everybuddy to his love-
saking eyes and everybilly lived alove with everybiddy else, and
Jarl van Hoother had his burnt head high up in his lamphouse,
laying cold hands on himself. And his two little jiminies, cousins
of ourn, Tristopher and Hilary, were kickaheeling their dummy
on the oil cloth flure of his homerigh, castle and earthenhouse.
And, be dermot, who come to the keep of his inn only the niece-
of-his-in-law, the prankquean. And the prankquean pulled a rosy
one and made her wit foreninst the dour. And she lit up and fire-
land was ablaze. And spoke she to the dour in her petty perusi-
enne: Mark the Wans, why do I am alook alike a poss of porter-
pease? And that was how the skirtmisshes began. But the dour
handworded her grace in dootch nossow: Shut! So her grace
o'malice kidsnapped up the jiminy Tristopher and into the shan-
dy westerness she rain, rain, rain. And Jarl van Hoother war-
lessed after her with soft dovesgall: Stop deef stop come back to
my earin stop. But she swaradid to him: Unlikelihud. And there
was a brannewail that same sabboath night of falling angles some-
where in Erio. And the prankquean went for her forty years'
walk in Tourlemonde and she washed the blessings of the love-
spots off the jiminy with soap sulliver suddles and she had her
four owlers masters for to tauch him his tickles and she convor-
ted him to the onesure allgood and he became a luderman. So then
she started to rain and to rain and, be redtom, she was back again
at Jarl van Hoother's in a brace of samers and the jiminy with
her in her pinafrond, lace at night, at another time. And where
did she come but to the bar of his bristolry. And Jarl von Hoo-
ther had his baretholobruised heels drowned in his cellarmalt,
shaking warm hands with himself and the jimminy Hilary and

[p21] the dummy in their first infancy were below on the tearsheet,
wringing and coughing, like brodar and histher. And the prank-
quean nipped a paly one and lit up again and redcocks flew flack-
ering from the hillcombs. And she made her witter before the
wicked, saying: Mark the Twy, why do I am alook alike two poss
of porterpease? And: Shut! says the wicked, handwording her
madesty. So her madesty aforethought set down a jiminy and
took up a jiminy and all the lilipath ways to Woeman's Land she
rain, rain, rain. And Jarl von Hoother bleethered atter her with
a loud finegale: Stop domb stop come back with my earring stop.
But the prankquean swaradid: Am liking it. And there was a wild
old grannewwail that laurency night of starshootings somewhere
in Erio. And the prankquean went for her forty years' walk in
Turnlemeem and she punched the curses of cromcruwell with
the nail of a top into the jiminy and she had her four larksical
monitrix to touch him his tears and she provorted him to the
onecertain allsecure and he became a tristian. So then she started
raining, raining, and in a pair of changers, be dom ter, she was
back again at Jarl von Hoother's and the Larryhill with her under
her abromette. And why would she halt at all if not by the ward
of his mansionhome of another nice lace for the third charm?
And Jarl von Hoother had his hurricane hips up to his pantry-
box, ruminating in his holdfour stomachs (Dare! O dare!), and
the jiminy Toughertrees and the dummy were belove on the
watercloth, kissing and spitting, and roguing and poghuing, like
knavepaltry and naivebride and in their second infancy. And the
prankquean picked a blank and lit out and the valleys lay twink-
ling. And she made her wittest in front of the arkway of trihump,
asking: Mark the Tris, why do I am alook alike three poss of por-
ter pease? But that was how the skirtmishes endupped. For like
the campbells acoming with a fork lance of lightning, Jarl von
Hoother Boanerges himself, the old terror of the dames, came
hip hop handihap out through the pikeopened arkway of his
three shuttoned castles, in his broadginger hat and his civic chol-
lar and his allabuff hemmed and his bullbraggin soxangloves
and his ladbroke breeks and his cattegut bandolair and his fur-

[p23] framed panuncular cumbottes like a rudd yellan gruebleen or-
angeman in his violet indigonation, to the whole longth of the
strongth of his bowman's bill. And he clopped his rude hand to
his eacy hitch and he ordurd and his thick spch spck for her to
shut up shop, dappy. And the duppy shot the shutter clup (Per-
kodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurth-
rumathunaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun!) And they all drank
free. For one man in his armour was a fat match always for any
girls under shurts. And that was the first peace of illiterative
porthery in all the flamend floody flatuous world. How kirssy the
tiler made a sweet unclose to the Narwhealian captol. Saw fore
shalt thou sea. Betoun ye and be. The prankquean was to hold
her dummyship and the jimminies was to keep the peacewave
and van Hoother was to git the wind up. Thus the hearsomeness
of the burger felicitates the whole of the polis.
O foenix culprit! Ex nickylow malo comes mickelmassed bo-
num. Hill, rill, ones in company, billeted, less be proud of. Breast
high and bestride! Only for that these will not breathe upon
Norronesen or Irenean the secrest of their soorcelossness. Quar-
ry silex, Homfrie Noanswa! Undy gentian festyknees, Livia No-
answa? Wolkencap is on him, frowned; audiurient, he would
evesdrip, were it mous at hand, were it dinn of bottles in the far
ear. Murk, his vales are darkling. With lipth she lithpeth to him
all to time of thuch on thuch and thow on thow. She he she ho
she ha to la. Hairfluke, if he could bad twig her! Impalpabunt,
he abhears. The soundwaves are his buffeteers; they trompe him
with their trompes; the wave of roary and the wave of hooshed
and the wave of hawhawhawrd and the wave of neverheedthem-
horseluggarsandlisteltomine. Landloughed by his neaghboormis-
tress and perpetrified in his offsprung, sabes and suckers, the
moaning pipers could tell him to his faceback, the louthly one
whose loab we are devorers of, how butt for his hold halibutt, or
her to her pudor puff, the lipalip one whose libe we drink at, how
biff for her tiddywink of a windfall, our breed and washer givers,
there would not be a holey spier on the town nor a vestal flout-
ing in the dock, nay to make plein avowels, nor a yew nor an eye

[p24] to play cash cash in Novo Nilbud by swamplight nor a' toole o'
tall o' toll and noddy hint to the convaynience.
He dug in and dug out by the skill of his tilth for himself and
all belonging to him and he sweated his crew beneath his auspice
for the living and he urned his dread, that dragon volant, and he
made louse for us and delivered us to boll weevils amain, that
mighty liberator, Unfru-Chikda-Uru-Wukru and begad he did,
our ancestor most worshipful, till he thought of a better one in
his windower's house with that blushmantle upon him from ears-
end to earsend. And would again could whispring grassies wake
him and may again when the fiery bird disembers. And will
again if so be sooth by elder to his youngers shall be said. Have
you whines for my wedding, did you bring bride and bedding,
will you whoop for my deading is a? Wake? Usgueadbaugham!
Anam muck an dhoul! Did ye drink me doornail?

[End of reading excerpt]

Adam Seelig: That was my friend and colleague Richard Harte reading from Finnegans Wake, Chapter 1, pages 19-24, recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Join us for Episode 6 in a fortnight when Richard continues with the next five pages of Finnegans Wake to conclude Chapter 1 of Joyce’s extraordinary epic. To be sure you don’t miss any episodes, why not follow or subscribe to this podcast? And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including transcripts of this podcast and trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Adam Seelig: Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

Mentioned: Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), puns, Mother Goose, Hans Christian Andersen, the “prankquean”, linear/nonlinear narrative, fables, fairy tales, tripartite structure, Hope Beer in Howth, Grace O’Malley, Earl of Howth, Howth Castle, Baily Lighthouse, Jarl (Danish “chief”), Eden, Adam and Eve, quean and queen, ancient storytelling cadences, “And…”, Hebrew Bible, Genesis, second thunderword, wordplay with twins’ names, family unit, “meanderthalltale”, “writing its own wrunes”, ALP and HCE, felix culpa and happy fall, whiskey as water of life, synopsis.

Resources:
Transcript for this episode, including the text of Finnegans Wake pages 19-24.
Finnegans Wake (1939) by James Joyce: there are many free copies of FW to read online or download, e.g. finwake.com
James Joyce Digital Archive, “Chicken Guide” to Finnegans Wake provides a ‘plain English’ paraphrase of each chapter by Danis Rose.
Brendan Ward’s blog post on the “prankquean”.
Edmund Epstein, A Guide through Finnegans Wake. University Press of Florida, 2009.
William York Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to Finnegans Wake. Syracuse University Press, 1996.
Roland McHugh, Annotations to Finnegans Wake (4th edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2016.
John Gordon’s annotations on his Finnegans Wake blog.
Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce. Oxford University Press, 1982.

Cited:
Sigmund Freud. The Interpretation of Dreams (1899). Trans. Joyce Crick. Oxford University Press, 1999.
“Stories of Howth”, Hope Beer website.

Episode 004: Mutt and Jute, characterlessness (p.13:20-19:19)

June 13, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 004
MUTT & JUTE
CHARACTERLESSNESS

PAGE 13:20-19:19 | 2024-06-13

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. In this episode, number 4, we’ll hear Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte reading pages 13 to 19 of Joyce’s last novel, which will include the dialogue of Mutt and Jute. I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the reading you’ll soon hear.

Will you be in Dublin this Sunday, June 16th? If so, come to the James Joyce Centre, where the Bloomsday Film Festival will be screening One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake Chapters 1 and 2, screening all day from 10am - 4pm. And if you’re in Toronto on Bloomsday June the 16th, come see what our friends at Toronto Bloomsday Festival are doing to celebrate the day Leopold Bloom wandered the city of Dublin in Joyce’s second-best book (!), Ulysses. Details for both festivals are online. Wherever you may be, happy Bloomsday!

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

[Music fades out]

Robert Houle exhibit, Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO), 2022-03-30 (Snapshot: Adam Seelig)

A couple of years ago, on my way in to see the Robert Houle retrospective at the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto (the same show, incidentally, that’s been at the Smithsonian Museum of Indigenous Americans in Washington, DC for the past year), I encountered this quote from Houle himself, printed on a tall banner near the entrance to the exhibition:

“The lack of a linear chronology in myth, storytelling, and dreams, the interchangeable grammar and the interchangeability of perception is what makes wonderful, rhythmical patterns of thought in the oral traditions of the ancient ones.”

While Houle, an Anishinaabe artist from Sandy Bay First Nation, was referring to Indigenous oral traditions, his brilliant statement here could just as easily describe Finnegans Wake, almost to the point of providing a stylistic checklist for Joyce’s dream novel:
— “lack of linear chronology”: check
— “myth, storytelling, dreams”: check
— “interchangeable grammar and […] perception”: check again (to which I’ll add the interchangeability of character, which we’ll get to in a moment)
— “wonderful, rhythmical patterns of thought”: check, for sure
— “oral traditions of the ancient ones”: Joyce encouraged reading the Wake aloud, and for all its modernism, the Wake regularly draws on ancient languages and age-old texts, many of which are composites of oral traditions, from the Egyptian Book of the Dead to the Hebrew Bible to A Thousand-and-One Nights of Scheherazade, or as the Wake puts it, “one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same” (5:28-9).

In today’s excerpt from Richard Harte’s reading of Finnegans Wake, Chapter 1, pages 13 to 19, we’re going to encounter all of the elements in Houle’s statement on ancient storytelling because the Wake is a “meandertale” (18:22), a meandering, nonlinear story stretching as far back as Neanderthal days. In similarly nonlinear fashion, I’m going to jump a little ahead in today’s excerpt to the Wake’s first dialogue, a dialogue conducted by a kind of vaudevillian duo of prehistory named Mutt & Jute.

It will come as no surprise that, as someone who makes plays, I love dialogue, so I naturally gravitate to Mutt and Jute’s exchange, which takes its tone from ‘Mutt and Jeff,’ the widely syndicated American comic strip that began in 1907. Joyce’s Mutt and Jute initially seem to divide into distinct identities à la Mutt and Jeff, Laurel and Hardy, tall and short, slim and fat, etc. Initially Mutt strikes me as an extroverted, talkative Irish character, and Jute as an introverted, taciturn, Scandinavian, especially given that a Jute is someone from Jutland, or Yoolan [Jylland] in Danish, a peninsula stretching up into Denmark. With Mutt as a native Irishman and Jute as a Dane, potentially of the invading Viking variety, we have two men on opposite sides of the bloody historical battle that informs their conversation, the Battle of Clontarf (or in Wake-speak, “Dungtarf”) in the year 1014, when the last High King of Ireland, Brian Boru, defeated the Danish occupying army.

Mutt initiates the dialogue with the strange man he sees before him by asking what language the stranger speaks: Danish, Norwegian, English, Anglo-Saxon? Given no affirmatives, Mutt concludes that the stranger is clearly a Jute. How on earth Mutt reaches that conclusion is beyond me. Maybe he’s putting on an act in an effort to get to know the stranger? As part of that act, he suggests they swap hats and have a chat; but in the process of hat-swapping — it’s hard not to picture those hats as the iconic bowlers of Laurel and Hardy — they also seem to have swapped identities. Now the character formerly known as Mutt is Jute, or “Yutah” as he pronounces it with a newfound Scandinavian inflection, and Jute is Mutt. Jute (or “Yutah”) now is the talkative one and Mutt, the taciturn. Until the conversational tide shifts and Mutt becomes the talkative one with only occasional comments from Jute. As Danis Rose puts it: “Jute had earlier complained that Mutt was almost inaudible to him. He now insists that he can barely understand a single word from start to finish in Mutt's patois” — which in Wake-speak becomes “patwhat” (17:14-15).

Joyce has swapped and confused Mutt and Jute’s identities from the moment they encounter. Going back to Robert Houle’s observation on interchangeable grammar and perception, which applies so well to Mutt and Jute’s dialogue, the Wake adds one more interchangeability: the interchangeability of character.

So not only is the Wake radically dismantling the norms of narrative fiction and how a book should be, it’s also dismantling the norms of drama and how a character should act.

We could say that rather than being three-dimensional characters — as Joyce’s characters very much are in his previous books — the characters of Finnegans Wake are four-dimensional, stretching across the dimension of time. The scene between Mutt and Jute, for example, takes place just as much in the Stone Age as it does in the year 1014 as it does in a 20th-century newspaper comic strip like Mutt and Jeff. Four-dimensional characters, characters capable of temporal simultaneity: I like the idea (and it brings to mind the recent movie Everything Everywhere All At Once) and it may prove useful when we talk more about Earwicker, the main character of Chapter 2.

At this moment, I prefer to think of the characters in the Wake, starting with Mutt and Jute, as characterless. That may sound pejorative, but I mean it the way Swedish playwright August Strindberg used the term when writing about his play Miss Julie:

“I have made my people [—I love that he calls them ‘people,’ not ‘characters’—]] somewhat ‘characterless’…. [Character] became the middle-class term for the automaton, one whose nature had become fixed or who had adapted himself to a particular role in life. In fact, a person who had ceased to grow was called a character, while one continuing to develop… was called characterless, in a derogatory sense, of course, because he was so hard to catch, classify, and keep track of. … A character came to signify a man fixed and finished.”

The characterlessness of Mutt and Jute and the malleability of their identities show Joyce undermining character as fixed and finished, much as he undermined the entire novel as fixed and finished. The original title for Finnegans Wake was Work in Progress. The novel and its characters are never finished. They are always in a state and stage of becoming, and in Mutt and Jute’s case they go so far as to become each other.

Maybe that’s because the exchange of both words and bodies between Mutt and Jute is ultimately, as John Gordon suggests, an exchange between Me and You — the internal dialogue of a dreamer. I’m also happy to make the case that ‘you’ could easily be a synonym for ‘me’ based on an expression that one of my kids would use when he was a toddler — instead of saying “Tell me” when he wanted to know something, he would say, “Tell you.” At one point I thought I would try to correct this pronoun mixup only to realize that it's impossible to explain to an early speaker the difference between ‘me’ and ‘you’ without confusion. In our early years, ‘you’ is ‘me,’ and ‘me,’ ‘you,’ just as in prehistoric years, Mutt is Jute, and Jute, Mutt, and the difference we see between them could be the two complementary or opposing parts of one person. There is no ‘me’ without ‘you,’ no Mutt without Jute, no Laurel without Hardy, and if we move beyond Joyce’s lifetime to Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot, there is no Vladimir without Estragon. And like Mutt and Jute before them, Beckett’s Didi and Gogo exchange hats. I’ll add that in Beckett’s later play, Ohio Impromptu — which, incidentally, recalls his days as Joyce’s amanuensis — he further dissolved the distinction between two characters on stage by placing only one hat between them.

Though Mutt and Jute start out Irish and Danish, respectively, they end up wearing each other’s hat, confused — perhaps more conjoined than confused given that Scandinavian genetics have been part of Irish ancestry since Vikings first invaded the Emerald Isle over a thousand years ago. There is no such thing as a pure identity, or as Finnegans Wake puts it a few lines after Mutt and Jute’s dialogue, “Miscegenations on miscegenations” (18:20). People — be they individuals or nations — are mixed up with and within each other. The merging of character, the dissolving of distinctions, the characterlessness, is deliberate.

It’s time to go back a few pages now and mention a few more things in today’s reading.

It opens with the word and number, “Four,” introducing us to four old historians, here referred to as “Mammon Lujius”, an acronym for the four Gospels of Christianity: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. These four also personify the four provinces of Ireland: Ulster, Munster, Leinster and Connacht. We’ll meet these four men again in various iterations throughout the novel. Woven into the same paragraph are the four seasons represented by Jewish months of the year: the month of Adar for winter, Nisan for spring, Tammuz for summer, and Marcheshvan for fall. And celebrating fall, the paragraph closes with the name of the Jewish harvesting festival, Sukkot.

The four historians share four historical dates with us about bloody wars in Dublin. The first is 1132 A.D.; the second is half of 1132, or 566 A.D.; the third is 566 A.D. again; and the fourth, 1132 A.D. again. In other words, the dates fall and rise again, the central theme and motion of Finnegans Wake. What to make of these dates/numbers, especially 1132 which recurs throughout the Wake? William Tindall tells us little of historical note happened in 1132 A.D. (excepting, I suppose, the usual bloody wars in Dublin) so he focuses on the number itself, separating 1132 into two parts: 11, which he interprets as rising, and which I understand as eleven elevating; and 32, which he interprets as falling, thanks to Galileo’s observation that objects fall at a rate of 32 feet per second per second. So here again we have the central theme and motion of Finnegans Wake with the rise of 11 and fall of 32. Tindall also points out 32 counties in Ireland. And he adds more ingenious meanings for the numbers, which I’ll include in the transcript of this podcast (posted on One Little Goat’s website [see note at foot of this transcript]). Roland McHugh notes the death of legendary Irish hunter-warrior-poet Finn MacCool was in the year 283 according to the chronicles of Irish history known as the Annals of the Four Masters, and 283 times 4 equals 1132. Richard and I like to see this recurring motif of 1132 throughout the Wake as individual digits, 1, 1, 3 and 2, with each digit representing a part in the alleged sin that takes place in Phoenix Park, which we’ll hear more about in Chapter 2: 1 for Earwicker, another 1 for the Cad, 3 for the soldiers, 2 for the girls peeing in the bushes.

All in all, the historical record is unclear, the Wake explains, because “the copyist must have fled with his scroll” as he was frightened by an elk or a bolt of lightning. Then the text offers a peaceful, post-war passage that includes one of my favourite phrases in the book, “lift we our ears, eyes of the darkness” (14:29), and it goes on to describe the tulips and twilight in Rush, a town in Dublin County that has particular resonance for our reader, Richard Harte, because it’s where he and his family are from.

This is where Mutt and Jute come in, whose dialogue, for all its vaudevillian shtick, conveys the consequences of war: “Now are all tombed to the mound”, and then a variation on ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ which is transformed by the ever irreverent Wake into, “erde from erde” (17:30), erde being ‘earth’ in German, and merde being ‘shit’ in French, or ‘earth from shit,’ not exactly the kind of phrase you’d want to hear at someone’s funeral.

The last paragraph in today’s reading invites us to examine more closely the ancient mound of earth or shit before us — I’m also remembering the “tip” or dump from Kate’s “museyroom” tour a few pages earlier. We’re encouraged to read these ruins or mysterious runes if we are “abcedminded”, spelled a-b-c-e-d-minded, and we’re urged to bring ourselves closer to “this allaphbed”, a word that includes ‘alphabet,’ ‘alef bet’ (the name of the Hebrew alphabet), God’s Muslim name, ‘Allah,’ and suggestions of a natural ‘bed,’ be it of flowers or of a river, a riverrun of words.

And now it’s time to welcome you all back into my home for Richard’s continued reading of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, page 13 line 20 to page 19 line 19 in Chapter 1.

[Richard Harte reads Finnegans Wake 13:20-19:19.]

[p13] Four things therefore, saith our herodotary Mammon Lujius
in his grand old historiorum, wrote near Boriorum, bluest book
in baile's annals, f. t. in Dyffinarsky ne'er sall fail til heathersmoke
and cloudweed Eire's ile sall pall. And here now they are, the fear
of um. T. Totities! Unum. (Adar.) A bulbenboss surmounted up-
on an alderman. Ay, ay! Duum. (Nizam.) A shoe on a puir old
wobban. Ah, ho! Triom. (Tamuz.) An auburn mayde, o'brine
a'bride, to be desarted. Adear, adear! Quodlibus. (Marchessvan.) A
penn no weightier nor a polepost. And so. And all. (Succoth.)

So, how idlers' wind turning pages on pages, as innocens with
anaclete play popeye antipop, the leaves of the living in the boke
of the deeds, annals of themselves timing the cycles of events
grand and national, bring fassilwise to pass how.

1132 A.D. Men like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot
hwide Whallfisk which lay in a Runnel. Blubby wares upat Ub-
lanium.

566 A.D. On Baalfire's night of this year after deluge a crone that

[p14] hadde a wickered Kish for to hale dead turves from the bog look-
it under the blay of her Kish as she ran for to sothisfeige her cow-
rieosity and be me sawl but she found hersell sackvulle of swart
goody quickenshoon and small illigant brogues, so rich in sweat.
Blurry works at Hurdlesford.

(Silent.)

566 A.D. At this time it fell out that a brazenlockt damsel grieved
(sobralasolas!) because that Puppette her minion was ravisht of her
by the ogre Puropeus Pious. Bloody wars in Ballyaughacleeagh-
bally.

1132. A.D. Two sons at an hour were born until a goodman
and his hag. These sons called themselves Caddy and Primas.
Primas was a santryman and drilled all decent people. Caddy
went to Winehouse and wrote o peace a farce. Blotty words for
Dublin.

Somewhere, parently, in the ginnandgo gap between antedilu-
vious and annadominant the copyist must have fled with his
scroll. The billy flood rose or an elk charged him or the sultrup
worldwright from the excelsissimost empyrean (bolt, in sum)
earthspake or the Dannamen gallous banged pan the bliddy du-
ran. A scribicide then and there is led off under old's code with
some fine covered by six marks or ninepins in metalmen for the
sake of his labour's dross while it will be only now and again in
our rear of o'er era, as an upshoot of military and civil engage-
ments, that a gynecure was let on to the scuffold for taking that
same fine sum covertly by meddlement with the drawers of his
neighbour's safe.

Now after all that farfatch'd and peragrine or dingnant or clere
lift we our ears, eyes of the darkness, from the tome of Liber Li-
vidus and, (toh!), how paisibly eirenical, all dimmering dunes
and gloamering glades, selfstretches afore us our fredeland's plain!
Lean neath stone pine the pastor lies with his crook; young pric-
ket by pricket's sister nibbleth on returned viridities; amaid her
rocking grasses the herb trinity shams lowliness; skyup is of ever-
grey. Thus, too, for donkey's years. Since the bouts of Hebear
and Hairyman the cornflowers have been staying at Ballymun,

[p15] the duskrose has choosed out Goatstown's hedges, twolips have
pressed togatherthem by sweet Rush, townland of twinedlights,
the whitethorn and the redthorn have fairygeyed the mayvalleys
of Knockmaroon, and, though for rings round them, during a
chiliad of perihelygangs, the Formoreans have brittled the too-
ath of the Danes and the Oxman has been pestered by the Fire-
bugs and the Joynts have thrown up jerrybuilding to the Kevan-
ses and Little on the Green is childsfather to the City (Year!
Year! And laughtears!), these paxsealing buttonholes have quad-
rilled across the centuries and whiff now whafft to us, fresh and
made-of-all-smiles as, on the eve of Killallwho.

The babbelers with their thangas vain have been (confusium
hold them!) they were and went; thigging thugs were and hou-
hnhymn songtoms were and comely norgels were and pollyfool
fiansees. Menn have thawed, clerks have surssurhummed, the
blond has sought of the brune: Elsekiss thou may, mean Kerry
piggy?: and the duncledames have countered with the hellish fel-
lows: Who ails tongue coddeau, aspace of dumbillsilly? And they
fell upong one another: and themselves they have fallen. And
still nowanights and by nights of yore do all bold floras of the
field to their shyfaun lovers say only: Cull me ere I wilt to thee!:
and, but a little later: Pluck me whilst I blush! Well may they
wilt, marry, and profusedly blush, be troth! For that saying is as
old as the howitts. Lave a whale a while in a whillbarrow (isn't
it the truath I'm tallin ye?) to have fins and flippers that shimmy
and shake. Tim Timmycan timped hir, tampting Tam. Fleppety!
Flippety! Fleapow!

Hop!

In the name of Anem this carl on the kopje in pelted thongs a
parth a lone who the joebiggar be he? Forshapen his pigmaid
hoagshead, shroonk his plodsfoot. He hath locktoes, this short-
shins, and, Obeold that's pectoral, his mammamuscles most
mousterious. It is slaking nuncheon out of some thing's brain
pan. Me seemeth a dragon man. He is almonthst on the kiep
fief by here, is Comestipple Sacksoun, be it junipery or febrew-
ery, marracks or alebrill or the ramping riots of pouriose and

[p16] froriose. What a quhare soort of a mahan. It is evident the mich-
indaddy. Lets we overstep his fire defences and these kraals of
slitsucked marrogbones. (Cave!) He can prapsposterus the pil-
lory way to Hirculos pillar. Come on, fool porterfull, hosiered
women blown monk sewer? Scuse us, chorley guy! You toller-
day donsk? N. You tolkatiff scowegian? Nn. You spigotty an-
glease? Nnn. You phonio saxo? Nnnn. Clear all so! 'Tis a Jute.
Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach ea-
ther yapyazzard abast the blooty creeks.
    Jute.      Yutah!
    Mutt.      Mukk's pleasurad.
    Jute.      Are you jeff?
    Mutt.      Somehards.
    Jute.      But you are not jeffmute?
    Mutt.      Noho. Only an utterer.
    Jute.      Whoa? Whoat is the mutter with you?
    Mutt.      I became a stun a stummer.
    Jute.      What a hauhauhauhaudibble thing, to be cause! How,
                  Mutt?
    Mutt.      Aput the buttle, surd.
    Jute.      Whose poddle? Wherein?
    Mutt.      The Inns of Dungtarf where Used awe to be he.
    Jute.      You that side your voise are almost inedible to me.
                  Become a bitskin more wiseable, as if I were
                  you.
    Mutt.      Has? Has at? Hasatency? Urp, Boohooru! Booru
                  Usurp! I trumple from rath in mine mines when I
                  rimimirim!
    Jute.      One eyegonblack. Bisons is bisons. Let me fore all
                  your hasitancy cross your qualm with trink gilt. Here
                  have sylvan coyne, a piece of oak. Ghinees hies good
                  for you.
    Mutt.      Louee, louee! How wooden I not know it, the intel-
                  lible greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! Cead mealy
                  faulty rices for one dabblin bar. Old grilsy growlsy!
                  He was poached on in that eggtentical spot. Here
[p17]           where the liveries, Monomark. There where the mis-
                  sers moony, Minnikin passe.
    Jute.      Simply because as Taciturn pretells, our wrongstory-
                  shortener, he dumptied the wholeborrow of rubba-
                  ges on to soil here.
    Mutt.      Just how a puddinstone inat the brookcells by a
                  riverpool.
    Jute.      Load Allmarshy! Wid wad for a norse like?
    Mutt.      Somular with a bull on a clompturf. Rooks roarum
                  rex roome! I could snore to him of the spumy horn,
                  with his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton
                  on, did Brian d' of Linn.
    Jute.      Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly
                  forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic in such a pat-
                  what as your rutterdamrotter. Onheard of and um-
                  scene! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed.
    Mutt.      Quite agreem. Bussave a sec. Walk a dunblink
                  roundward this albutisle and you skull see how olde
                  ye plaine of my Elters, hunfree and ours, where wone
                  to wail whimbrel to peewee o'er the saltings, where
                  wilby citie by law of isthmon, where by a droit of
                  signory, icefloe was from his Inn the Byggning to
                  whose Finishthere Punct. Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr.
                  Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. Morthering
                  rue. Hither, craching eastuards, they are in surgence:
                  hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. Countlessness of
                  livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as
                  flowflakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of
                  whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges
                  to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!
    Jute.      'Stench!
    Mutt.      Fiatfuit! Hereinunder lyethey. Llarge by the smal an'
                  everynight life olso th'estrange, babylone the great-
                  grandhotelled with tit tit tittlehouse, alp on earwig,
                  drukn on ild, likeas equal to anequal in this sound
                  seemetery which iz leebez luv.
[p18] Jute.     'Zmorde!
    Mutt.      Meldundleize! By the fearse wave behoughted. Des-
                  pond's sung. And thanacestross mound have swollup
                  them all. This ourth of years is not save brickdust
                  and being humus the same roturns. He who runes
                  may rede it on all fours. O'c'stle, n'wc'stle, tr'c'stle,
                  crumbling! Sell me sooth the fare for Humblin! Hum-
                  blady Fair. But speak it allsosiftly, moulder! Be in
                  your whisht!
    Jute.      Whysht?
    Mutt.      The gyant Forficules with Amni the fay.
    Jute.      Howe?
    Mutt.      Here is viceking's graab.
    Jute.      Hwaad!
    Mutt.      Ore you astoneaged, jute you?
    Jute.      Oye am thonthorstrok, thing mud.

(Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, what curios
of signs (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since
We and Thou had it out already) its world? It is the same told
of all. Many. Miscegenations on miscegenations. Tieckle. They
lived und laughed ant loved end left. Forsin. Thy thingdome is
given to the Meades and Porsons. The meandertale, aloss and
again, of our old Heidenburgh in the days when Head-in-Clouds
walked the earth. In the ignorance that implies impression that
knits knowledge that finds the nameform that whets the wits that
convey contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that
adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth that en-
tails the ensuance of existentiality. But with a rush out of his
navel reaching the reredos of Ramasbatham. A terricolous vively-
onview this; queer and it continues to be quaky. A hatch, a celt,
an earshare the pourquose of which was to cassay the earthcrust at
all of hours, furrowards, bagawards, like yoxen at the turnpaht.
Here say figurines billycoose arming and mounting. Mounting and
arming bellicose figurines see here. Futhorc, this liffle effingee is for
a firefing called a flintforfall. Face at the eased! O I fay! Face at the
waist! Ho, you fie! Upwap and dump em, [F]ace to [F]ace! When

[p19] part so ptee does duty for the holos we soon grow to use of an
allforabit. Here (please to stoop) are selveran cued peteet peas of
quite a pecuniar interest inaslittle as they are the pellets that make
the tomtummy's pay roll. Right rank ragnar rocks and with these
rox orangotangos rangled rough and rightgorong. Wisha, wisha,
whydidtha? Thik is for thorn that's thuck in its thoil like thum-
fool's thraitor thrust for vengeance. What a mnice old mness it
all mnakes! A middenhide hoard of objects! Olives, beets, kim-
mells, dollies, alfrids, beatties, cormacks and daltons. Owlets' eegs
(O stoop to please!) are here, creakish from age and all now
quite epsilene, and oldwolldy wobblewers, haudworth a wipe o
grass. Sss! See the snake wurrums everyside! Our durlbin is
sworming in sneaks. They came to our island from triangular
Toucheaterre beyond the wet prairie rared up in the midst of the
cargon of prohibitive pomefructs but along landed Paddy Wip-
pingham and the his garbagecans cotched the creeps of them
pricker than our whosethere outofman could quick up her whats-
thats. Somedivide and sumthelot but the tally turns round the
same balifuson. Racketeers and bottloggers.

[End of reading excerpt]

Adam Seelig: That was my friend and colleague Richard Harte reading from Finnegans Wake, Chapter 1, pages 13-19, recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Special thanks to my friends in Norway, Øyvind and Susanna Haga, for advising Richard and me on Scandinavian pronunciations for the dialogue of Mutt and Jute/Yutah.

Join us for Episode 5 in a fortnight when Richard continues with the next five pages of Finnegans Wake, including the famous “prankquean” fable. To be sure you don’t miss the episode, why not follow or subscribe to this podcast? And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including transcripts of this podcast and trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

Mentioned: Robert Houle, Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO), dialogue, Mutt and Jute, Mutt and Jeff, Laurel and Hardy, Jutland, Denmark, Vikings, Battle of Clontarf (1014), Brian Boru, dismantling the norms of fiction and drama, four-dimensional characters, August Strindberg, characterless, characterlessness, pronouns ‘you’ and ‘me,’ Waiting for Godot, miscegenations, the Gospels, Mamalujo, Jewish calendar, 1132, Galileo on how things fall, Finn MacCool, Rush (Dublin County), “allaphbed”, synopsis.

William Tindall on 1132: “Joyce like playing with figures as well as with words. 1132 (rise and fall) includes H.C.E. and his sons. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, C is the third, and E is the fifth. Adding 8, 3, and 5 gives 16, which multiplied by 2 (the twins in him), gives 32. Shaun’s number is 11 (renewal) and Shem’s is 21. Add 21 and 11 and you get 32 or H.C.E. Elsewhere (in Chapter X) H.C.E.’s number is 10, A.L.P.’s is 01. Put these together and you get 1001 or another of renewal’s numbers or another of renewal’s numbers. Consider A.L.P. again: A is 1, L is 12, P is 16. Add these numbers you get 29 or the leap-year girls. (p.53)

Resources:
Transcript for this episode, including the text of Finnegans Wake pages 13-19.
Finnegans Wake (1939) by James Joyce: there are many free copies of FW to read online or download, e.g. finwake.com
James Joyce Digital Archive, “Chicken Guide” to Finnegans Wake provides a ‘plain English’ paraphrase of each chapter by Danis Rose.
Edmund Epstein, A Guide through Finnegans Wake. University Press of Florida, 2009.
William York Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to Finnegans Wake. Syracuse University Press, 1996.
Roland McHugh, Annotations to Finnegans Wake (4th edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2016.
John Gordon’s annotations on his Finnegans Wake blog.
Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce. Oxford University Press, 1982.
More on characterlessness: Adam Seelig, “EmergeNSee: Get Head Out of Ass: ‘Charactor’ and Poetic Theatre”. The Capilano Review, Vancouver, 2010, pp.32-52.

Episode 003: the museyroom (p.8:9-13:19)

May 30, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 003
THE MUSEYROOM

PAGE 8:9-13:19 | 2024-05-30

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. In this episode, number 3, we’ll hear Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte reading pages 8 to 13 of Joyce’s last novel, which will include the famous “museyroom” scene. I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the reading you’ll soon hear.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

[Music fades out]

Finnegans Wake, in Joyce’s own words, “is all so simple. If anyone doesn’t understand a passage, all [they] need do is read it aloud” (Ellmann, 590). True, sound and sense converge in this miraculously lyrical book such that sound is sense; and true, we have actor Richard Harte reading it aloud for us with tonguetwisting virtuosity; but I’m not so sure it’s “all so simple” as the author once claimed. So I’m going to highlight a few elements in today’s reading before we hear Richard read the text itself, beginning on page 8 with “the museyroom” episode. And again, as I mentioned in the previous episode, if you prefer to hear Richard’s reading only without any preamble, please skip ahead and enjoy!

We ended Episode 2 in this podcast of Finnegans Wake at the top of page 8 in Dublin’s Phoenix Park at the entrance to a war museum, where Kate is about to give us a tour. One of the novel’s recurring characters, Kate is the museum’s custodian described here as a “janitrix,” combining ‘janitor’ with ‘genetrix’ (an old term for a ‘female ancestor’). She leads us into the “museyroom”, as she calls the museum, and advises us to mind our hats going in; two pages later, when the tour concludes, she’ll flip this advice into, “Mind your boots goan out”, suggesting that this tour may actually contain the entire arc of human life, from our entrance at birth, head first, to our exit at death, feet first.

The action-packed, battle-heavy life we read and experience in the “museyroom”, like everything in life and in Joyce, can be read and experienced on multiple levels. Or in musical terms, since Finnegans Wake is a massive literary fugue, the “museyroom” allows us to hear multiple motifs simultaneously. In this case it’s mostly a fugue of feuds, including the ultimate feud of war, the Oedipal conflict of father and sons, the tension between the novel’s male protagonist, HCE and his bugaboos (which we’ll discover in more detail in the next chapter, including the Cad, the two girls who are possibly peeing in the bushes and three soldiers). And also, because this is Joyce after all, there’s the motif of bodily needs and functions, which allows us to hear the “museyroom” as (I’ll quote Brendan Ward) “a description of HCE urinating, defecating and masturbating in the outhouse behind his pub, The Mullingar House, in Chapelizod” (to which I’d like to add three things about the Mullingar House, which still exists today in the Chapelizod area of Dublin: (1) it was established in 1694; (2) it sits right at the edge of Phoenix Park, it backs onto it, so HCE’s fictional outhouse would likely have been in the park itself; and (3), most importantly, as of my most recent visit to Dublin in June of 2023, a big banner hangs over the Mullingar’s main bar claiming the following: “The Mullingar House, Chapelizod, Ireland’s Best Chicken Wings”).

**Plaque on the Mullingar House: “Home of all the characters and elements in James Joyce’s novel *Finnegans Wake*”**

While the “museyroom” maintains all of these motifs and more, making it a central fable in the novel, I’m only going tease out the first and most literal one: the museyroom as a war museum, specifically as a museum commemorating the Battle of Waterloo, June 18th, 1815 when the Duke of Wellington and his coalition defeated Napoleon, ending 23 years of war in Europe. Kate, our janitor-cum-tour-guide, will draw our attention to various historical objects from the battle, including guns, bullets, flags, the 3-pointed hat of Napoleon and a depiction of Wellington’s favourite white horse named Copenhagen. In the Wake-speak of Kate, we’ll hear Napoleon as “Lipoleum,” Wellington as “Willingdone,” and his horse Copenhagen as his “white harse, the Cokenhape.” Does this turn Napoleon into a linoleum floor on which victorious Wellington walks all over with his wellies? Some readers think so, although Wellington is defeated in Kate’s bonkers version of the battle. Allowing for a victorious Wellington might have been too much for Joyce to stomach, given the English commander’s antipathy for Ireland, despite being born in Dublin. As Joyce scholar John Gordon writes, “Wellington once remarked that he was an Irishman only if a man born in a stable was a horse, a nasty crack for which Joyce pays him back by making him a ‘harse’” (113) and indeed in the “museyroom” it’s virtually impossible to distinguish between this man and his equine when what we see repeatedly is his ‘big white harse.’

The “museyroom” episode is also a breakneck viewing of the most prominent structure in Dublin’s Phoenix Park, and that is the Wellington Monument, a granite obelisk whose four sides are etched with the names of Britain’s many military victories and topped with four self-congratulatory bronze friezes depicting the Empire’s global conquests. Erected by the British in the mid-19th century and standing at a height of over 60 metres (or 200 feet), the Wellington Monument is a veritable erection if ever there was, a phallic monstrosity of which Finnegans Wake makes good use by personifying HCE—among the many things he is—as the city of Dublin, with his head in Howth, feet in Chapelizod, and ‘monumental’ penis in Phoenix Park.

**The Wellington Monument, Phoenix Park, Dublin**

If you’re lucky enough to be visiting Phoenix Park one day, read the “museyroom” (or listen to Richard’s reading from this podcast) by the Wellington Monument — you’ll be amazed by how much of the bronze battle scenes and how many of the etched battle names appear in the writing. It’s almost as if Kate the janitor is taking us on a tour of this war memorial by riffing on what she sees in front of her, improvising all kinds of wacky, pseudo historical details. Sometimes I get the feeling that Kate is simply making it up on the spot. For all the painstaking details Joyce stuffed into this scene, and for all the conceptual planning he invested in writing it, I’m always amazed by how in-the-moment and extemporaneous the language feels. No matter how many times I read it or hear it, the “museyroom” always offers up something new. Then again, that could easily be said of any page in Finnegans Wake.

**Battle of Waterloo, frieze on the Wellington Monument. (Did I say “topped” with bronze friezes? They’re actually closer to the base.)**

Before we leave the “museyroom”, I’ll mention one tiny word that peppers Kate’s speech: “tip”. T - I - P. Tip: is Kate angling for a few coins in gratuity from us, her tourists? Tip: is she alluding to a heap of junk or mound of crap if we use the British-English or Irish-English definition for “tip” as a ‘garbage dump’? Maybe she’s suggesting that the many wars of France, England and Europe, including the Battle of Waterloo, amount to one big historical dump — if so, she’s putting the ‘loo’ back in Waterloo. Tip: is this pointed word Kate’s way of pointing things out? Is everything she’s saying off the tip of her tongue? Tip: is this the tapered top of the gargantuan boner that is the Wellington Monument?

For those who want to read more on the “museyroom”—and there’s so much more to say—I’ll link to some articles and resources in the show notes.

We leave the “museyroom” at the bottom of page 10 and find ourselves on the post-battle battlefield, where the Duke is unhorsed and by the sounds of it, upside down: “Skud ontorsed” is how the text now describes the centaur-like Wellington, “Skud” being “Duke’s” backwards. Among the post-war detritus, we’ll hear some crows and pigeons, and we’ll see early intimations of another recurring character, ‘the hen,’ here introduced as an early bird, or as the text puts it, “gnarlybird”, gathering various items “into her nabsack”. The war may be over, but this post-war paragraph pays its remembrance with a somber, single-word sentence: “Slain.”

Emerging from ‘the hen’ are early contours of our female protagonist, HCE’s spouse, Anna Livia Plurabelle or ALP, here described at the bottom of page 11 as “bootifull and how truetowife” (11:29). And then this paragraph takes on a more resigned or philosophical or (this being Joyce) horny view of humanity’s skirmishes: “Gricks may rise and Troysirs fall” (11:35) — combining ‘Greeks may rise and Trojans fall’ with ‘pricks may rise and trousers fall’ — but “that's what makes life-work leaving” (12:1-2); and yes, as we read on, Humptys may fall off walls, but hey, there’ll still be eggs for breakfast (12).

The following few paragraphs, beginning in the middle of page 12, provide us with a zoomed out view of Dublin, a vantage from which we can say (and I’ll paraphrase): ‘So this is Dublin.’ I’m not sure if we should hear that as a dis or a compliment — I have the feeling Joyce is always happy for us to hear it more ways than one.

And now it’s time to welcome you all back into my home for Richard’s continued reading of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, page 8 line 9 to page 13 line 19 in Chapter 1.

[Richard Harte reads Finnegans Wake 8:9-13:19.]

This the way to the museyroom. Mind your hats goan in!
Now yiz are in the Willingdone Museyroom. This is a Prooshi-
ous gunn. This is a ffrinch. Tip. This is the flag of the Prooshi-
ous, the Cap and Soracer. This is the bullet that byng the flag of
the Prooshious. This is the ffrinch that fire on the Bull that bang
the flag of the Prooshious. Saloos the Crossgunn! Up with your
pike and fork! Tip. (Bullsfoot! Fine!) This is the triplewon hat of
Lipoleum. Tip. Lipoleumhat. This is the Willingdone on his
same white harse, the Cokenhape. This is the big Sraughter Wil-
lingdone, grand and magentic in his goldtin spurs and his ironed
dux and his quarterbrass woodyshoes and his magnate's gharters
and his bangkok's best and goliar's goloshes and his pullupon-
easyan wartrews. This is his big wide harse. Tip. This is the three
lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch. This is an
inimyskilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a davy, stoop-
ing. This is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg. A
Gallawghurs argaumunt. This is the petty lipoleum boy that
was nayther bag nor bug. Assaye, assaye! Touchole Fitz Tuo-
mush. Dirty MacDyke. And Hairy O'Hurry. All of them
arminus-varminus. This is Delian alps. This is Mont Tivel,
this is Mont Tipsey, this is the Grand Mons Injun. This is the
crimealine of the alps hooping to sheltershock the three lipoleums.
This is the jinnies with their legahorns feinting to read in their
handmade's book of stralegy while making their war undisides
the Willingdone. The jinnies is a cooin her hand and the jinnies is
a ravin her hair and the Willingdone git the band up. This is big
Willingdone mormorial tallowscoop Wounderworker obscides
on the flanks of the jinnies. Sexcaliber hrosspower. Tip. This

[p9] is me Belchum sneaking his phillippy out of his most Awful
Grimmest Sunshat Cromwelly. Looted. This is the jinnies' hast-
ings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. Dispatch in thin
red lines cross the shortfront of me Belchum. Yaw, yaw, yaw!
Leaper Orthor. Fear siecken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. Hugact-
ing. Nap. That was the tictacs of the jinnies for to fontannoy the
Willingdone. Shee, shee, shee! The jinnies is jillous agincourting
all the lipoleums. And the lipoleums is gonn boycottoncrezy onto
the one Willingdone. And the Willingdone git the band up. This
is bode Belchum, bonnet to busby, breaking his secred word with a
ball up his ear to the Willingdone. This is the Willingdone's hur-
old dispitchback. Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of me
Belchum. Salamangra! Ayi, ayi, ayi! Cherry jinnies. Figtreeyou!
Damn fairy ann, Voutre. Willingdone. That was the first joke of
Willingdone, tic for tac. Hee, hee, hee! This is me Belchum in
his twelvemile cowchooks, weet, tweet and stampforth foremost,
footing the camp for the jinnies. Drink a sip, drankasup, for he's
as sooner buy a guinness than he'd stale store stout. This is Roo-
shious balls. This is a ttrinch. This is mistletropes. This is Canon
Futter with the popynose. After his hundred days' indulgence.
This is the blessed. Tarra's widdars! This is jinnies in the bonny
bawn blooches. This is lipoleums in the rowdy howses. This is the
Willingdone, by the splinters of Cork, order fire. Tonnerre!
(Bullsear! Play!) This is camelry, this is floodens, this is the
solphereens in action, this is their mobbily, this is panickburns.
Almeidagad! Arthiz too loose! This is Willingdone cry. Brum!
Brum! Cumbrum! This is jinnies cry. Underwetter! Goat
strip Finnlambs! This is jinnies rinning away to their ouster-
lists dowan a bunkersheels. With a nip nippy nip and a trip trip-
py trip so airy. For their heart's right there. Tip. This is me Bel-
chum's tinkyou tankyou silvoor plate for citchin the crapes in
the cool of his canister. Poor the pay! This is the bissmark of the
marathon merry of the jinnies they left behind them. This is the
Willingdone branlish his same marmorial tallowscoop Sophy-
Key-Po for his royal divorsion on the rinnaway jinnies. Gam-
bariste della porca! Dalaveras fimmieras! This is the pettiest

[p10] of the lipoleums, Toffeethief, that spy on the Willingdone from
his big white harse, the Capeinhope. Stonewall Willingdone
is an old maxy montrumeny. Lipoleums is nice hung bushel-
lors. This is hiena hinnessy laughing alout at the Willing-
done. This is lipsyg dooley krieging the funk from the hinnessy.
This is the hinndoo Shimar Shin between the dooley boy and the
hinnessy. Tip. This is the wixy old Willingdone picket up the
half of the threefoiled hat of lipoleums fromoud of the bluddle
filth. This is the hinndoo waxing ranjymad for a bombshoob.
This is the Willingdone hanking the half of the hat of lipoleums
up the tail on the buckside of his big white harse. Tip. That was
the last joke of Willingdone. Hit, hit, hit! This is the same white
harse of the Willingdone, Culpenhelp, waggling his tailoscrupp
with the half of a hat of lipoleums to insoult on the hinndoo see-
boy. Hney, hney, hney! (Bullsrag! Foul!) This is the seeboy,
madrashattaras, upjump and pumpim, cry to the Willingdone:
Ap Pukkaru! Pukka Yurap! This is the Willingdone, bornstable
ghentleman, tinders his maxbotch to the cursigan Shimar Shin.
Basucker youstead! This is the dooforhim seeboy blow the whole
of the half of the hat of lipoleums off of the top of the tail on the
back of his big wide harse. Tip (Bullseye! Game!) How Copen-
hagen ended. This way the museyroom. Mind your boots goan
out.

Phew!

What a warm time we were in there but how keling is here the
airabouts! We nowhere she lives but you mussna tell annaone for
the lamp of Jig-a-Lanthern! It's a candlelittle houthse of a month
and one windies. Downadown, High Downadown. And num-
mered quaintlymine. And such reasonable weather too! The wa-
grant wind's awalt'zaround the piltdowns and on every blasted
knollyrock (if you can spot fifty I spy four more) there's that
gnarlybird ygathering, a runalittle, doalittle, preealittle, pouralittle,
wipealittle, kicksalittle, severalittle, eatalittle, whinealittle, kenalittle,
helfalittle, pelfalittle gnarlybird. A verytableland of bleakbardfields!
Under his seven wrothschields lies one, Lumproar. His glav toside
him. Skud ontorsed. Our pigeons pair are flewn for northcliffs.

[p11] The three of crows have flapped it southenly, kraaking of de
baccle to the kvarters of that sky whence triboos answer; Wail,
'tis well! She niver comes out when Thon's on shower or when
Thon's flash with his Nixy girls or when Thon's blowing toom-
cracks down the gaels of Thon. No nubo no! Neblas on you liv!
Her would be too moochy afreet. Of Burymeleg and Bindme-
rollingeyes and all the deed in the woe. Fe fo fom! She jist does
hopes till byes will be byes. Here, and it goes on to appear now,
she comes, a peacefugle, a parody's bird, a peri potmother,
a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows
in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a flick flask fleckflinging
its pixylighting pacts' huemeramybows, picking here, pecking
there, pussypussy plunderpussy. But it's the armitides toonigh,
militopucos, and toomourn we wish for a muddy kissmans to the
minutia workers and there's to be a gorgeups truce for happinest
childher everwere. Come nebo me and suso sing the day we
sallybright. She's burrowed the coacher's headlight the better to
pry (who goes cute goes siocur and shoos aroun) and all spoiled
goods go into her nabsack: curtrages and rattlin buttins, nappy
spattees and flasks of all nations, clavicures and scampulars, maps,
keys and woodpiles of haypennies and moonled brooches with
bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston nightgarters and masses of
shoesets and nickelly nacks and foder allmicheal and a lugly parson
of cates and howitzer muchears and midgers and maggets, ills and
ells with loffs of toffs and pleures of bells and the last sigh that
come fro the hart (bucklied!) and the fairest sin the sunsaw
(that's cearc!). With Kiss. Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross.
Undo lives 'end. Slain.

How bootifull and how truetowife of her, when strengly fore-
bidden, to steal our historic presents from the past postpropheti-
cals so as to will make us all lordyheirs and ladymaidesses of a
pretty nice kettle of fruit. She is livving in our midst of debt and
laffing through all plores for us (her birth is uncontrollable), with
a naperon for her mask and her sabboes kickin arias (so sair! so
solly!) if yous ask me and I saack you. Hou! Hou! Gricks may
rise and Troysirs fall (there being two sights for ever a picture)

[p12] for in the byways of high improvidence that's what makes life-
work leaving and the world's a cell for citters to cit in. Let young
wimman run away with the story and let young min talk smooth
behind the butteler's back. She knows her knight's duty while
Luntum sleeps. Did ye save any tin? says he. Did I what? with
a grin says she. And we all like a marriedann because she is mer-
cenary. Though the length of the land lies under liquidation
(floote!) and there's nare a hairbrow nor an eyebush on this glau-
brous phace of Herrschuft Whatarwelter she'll loan a vesta and
hire some peat and sarch the shores her cockles to heat and she'll
do all a turfwoman can to piff the business on. Paff. To puff the
blaziness on. Poffpoff. And even if Humpty shell fall frumpty
times as awkward again in the beardsboosoloom of all our grand
remonstrancers there'll be iggs for the brekkers come to mourn-
him, sunny side up with care. So true is it that therewhere's a
turnover the tay is wet too and when you think you ketch sight
of a hind make sure but you're cocked by a hin.

Then as she is on her behaviourite job of quainance bandy,
fruting for firstlings and taking her tithe, we may take our review
of the two mounds to see nothing of the himples here as at else-
where, by sixes and sevens, like so many heegills and collines,
sitton aroont, scentbreeched ant somepotreek, in their swisha-
wish satins and their taffetaffe tights, playing Wharton's Folly,
at a treepurty on the planko in the purk. Stand up, mickos!
Make strake for minnas! By order, Nicholas Proud. We may see
and hear nothing if we choose of the shortlegged bergins off
Corkhill or the bergamoors of Arbourhill or the bergagambols
of Summerhill or the bergincellies of Miseryhill or the country-
bossed bergones of Constitutionhill though every crowd has its
several tones and every trade has its clever mechanics and each
harmonical has a point of its own, Olaf's on the rise and Ivor's
on the lift and Sitric's place's between them. But all they are all
there scraping along to sneeze out a likelihood that will solve
and salve life's robulous rebus, hopping round his middle like
kippers on a griddle, O, as he lays dormont from the macroborg
of Holdhard to the microbirg of Pied de Poudre. Behove this

[p13] sound of Irish sense. Really? Here English might be seen.
Royally? One sovereign punned to petery pence. Regally? The
silence speaks the scene. Fake!

So This Is Dyoublong?

Hush! Caution! Echoland!

How charmingly exquisite! It reminds you of the outwashed
engravure that we used to be blurring on the blotchwall of his
innkempt house. Used they? (I am sure that tiring chabelshovel-
ler with the mujikal chocolat box, Miry Mitchel, is listening) I
say, the remains of the outworn gravemure where used to be
blurried the Ptollmens of the Incabus. Used we? (He is only pre-
tendant to be stugging at the jubalee harp from a second existed
lishener, Fiery Farrelly.) It is well known. Lokk for himself and
see the old butte new. Dbln. W. K. O. O. Hear? By the mauso-
lime wall. Fimfim fimfim. With a grand funferall. Fumfum fum-
fum. 'Tis optophone which ontophanes. List! Wheatstone's
magic lyer. They will be tuggling foriver. They will be lichening
for allof. They will be pretumbling forover. The harpsdischord
shall be theirs for ollaves.

[End of reading excerpt]

Adam Seelig: That was my friend and colleague Richard Harte reading from Finnegans Wake, Chapter 1, pages 8-13, recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Join us for Episode 4 in a fortnight when Richard continues with the next five pages of Finnegans Wake, including the dialogue of Mutt and Jute. To be sure you don’t miss the episode, why not follow or subscribe to this podcast? And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including liner notes and trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

Mentioned: “the museyroom”, character Kate, Phoenix Park, Brendan Ward, Dublin, Mullingar House pub, Chapelizod, character HCE (Earwicker), Battle of Waterloo, Duke of Wellington, Napoleon, John Gordon, Wellington Monument, British Empire, “tip,” character ‘the hen,’ character ALP (Anna Livia Plurabelle), synopsis.

Resources:

Transcript for this episode, including the text of Finnegans Wake pages 8-13.
Finnegans Wake (1939) by James Joyce: there are many free copies of FW to read online or download, e.g. finwake.com
Brendan Ward’s excellent article, “In the Museyroom” (13 August 2022), in his blog, Finnegans Wake - A Prescriptive Guide.
James Joyce Digital Archive, “Chicken Guide” to Finnegans Wake provides a ‘plain English’ paraphrase of each chapter by Danis Rose.
Edmund Epstein, A Guide through Finnegans Wake. University Press of Florida, 2009.
William York Tindall. A Reader’s Guide to Finnegans Wake. Syracuse University Press, 1996.
Roland McHugh, Annotations to Finnegans Wake (4th edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2016.
John Gordon’s Finnegans Wake: A Plot Summary. Syracuse University Press, 1986. And Gordon’s annotations on his Finnegans Wake blog.
Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce. Oxford University Press, 1982.

Episode 002: riverrun (p.3:1-8:8)

May 16, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 002
RIVERRUN

PAGE 3:1-8:8 | 2024-05-16

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to the opening pages of James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. In this episode, number 2, we’ll hear Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte reading the opening five pages of Joyce’s last novel, recorded with a live audience in my home in Toronto. I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the reading you’ll soon hear.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Some of you listening know a lot more about this novel than I, and some of you are new to it entirely. I’m going to say a few things about Finnegans Wake in general and today’s reading in particular because I think it’s helpful to have some ideas and signposts going in. There’s really no end to what we can read into this extraordinary book, which seems to have as many interpretations as it does readers — everyone will find something new here. I’m simply going to share some of what I find amazing about it, often with thanks to others, including my partner in this project, Richard Harte, and the many people who have commented on the Wake since its publication 85 years ago.

If you prefer to hear Richard’s reading and Richard’s reading alone without any preamble (however illuminating such preamble may be), then feel free to jump ahead. I don’t mind in the least.

In Episode 1 we listened to the folk song that gave Finnegan Wake its title and its main theme: the rise and fall and rise again (and fall and rise etc.) of humanity.

That rising and falling motion carries over from the title to the first word we see and hear in the book: “riverrun” — a word of Joyce’s invention that combines “river” and “run” to form “riverrun”, a word that is central to the overall movement of this book with its riverrun of language, of musical sound, with music and sound being so important to Joyce that his whole approach could be summarized in the words of French poet Stephanne Mallarmé: “To give music back to poetry.”

“riverrun” — that first word brings us naturally to water. Richard Ellmann’s biography describes a friend complaining to Joyce that Finnegans Wake is all nonsense, to which the author responded, “It is an attempt to subordinate words to the rhythm of water.” Ellmann adds (and this is my favourite moment in the biography): “[Joyce] felt some misgivings about Finnegans Wake the night it was finished, and went down to the Seine [Joyce lived in Paris at the time] to listen by one of the bridges to the waters. He came back content” (Ellmann 564).

“riverrun”, like so many words in the Wake, generates many more meanings. Roland McHugh’s Annotations—which cover nearly every word and phrase of the novel in mind-blowing detail—offers us “riverrun” as “an excursion on a river,” fitting for those of us embarking on reading the Wake. John Gordon invites us to hear “riverrun” as “rêverons,” French for “we will dream,” and as “Reverend,” which will be significant later in the novel. “Reverend” is close to “reverence,” reverence for the river before us, which for Joyce and the Wake, so grounded in the city of Dublin, is the River Liffey.

“riverrun” also points us to streams, in this case the stream of consciousness narratives Joyce famously explored. Or more precisely, Joyce’s previous novel, Ulysses, explores streams of consciousness, while Finnegans Wake explores streams of unconsciousness. Ulysses is the daytime novel that unfolds chronologically; Finnegans Wake is the night novel that unfolds in a dream. It is a dream book.

Which brings us to a gloss on “riverrun” that French-Canadian poet Thierry Bissonnette and I came up with recently in conversation, and that is “rêve rond” meaning “round dream.” Finnegans Wake is famously a circular novel whose opening line is actually a continuation of the novel’s last. So what we have in Finnegans Wake is a circular dream novel, a rounded dream, a rêve rond, a riverrun. It brings to mind Shakespeare’s Prospero in The Tempest: “We are such stuff/ As dreams are made on, and our little life/ Is rounded with a sleep.”

Finnegans Wake is a dream world that’s mostly nonlinear. And it’s a dream language that’s often nonsensical, a dream dialect comprised of as many languages as Joyce could possibly stuff in there. Incredibly, the Wake includes phrases, words and phonemes from—according to McHugh—62 languages (and remember, kids, this was before the internuts). They include — get ready:

Albanian
Amaro (an Italian criminal slang)
Anglo-Irish
Anglo-Indian
Armenian (Eastern dialect)
Arabic
Basque
Bog Latin
Beche-la-Mar (a Melanesian pidgin)
Bearlagair Na Saer
Breton
Bulgarian
Burmese
Chinese (Mandarin)
Chinese with French romanization of characters
Chinese pidgin
Czech
Danish
Dutch
Esperanto
French
Finnish
German
Greek
Hebrew
Hindustani
Hungarian
Irish
Icelandic
Italian
Japanese
Latin
Lithuanian
Malay
Middle English
Modern Greek
Norwegian
Old Church Slavonic
Old English
Old French
Old Icelandic
Old Norse
Persian
Portuguese
Provençal
Pan-Slavonic
Romani
Romanian
Roumansch
Russian
Samoan
Sanskrit
Serbo-Croat
Shelta
Spanish
Swahili
Swiss German
Turkish
Ukrainian
Volapük (an artificial language)
Welsh
and… English.

Who are the characters in Finnegans Wake? Even though they’re not characters in a conventional sense—they’re a little too porous and malleable for that—we can say there are two principals, Anna Livia Plurabelle, or ALP, a woman associated with the water who may date back as far as Eve, and her husband, Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker, or HCE, a man associated with the land who may date back as far as Adam. Together they have two sons and one daughter. We’ll meet and talk about them all later in the novel.

And there’s one more thing I want to say about Finnegans Wake before we get into the first pages, and it’s something that’s not said nearly enough: Finnegans Wake is a comedy. Is it filled with puns? Abundantly! Are there puerile gags and fart jokes? Yes, yes there are. There are also moments that sound funny — we’re not always sure why, yet somehow they tickle us. I often think of the Wake as a kind of Mother Goose for adults, taking us back to a pre-verbal state akin to that of a baby finding pleasure in a nursery rhyme. And the truth is, we (humans) are far from fully understanding what makes something funny, though the best explanation I’ve found is this: laughter is ultimately not about getting the joke, but about getting along, which is a great way to think of this book that’s so often read and shared with others: we may not always get Finnegans Wake, but we can certainly get along with it and each other. Maybe this is my roundabout way of saying: I’m glad you’re here to share the novel with Richard and me.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano, music fades]

In a few minutes we’re going to hear Richard Harte read the opening pages of Finnegans Wake. The first page is a kind of overture to the entire novel, sounding out its motifs, including the cyclical fall and rise of humankind, love/desire/sin, family, the city of Dublin. I mentioned before that the so-called ‘first line’ on page 3 is actually a continuation of the book’s ‘last’ on page 628, which explains why the opening word, “riverrun”, is not capitalized. It also explains why the word “recirculation” comes up in this opening sentence. I also mentioned “riverrun” as “rêve rond” or circular dream — another kind of recirculation. To that I’ll add “riverrun” as “rive rond” or “round shore”. And indeed we’ll hear the word “shore” in the novel’s opening line, that is, the shore of Dublin’s River Liffey. The river runs past certain places in Dublin in this opening line, including Adam and Eve’s Church and Howth Castle.

Edmund Epstein in his Guide Through Finnegans Wake describes the river Liffey here as flowing in reverse, away from the sea and back into Dublin Bay, hence Adam and Eve’s Church becomes “Eve and Adam’s”, followed soon by the word “back”. Marshall McLuhan has an equally ingenious take on the river’s reverse flow: in his first annotated copy of the Wake, he notes that “back” in the opening sentence sounds like “Bach” (as in Johann Sebastian), and “bach” is German for “brook,” which is a stream or kind of river. So this ‘river running backwards’ is also a ‘river running Bachwords,’ making Joyce’s text a kind of verbal fugue. And I’ll also state the obvious in this opening sentence, that Eve and Adam, biblically speaking, are the world’s original woman and man.

There’s so much more to say about the novel’s opening line alone, but I’m going to move on now to point out a few things in the rest of the reading. Early on we’re going to hear a ‘thunderword,’ a word comprised of 100 letters and many languages whose phonemes all mean thunder. Is this thunder the sound of Tim Finnegan falling off his ladder, or Adam and Eve falling from their original apple-eating sin, or the thunder engendering the first frightened stutters of humanity at the prehistoric dawn of our speech (as theorized by the 18th-century Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico, whose influence was so great on Joyce that we hear his name in the novel’s second line), or is this the sound of Humpty Dumpty falling off the wall? Humpty D will also make a cameo on the novel’s first page, which ends with the word “livvy”, linking to the Liffey, to life, to love and to Anna Livia Plurabelle, the Eve of the novel. We’ll then hear of heroic clashes in a paragraph that ends with the word “phoenish,” spelled in a way that resembles “Phoenix,” the mythological fire bird that falls and rises again and again, the dynamic cycle central to Finnegans Wake. Then Tim Finnegan, the tipsy folk song character we heard about in our first podcast episode, makes an appearance, along with a number of analogous characters or avatars, including HCE himself, and as we know from the song, he climbs his ladder only to fall down. We hear of this character’s coat of arms, his gigantism, his drinking. And then the book asks, ‘What brought about this sinful tragedy that led to his fall?’ Its answer is that while there may be 1,001 versions of the tale, we at least seem to know that, as in the folk song, Tim-Finnegan/HCE/etc. fell to his death on a building site. That building is first called a “collupsus” (combining “colossus” and “collapse,” which doesn’t sound especially auspicious) and later it’s called an “erection” (which sounds a lot more exciting). So there’s a sexual aspect to this downfall, much like the Original Sin of Adam & Eve. We then go to this man’s wake, where mourners cry and sob and sing his praises and other songs. They place a bucket of whiskey at his feet and barrel of Guinness at his head. And then in a kind of zoom out, we get a sense for the massive contours of this Finnegan or HCE character, described as a sleeping giant of the Dublin landscape stretching from head in Howth to toes in Chapelizod (a distance of about a dozen miles or 20 km), with his better half, the Liffey or ALP right there beside him to awaken him. Not merely a giant, though, HCE becomes Christ-like, and like Christ, is the Host or sacramental bread or in this case fish that can be eaten, and sure enough, those around him say “Grace before Glutton” and chow down. The sleeping giant, now an eaten salmon, goes back to sleep like a kind of dinosaur or “brontoichthyan” by the riverside. Then the clouds roll by and we zoom out even further for for a bird’s-eye view of HCE and ALP’s landscape, i.e. Dublin, and the green we see is Phoenix—there’s that bird again—Phoenix Park, within which there’s a large mound mass that also serves as a war museum. It’s the “museomound” to which admission is free but we’ll need a new character, Kate, to give us the tour. And that’s where this episode’s reading ends and Episode 3 will begin.

We could talk about these opening pages for days, but it’s time to get to the text itself. For those who want more detail, I linked to some resources in the show notes. Do not worry if a lot of the reading rushes past you quickly — it’s impossible to catch it all — and feel free to take solace in what Gertrude Stein had to say about Joyce’s writing: “Joyce is good. He is a good writer. People like him because he is incomprehensible and anybody can understand him.”

Richard Harte, our reader, is third generation in a family of actors and musicians, but I assure you he’s still a lovely, kind person — and gifted, most certainly, at reading Joyce. Born in Ireland’s capital and raised in both Dublin and Halifax, Nova Scotia, Richard has made Toronto his home for the past 25 years. He’s performed on prestigious stages across Canada, hundreds of times with One Little Goat Theatre Company, and made numerous TV appearances. He is also a member of Toronto’s Anna Livia Company, performing Joyce’s Ulysses every Bloomsday (June 16).

The opening pages from Chapter 1 were shot and recorded in 2022 in my home in Toronto with a small—and at that time all masked—audience. It premiered at the Toronto Irish Film Festival, European Union Film Festival, and Bloomsday Film Festival at the James Joyce Centre in Dublin.

And now it’s time to welcome you all into my home for Richard’s terrific reading of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, page 3 line 1 to page 8 line 8 in Chapter 1.

[Richard Harte reads Finnegans Wake 3:1-8:8.]

riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend
of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to
Howth Castle and Environs.

Sir Tristram, violer d'amores, fr'over the short sea, had passen-
core rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy
isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war: nor
had topsawyer's rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse
to Laurens County's gorgios while they went doublin their mumper
all the time: nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to
tauftauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though venissoon after, had a
kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in
vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a
peck of pa's malt had Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory
end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

The fall (bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner-
ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-
nuk!) of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later
on life down through all christian minstrelsy. The great fall of the
offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan,
erse solid man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends
an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes:
and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park
where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since dev-
linsfirst loved livvy.

[p.4] What clashes here of wills gen wonts, oystrygods gaggin fishy-
gods! Brékkek Kékkek Kékkek Kékkek! Kóax Kóax Kóax! Ualu
Ualu Ualu! Quaouauh! Where the Baddelaries partisans are still
out to mathmaster Malachus Micgranes and the Verdons cata-
pelting the camibalistics out of the Whoyteboyce of Hoodie
Head. Assiegates and boomeringstroms. Sod's brood, be me fear!
Sanglorians, save! Arms apeal with larms, appalling. Killykill-
killy: a toll, a toll. What chance cuddleys, what cashels aired
and ventilated! What bidimetoloves sinduced by what tegotetab-
solvers! What true feeling for their's hayair with what strawng
voice of false jiccup! O here here how hoth sprowled met the
duskt the father of fornicationists but, (O my shining stars and
body!) how hath fanespanned most high heaven the skysign of
soft advertisement! But was iz? Iseut? Ere were sewers? The oaks
of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Phall if
you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the
pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, freemen's mau-
rer, lived in the broadest way immarginable in his rushlit toofar-
back for messuages before joshuan judges had given us numbers
or Helviticus committed deuteronomy (one yeastyday he sternely
struxk his tete in a tub for to watsch the future of his fates but ere
he swiftly stook it out again, by the might of moses, the very wat-
er was eviparated and all the guenneses had met their exodus so
that ought to show you what a pentschanjeuchy chap he was!)
and during mighty odd years this man of hod, cement and edi-
fices in Toper's Thorp piled buildung supra buildung pon the
banks for the livers by the Soangso. He addle liddle phifie Annie
ugged the little craythur. Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part
inher. Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in
grasp and ivoroiled overalls which he habitacularly fondseed, like
Haroun Childeric Eggeberth he would caligulate by multiplicab-
les the alltitude and malltitude until he seesaw by neatlight of the
liquor wheretwin 'twas born, his roundhead staple of other days
to rise in undress maisonry upstanded (joygrantit!), a waalworth
of a skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from

[p.5] next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitec-
titiptitoploftical, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and
with larrons o'toolers clittering up and tombles a'buckets clotter-
ing down.

Of the first was he to bare arms and a name: Wassaily Boos-
laeugh of Riesengeborg. His crest of huroldry, in vert with
ancillars, troublant, argent, a hegoak, poursuivant, horrid, horned.
His scutschum fessed, with archers strung, helio, of the second.
Hootch is for husbandman handling his hoe. Hohohoho, Mister
Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain! Comeday morm and,
O, you're vine! Sendday's eve and, ah, you're vinegar! Hahahaha,
Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again!

What then agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday
this municipal sin business? Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness
to the thunder of his arafatas but we hear also through successive
ages that shebby choruysh of unkalified muzzlenimiissilehims that
would blackguardise the whitestone ever hurtleturtled out of
heaven. Stay us wherefore in our search for tighteousness, O Sus-
tainer, what time we rise and when we take up to toothmick and
before we lump down upown our leatherbed and in the night and
at the fading of the stars! For a nod to the nabir is better than wink
to the wabsanti. Otherways wesways like that provost scoffing
bedoueen the jebel and the jpysian sea. Cropherb the crunch-
bracken shall decide. Then we'll know if the feast is a flyday. She
has a gift of seek on site and she allcasually ansars helpers, the
dreamydeary. Heed! Heed! It may half been a missfired brick, as
some say, or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his back
promises, as others looked at it. (There extand by now one thou-
sand and one stories, all told, of the same). But so sore did abe
ite ivvy's holired abbles, (what with the wallhall's horrors of rolls-
rights, carhacks, stonengens, kisstvanes, tramtrees, fargobawlers,
autokinotons, hippohobbilies, streetfleets, tournintaxes, mega-
phoggs, circuses and wardsmoats and basilikerks and aeropagods
and the hoyse and the jollybrool and the peeler in the coat and
the mecklenburk bitch bite at his ear and the merlinburrow bur-
rocks and his fore old porecourts, the bore the more, and his

[p.6] blightblack workingstacks at twelvepins a dozen and the noobi-
busses sleighding along Safetyfirst Street and the derryjellybies
snooping around Tell-No-Tailors' Corner and the fumes and the
hopes and the strupithump of his ville's indigenous romekeepers,
homesweepers, domecreepers, thurum and thurum in fancymud
murumd and all the uproor from all the aufroofs, a roof for may
and a reef for hugh butt under his bridge suits tony) wan warn-
ing Phill filt tippling full. His howd feeled heavy, his hoddit did
shake. (There was a wall of course in erection) Dimb! He stot-
tered from the latter. Damb! he was dud. Dumb! Mastabatoom,
mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For
whole the world to see.

Shize? I should shee! Macool, Macool, orra whyi deed ye diie?
of a trying thirstay mournin? Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain's
chrissormiss wake, all the hoolivans of the nation, prostrated in
their consternation and their duodisimally profusive plethora of
ululation. There was plumbs and grumes and cheriffs and citherers
and raiders and cinemen too. And the all gianed in with the shout-
most shoviality. Agog and magog and the round of them agrog.
To the continuation of that celebration until Hanandhunigan's
extermination! Some in kinkin corass, more, kankan keening.
Belling him up and filling him down. He's stiff but he's steady is
Priam Olim! 'Twas he was the dacent gaylabouring youth. Sharpen
his pillowscone, tap up his bier! E'erawhere in this whorl would ye
hear sich a din again? With their deepbrow fundigs and the dusty
fidelios. They laid him brawdawn alanglast bed. With a bockalips
of finisky fore his feet. And a barrowload of guenesis hoer his head.
Tee the tootal of the fluid hang the twoddle of the fuddled, O!

Hurrah, there is but young gleve for the owl globe wheels in
view which is tautaulogically the same thing. Well, Him a being
so on the flounder of his bulk like an overgrown babeling, let wee
peep, see, at Hom, well, see peegee ought he ought, platterplate. *E*
Hum! From Shopalist to Bailywick or from ashtun to baronoath
or from Buythebanks to Roundthehead or from the foot of the
bill to ireglint's eye he calmly extensolies. And all the way (a
horn!) from fiord to fjell his baywinds' oboboes shall wail him

[p.7] rockbound (hoahoahoah!) in swimswamswum and all the livvy-
long night, the delldale dalppling night, the night of bluerybells,
her flittaflute in tricky trochees (O carina! O carina!) wake him.
With her issavan essavans and her patterjackmartins about all
them inns and ouses. Tilling a teel of a tum, telling a toll of a tea-
ry turty Taubling. Grace before Glutton. For what we are, gifs
a gross if we are, about to believe. So pool the begg and pass the
kish for crawsake. Omen. So sigh us. Grampupus is fallen down
but grinny sprids the boord. Whase on the joint of a desh? Fin-
foefom the Fush. Whase be his baken head? A loaf of Singpan-
try's Kennedy bread. And whase hitched to the hop in his tayle?
A glass of Danu U'Dunnell's foamous olde Dobbelin ayle. But,
lo, as you would quaffoff his fraudstuff and sink teeth through
that pyth of a flowerwhite bodey behold of him as behemoth for
he is noewhemoe. Finiche! Only a fadograph of a yestern scene.
Almost rubicund Salmosalar, ancient fromout the ages of the Ag-
apemonides, he is smolten in our mist, woebecanned and packt
away. So that meal's dead off for summan, schlook, schlice and
goodridhirring.

Yet may we not see still the brontoichthyan form outlined a-
slumbered, even in our own nighttime by the sedge of the trout-
ling stream that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on. Hiccubat
edilis. Apud libertinam parvulam. Whatif she be in flags or flitters,
reekierags or sundyechosies, with a mint of mines or beggar a
pinnyweight. Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we
mean to say, lovelittle Anna Rayiny, when unda her brella, mid
piddle med puddle, she ninnygoes nannygoes nancing by. Yoh!
Brontolone slaaps, yoh snoores. Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple
Isout too. The cranic head on him, caster of his reasons, peer yu-
thner in yondmist. Whooth? His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass,
stick up starck where he last fellonem, by the mund of the maga-
zine wall, where our maggy seen all, with her sisterin shawl.
While over against this belles' alliance beyind Ill Sixty, ollol-
lowed ill! bagsides of the fort, bom, tarabom, tarabom, lurk the
ombushes, the site of the lyffing-in-wait of the upjock and hock-
ums. Hence when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is

[p.8] enjoyable of our mounding's mass, now Wallinstone national
museum, with, in some greenish distance, the charmful water-
loose country and the two quitewhite villagettes who hear show
of themselves so gigglesomes minxt the follyages, the prettilees!
Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free. Welsh and
the Paddy Patkinses, one shelenk! Redismembers invalids of old
guard find poussepousse pousseypram to sate the sort of their butt.
For her passkey supply to the janitrix, the mistress Kathe. Tip.

[End of reading excerpt]

Adam Seelig: That was my friend and colleague Richard Harte reading the beginning of Finnegans Wake, recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Join us for Episode 3 in a fortnight when Richard continues with the next five pages of Finnegans Wake, including the famous “Museyroom” scene. To be sure you don’t miss the episode, why not follow or subscribe to this podcast? And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including liner notes & trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

Mentioned: riverrun, music, sound, rivers, water, streams of consciousness and unconsciousness, dreams, dream language, multiple languages, characters ALP (Anna Livia Plurabelle) and HCE (Earwicker), comedy, Mother Goose, what makes something funny?, circularity and “recirculation,” synopsis, Roland McHugh, John Gordon, Edmund Epstein, Marshall McLuhan’s copy of the Wake (accessed at Fisher Rare Books Library), Thierry Bissonnette, Gertrude Stein.

Resources:

Finnegans Wake (1939) by James Joyce: there are many free copies to read online or download, e.g. finwake.com
James Joyce Digital Archive, “Chicken Guide” to Finnegans Wake provides a ‘plain English’ paraphrase of each chapter by Danis Rose.
Edmund Epstein, A Guide through Finnegans Wake. University Press of Florida, 2009.
William York Tindall. A Reader’s Guide to Finnegans Wake. Syracuse University Press, 1996.
Roland McHugh, Annotations to Finnegans Wake (4th edition). Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 2016.
John Gordon’s annotations on his Finnegans Wake blog.
Richard Ellmann’s biography of James Joyce. Oxford University Press, 1982.
For fun: “What’s So Funny? Well, Maybe Nothing,” John Tierney. New York Times, March 13, 2007.

Episode 001: The song that gave Finnegans Wake its title

May 4, 2024 Adam Seelig

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 001
The song that gave Finnegans Wake its title

2024-05-04

PODCAST AUDIO

PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

[Music: Richard Harte sings “The Ballad of Persse O’Reilly” from Finnegans Wake]

Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: Welcome to the inaugural episode of James Joyce’s divine and delirious comedy, Finnegans Wake. Published on the 4th of May, 1939, Joyce’s last novel celebrates its 85th anniversary today, the 4th of May 2024 (so May 4th is not just for Star Wars — in any case, May the 4th be with you). I’m Adam Seelig, the director of the readings you’ll soon hear performed by Irish-Canadian actor—and my good friend and colleague—Richard Harte.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

[Music fades out]

Adam Seelig: 20 years ago, I opened Finnegans Wake, read 10 pages, and put back on shelf, utterly bewildered. Then early in the pandemic, during one of Toronto’s several lockdowns, Jordy Koffman, who teaches at George Brown College, invited me to read Finnegans Wake with him and his colleague Thomas Ponnaiah. I told Jordy, “You do know that it’s essentially impossible to read this book, right?” but he was undeterred, and at our first meeting via Zoom, as we took turns reading from the first page of the novel, I found it—and perhaps this was the result of so much isolation—I found it bringing a whole world to me. From the first word on that page—“riverrun”—Joyce’s text felt so expansive at a time when my own world had contracted. And it was lyrical, it was strange, it was funny and it was smart as all hell, and it was communal, it was great to be reading it as a group. What was missing, though, was someone who really knew Ireland, and Dublin in particular, given the Wake’s boundless references to Joyce’s native city. So I invited two friends who fit the bill: Cathy Murphy and Richard Harte, the latter of whom was born and raised in Dublin. And at our next meeting, when Richard took his turn to read, his delivery was so dynamic and free-flowing and funny, we all thought he’d read this book before. He hadn’t, but in a way it’s as if he’d been training for nearly a quarter century because Richard’s been reading & performing Joyce’s Ulysses annually for over 20 years with Toronto’s Bloomsday group, Anna Livia Productions.

As we continued to meet weekly, it became clear that the rest of us preferred hearing Richard read from the novel than hear ourselves stumble through the famously difficult text, because Richard speaks fluent Joyce, fluid Wake. And I was convinced then, as I am today, that he’s one of the people on planet earth to read this novel (and I promise you that’s not hyperbole). So I made a plan to record R’s renditions of the text. Initially I thought we’d do it as an audio book or podcast, but because Richard and I have done a lot of work together in the theatre and we love the live moment, the idea of going into an isolated studio after so much social isolation was not particularly appealing. Plus, reading Finnegans Wake without the reading group or an audience present would lose a sense of comedy (there’s a reason standup comedians do live albums with live audiences).

And that’s how we ended up turning to film — film has enabled us to capture R’s reading for a live audience and give us that feeling of being in the room with him, as does the audio from the films, which comprise our podcast episodes.

Ch01 was shot and recorded in 2022 in my home in Toronto with a small—and at that time all masked—audience. It premiered at the Toronto Irish Film Festival, European Union Film Festival, and Bloomsday Film Festival at the James Joyce Centre in Dublin.

What is Finnegans Wake about? Well, Finnegans Wake is a different kind of book that requires a different kind of question. I can’t say what it’s about, but rather what it is. For Samuel Beckett, Joyce’s younger friend and admirer, the Wake “is not to be read – or rather it is not only to be read. It is to be looked at and listened to.” Joyce’s writing, Beckett insists, “is not about something; it is that something itself.”

Okay then, so what is Finnegans Wake? Let’s start with title. “Finnegan’s Wake” takes its name from a comedic 19th-Century Irish American folk song that goes something like this: Tim Finnegan goes to work a little bit drunk; climbs up a ladder and falls down to his death; at his wake a bar fight breaks out, and when someone chucks a bottle of whiskey across the room, it misses the intended target, scatters over Tim’s body laid out in the coffin, and before you know it, Tim has revived, he’s risen from the dead. Joyce, in his singular ability to read something into everything, saw in this folk song nothing less than an allegory for the rise and fall and rise again of humankind, and this a major theme of novel. So Joyce took the song title and removed the apostrophe in “Finnegan’s,” which does at least two things:

(1) it makes Finnegan plural. So this is a novel involving many Finnegans. Finnegan singular is a kind of Everyman; Finnegans plural are a kind of Everyone; and

(2) it transforms the “Wake” of the folk song title—that is, an Irish Wake celebrating the life of the deceased—it transforms it into a verb. Now we have Finnegans in the plural awaking, awakening.

So one gloss on Joyce’s title, “Finnegans (sans apostrophe) Finnegans Wake”, could be “Everyone wake up (and down, and up again)”

That cycle of rising and falling and rising again is a key to Finnegans Wake. So as a way into Joyce’s extraordinary, bananas novel, and as a way to kick off Chapter 1, I invited Irish-Canadian folk singer Kevin Kennedy to perform the “Finnegan’s Wake” folk song for a live audience before Richard started his reading.

Kevin Kennedy is a gem. He was born in Ireland in Westport, Co. Mayo, and moved to Canada in 1968. He’s performed for decades across eastern Canada and the United States, and like Richard Harte, he’s also part of Toronto’s Anna Livia Productions, who perform Joyce’s Ulysses every Bloomsday, June 16th. He’s recorded over 700 Irish folk songs, viewed and heard over 100,000 times on his YouTube Channel, “Kevin Kennedy — Irish.”

Okay so it’s time to welcome Kevin, and you, into my home for Kevin’s terrific rendition of the 19th-C Irish-American folk song, “Finnegan’s Wake.”

[Music: Kevin Kennedy sings “Finnegan’s Wake,” accompanying himself on guitar; the live audience sings and claps along at the choruses]

Kevin Kennedy sings:

[VERSE 1]

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street
A gentleman Irish mighty odd
He had a beautiful brogue both rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod

Now Tim had a sort of a tipplin’ way
With a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
And to help him on with his work each day
He’d a drop of the craythur every morn

[CHORUS]

Whack fol de dah now dance to your partner
Welt the floor your trotters shake
Wasn’t it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake

[VERSE 2]

One morning Tim felt rather full
His head felt heavy and it made him shake
He fell from the ladder and he broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake

They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet
And they laid him out upon the bed
With a barrel of porter at his feet
And a gallon of whiskey at his head

[CHORUS]

[VERSE 3]

His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch
First they brought in tea and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and brandy punch

Biddy O’Brien began to cry,
“Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
Arragh, Tim mavourneen, why did you die?”
“Arrah, hold your gob,” says Maggie McGhee!

[CHORUS]

[VERSE 4]

Then Maggie O’Connor took up the job
“Ah Biddy,” says she, “you’re wrong, I’m sure”
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin’ on the floor

It was then the war did all engage
Woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began

[CHORUS]

[VERSE 5]

Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a flagon of whiskey flew at him
It missed and landed on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim

Bedad he revives see how he rises
The bold Timothy risin’ in the bed
Sayin’, “Whirl your liquor around like blazes
By the thunderin’ Jaysus do you think I’m dead?”

[Audience applauds; Music ends]

Adam Seelig: That was the wonderful Kevin Kennedy performing the Irish American folk song “Finnegan’s Wake,” filmed and recorded live in Toronto on August 31st, 2022.

Join us for Episode 2 in a fortnight when Richard Harte begins his reading of Joyce’s legendary novel, Finnegans Wake. To be sure you don’t miss the episode, why not subscribe to this podcast? And for more on One Little Goat’s Finnegans Wake project, including liner notes & trailers for the films, visit our website at OneLittleGoat.org.

[Music: Adam Seelig plays piano]

Finnegans Wake is made possible by Friends of One Little Goat Theatre Company and the Emigrant Support Programme of the gov’t of Ireland. Thank you for your support!

And thank you to the artists for this episode: Kevin Kennedy; Sound by William Bembridge; Podcast production by Sean Rasmussen; Stage Management by Laura Lakatosh; Rehearsal Stage Management by Sandi Becker; Directed by yours truly, Adam Seelig.

Thanks to our live audience of Pip Dwyer, Cathy Murphy, Nomi Rotbard, Arlo Rotbard-Seelig. And thanks to our rehearsal audience of Jackie Chau, Jordy Koffman, Andrew Moodie & Shai Rotbard-Seelig. Thank you to the Embassy of Ireland in Ottawa and the Irish Consulate in Toronto. And to Production Consultants Cathy Murphy and Andrew Moodie.

One Little Goat Theatre Company is a not-for-profit, artist-driven, registered charity. To find out more and to join our mailing list please visit www.OneLittleGoat.org

Thank you for listening!

[Music fades out]

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The song that gave Finnegans Wake its title

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ONE LITTLE GOAT THEATRE COMPANY IS A REGISTERED CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!

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JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKEEpisode 004MUTT & JUTECHARACTERLESSNESS

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JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKEEpisode 003THE MUSEYROOM

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JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKEEpisode 001The song that gave Finnegans Wake its title

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PODCAST TRANSCRIPT

ONE LITTLE GOAT THEATRE COMPANY IS A REGISTERED CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 006
TIM FINNEGAN’S WAKE

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 005
THE PRANKQUEAN

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 004
MUTT & JUTE
CHARACTERLESSNESS

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 003
THE MUSEYROOM

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 002
RIVERRUN

JAMES JOYCE’S FINNEGANS WAKE
Episode 001
The song that gave Finnegans Wake its title