23 January 2023

But in the Pragma

But in the Pragma (RFW 045.36-046.15)

In the present chapter of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake—I.3, Humphriad II—the Cad and HCE repeat the story of their memorable encounter in the Phoenix Park. In this article we will be looking at the paragraph that concludes the Cad’s Side of the Story.

The last paragraph but one concluded by rehearsing once again the crucial moment during HCE’s Oedipal Encounter with the Cad in the Phoenix Park when HCE pointed towards the Wellington Monument and swore that he was innocent of the crimes that were being laid at his door. As he did so, the ghost of a smile disfigured his face, similar to a beam of sunshine upon a coffinplate. In the last paragraph this smile was compared to that which appears on the face of a benighted traveller—a wandering poet—as he looks up at the signs of the zodiac outside a tavern, and anticipates the pleasures that await him within: wine, women and song. The poet smiles and begins to think.

The present paragraph once again contemplates that curious smile and asks a number of pertinent questions: How did that thought give rise to that smile? Who was the smiler? To whom was he smiling? Time has transformed all, but the Four Old Men & their Donkey may point us in the right direction.

First-Draft Version

This paragraph, like its predecessor, was not part of Joyce’s first draft of this chapter, which was written in November 1923. But unlike its predecessor an early version of this paragraph had made its appearance by the time Joyce prepared the first typescript of this chapter in December 1923 (revised in early 1927 for publication in transition):

Aristotle’s Four Causes

What formal cause made a smile of to think? Who was he to whom? Where are the placewheres? They answer from all zoas. Hear the four of them! Hark, the roar of them! Boreas and Brisias and Lasias and Lysias. Atssattarass. I, says Armagh, and am proud of it! I, says Clonakilty, God help me! I, says Deansgrange, and say nothing! I, says Barna, what about it! Hee haw! Before he fell hill he filled heaven; a sdream, a lapping streamlet, coyly coiled him, cool of her curls. We were thermites then, wee wee. Our antheap we felt as a Hill of Allen, the Barrow of a People, a Jotnur’s Fjell. And it was a grumbling among the porkbrutes that we terrorstruck as thunder. Now, (James Joyce Digital Archive)

Curiously, the opening question—formal cause ... smile ... tothink—flows naturally from the preceding paragraph, which in its final form included the words:

and informally quasibegin to presquesm’ile to queasithin’… (RFW 045.33-34)

Also, zoas echoes the signs of the zodiac in the preceding paragraph, and ye great bow of ’s heaven—added later—invokes the rainbow, which lay behind that paragraph’s insistence on the number seven. Note how ’s heaven itself evokes the number seven.

transition, Number 3 (Jolas & Paul 37-38 : 1 June 1927)

I say Curiously because according to the JJDA the earliest draft of the preceding paragraph was scribbled by Joyce into notebook VI.B.18, which was compiled between March and July 1927. Was it, then, when Joyce revised the typescript in early 1927 that he added these details? By 1 June 1927, when an early version of this chapter was published in the literary journal transition, this paragraph had begun to take on its final form:

But in the pragma what formal cause made a smile of that tothink? Who was he to whom? Whose are the placewheres? They answer from their Zoans; Hear the four of them! Hark torroar of them! I, says Armagh, and a’m proud o’it. I, says Clonakilty, God help us! I, says Deansgrange, and say nothing. I, says Barna, and whatabout it? Hee haw! Before he fell hill he filled heaven : a stream, alplapping streamlet, coyly coiled um, cool of her curls : We were but thermites then, wee, wee. Our antheap we sensed as a Hill of Allen, the Barrow for an People, one Jotnursfjaell : and it was a grummelung amung the porktroop that wonderstruck us a thunder, yunder. (Jolas & Paul 37-38)

When Joyce reworked this paragraph, he not only added many more details—as was his wont—but also removed a few, which was an all too rarer practice:

Boreas and Brisias and Lasias and Lysias. Atssattarass.

Briseis

  • Boreas In Greek mythology, Boreas was the god of the north wind. Here he is associated with Matthew Gregory, who hails from Ireland’s northern province of Ulster.
  • Brisias An argument between Agamemnon and Achilles over the slave-girl Briseis was the cause of the events recounted in Homer’s Iliad. She came from Lyrnessus, which lay to the south of Troy. Here she is associated with Marcus Lyons, who comes from Ireland’s southern province of Munster.
  • Lasias I have no idea where Joyce found this name or how it signifies east. Perhaps it conceals Asia, which lies in the east from a Dubliner’s point of view.
  • Lysias This orator of ancient Greece emigrated to the city of Thurii in southern Italy, in the west from a Greek’s point of view. Here he is associated with Johnny MacDougall, who comes from Ireland’s western province of Connacht.
  • Atssattarass Et cetera, and obviously an allusion to Johnny MacDougall’s Ass or Donkey, who always accompanies the Four Old Men. Perhaps Johnny has sat his own ass* upon the ass. Irish: ar**, on, upon.

The four names bestowed here upon the Old Men also echo the names of the four cities built by the Tuatha Dé Danann when they dwelt in the northern islands of the world: Falias, Gorias, Findias and Murias.

In addition to Joyce’s own deletions, several phrases that were dropped when this paragraph was finally printed in 1939 have been restored by Danis Rose & John O’Hanlon, editors of The Restored Finnegans Wake (2010):

Classic and Restored Finnegans Wake (RFW 045.36-046.15)

Skeleton Key

In A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, Joseph Campbell & Henry Morton Robinson’s comments on this paragraph are still relevant and well worth reading:

What about that smile? we ask. In pragmatic terms, what formal cause drew a smile from that train of thought? Who was that man? To whom smiling? On whose land was he standing?—No matter where he may have been standing time and tide will have transformed all the landmarks. Yet we can discover pointers enough to gauge the compass of the composition: the forefather, the two peaches, the three Chinamen lying low. We’ll just sit down here on the hope for a ghost. Hark! The voice of the Four Old Men and their Donkey! [Footnote 7: This is the first outright appearance of the four old chroniclers. Their voices come to us as we sit musing on the richly historical landscape. Through the present pages, as we try to review the great masses of evidence fragments of every kind, the images race in a swift and confusing sequence before our eyes. These pages demand strict attention and very slow reading. The Four Old Men are counterparts of the Four Zoas of the later visions of William Blake.] They answer from their respective Zoa zones: “I,” says the one from Ulster, “and a’m proud o’it.” “I,” says the one from Munster, “God help us!” “I,” says the one from Leinster, “and say nothing.” “I,” says the one from Connaught, “and what about it?” “Hee haw!” brays the Donkey. Then, all together, the four old ghost voices proclaim: “Before he fell he filled the heaven; a streamlet coyly coiled him; we were then but Thermidorian termites. We sensed our ant-heap as a great mountain: and it was a rumbling among the pork troop that thunderstruck us as a wonder, yonder.” (Campbell & Robinson 69 & fn 7)

Miscellaneous Details

Before looking at the two major sources for this paragraph, let’s deal with some miscellaneous details.

  • O’Breen’s not his name nor the brown one his maid This alludes to one of Thomas Moore’s Irish Melodies: O! Breathe Not His Name, which is sung to a traditional air known as The Brown Maid. The subject of this song is the Irish patriot Robert Emmet, who led an unsuccessful rising against the English Crown in 1803, following the failure of the United Irishmen’s Rebellion in 1798 and the passage of the Act of Union in 1800. The location of his grave is unknown to this day, though several apocryphal stories place it variously in Bully’s Acre, St Peter’s Church, St Michan’s Church, St Anne’s Church, and Glasnevin Churchyard. In Book III of Finnegans Wake, Shaun the Post will search for his father’s tomb in order to deliver ALP’s love letter to him.

O Breathe Not His Name

  • emmet ant, anticipating the thermites and antheap at RFW 046.12-13.
  • thunder and weddin and soddin and order In Giambattista Vico’s cyclical model of human history, there are three recurring ages. The opening of the First Age, the Theocratic Age of Gods, is marked by the voice of God: thunder. Each of the three Ages is characterized by a ritual institution: birth, marriage, and burial respectively. Here weddin and soddin refer to marriage (wedding) and burial (under the sod). In Finnegans Wake, Joyce elevated the short interval of uncivilization that occurs when one cycle ends and the next is about to begin into a Fourth Age (perhaps with a nod to Hegel, whose cyclical model of history had four stages). The Third Age, the Democratic Age of People, ends with the collapse of civilization into disorder. Why, then, does Joyce represent this Age with the word order?
  • Kiswasti, kisker, kither, kitnabudja? Here we have a few more borrowings from Walter Hubert Downing’s Digger Dialects, which was first used by Joyce at RFW 042.23. These entries ask various questions, which is what this chapter of Finnegans Wake is all about. Downing identifies them as Hindustani terms used by Australian troops serving in Mesopotamia:

KISWASTI — Why; what for.

KISKER — Which.

KITHER — Where. ‘‘Kither jahta hai’’— Where are you going?”

KITNA — How much. “Kitna budja” — What’s the time?

(Downing 59)

Walter Hubert Downing

  • Tal the tem of the tumulum Tell the time of the tumult. There is an echo of the earlier Tilling a teel of a tum, telling a toll of a teary turty Taubling, which alludes to Jonathan Swift’s A Tale of a Tub, and the phrase generally associated with Lady Morgan, Dear Dirty Dublin.
  • Welsh: tal, tall.
  • tem In Egyptian mythology, Tem was the primordial god who created the ancient gods Shu and Tefnut by masturbating.
  • Romani: tem country.
  • tumulus barrow, burial mound, tomb.
  • Giv the gav of the grube The fundamental meaning seems to be: give the village of the pit (ie name the place where his grave lies). This is the spatial counterpart to the temporal Tal the tem of the tumulum:
  • Danish: Giv Give!.
  • Romani: gav village.
  • German: Grube: pit, mine.
  • grave
  • cudgelplayers’ country or fishfellows’ town or leeklickers’ land or paubpanungopovengreskey Among those who helped to spread Hosty’s Rann in the last chapter was a bout of cudgel players (RFW 034.11). That phrase was taken from Samuel Carlyle Hughes’ The Pre-Victorian Drama in Dublin:

The impression left by Shirley’s prologues is that bear-baiting and cudgel-playing were more to the taste of our ancestors than plays. (Hughes 2)

The English dramatist James Shirley managed Dublin’s Werburgh Street Theatre between 1636 and 1640.

George Borrow

  • Romani: Cosht-killimengreskey tem, Cudgel players’ country = Cornwall.
  • Romani: Match-eneskey gav, Fishy town = Yarmouth.
  • Romani: Porrum-engreskey tem Leek-eaters’ country = Wales.
  • Romani: Paub-pawnugo tem, Apple-water country = Herefordshire.
  • Romani: Pov-engreskey tem, Potato country = Norfolk.

The foliation of Romani or Gipsy words in this paragraph were taken from George Borrow’s Romano Lavo-Lil, a dictionary of the native speech of the Roma in 19th-century England. Borrow visited Ireland in 1815-16, when he was twelve, and briefly studied Latin, Greek and Irish.

Carl Crow

The following passage introduces the Four Old Men:

What regnans raised the rains have levelled but we hear the pointers and can gauge their compass for the melos yields the mode and the mode the manners, plicyman, plausiman, plousiman, plab. Tsin tsin tsin tsin! The forefarther folkers for a prize of two peaches with Ming, Ching and Shunny on the lie low lea. We’ll sit down on the hope of the ghouly ghost for the titheman troubleth but his hantitat hies not here.

The sense is not too difficult to discern: The burial mound raised by past rulers has been washed away by the rain, but we can still find our bearings, so not all hope has been lost. The pointers are the two stars in Ursa Major that point the way to the Pole star, but hearing them rather than seeing them evokes the Music of the Spheres.

The identification of the Four Old Men with the four points of the compass is crucial to a proper understanding of this passage, but to fully comprehend what these lines are saying one must turn to Carl Crow’s biography of Confucius, or Master Kung.

Carl Crow

Young Kung’s position was the humble, rather difficult and certainly unpopular one of estate supervisor and tithe-collector. (Crow 63)

It was not then the custom to erect mounds over graves and [Confucius] in the burial of his parents originated this practice, or at any rate has been given credit for it by all Chinese historians. After placing the coffins in the proper position, they were covered with a mound of earth about four feet high. The marking of the graves with a mound was not a mere whim of fancy or vanity. It appears that even then he was dreaming of larger fields of activity, did not expect to spend a lifetime in the restricted vicinity of his birthplace, and was making his plans accordingly. ‛In olden times,’ he said to his disciples and friends, ‛they raised no mounds over their graves. But I am a man who belongs equally to the north and the south, the east and the west. I must have something by which I can remember this place.’ After the two coffins had been properly placed side by side and the earth had been partly heaped up, he left the disciples to complete the work of erecting the mound while he returned to his home. The disciples were late in rejoining him and explained that after the mound over the grave had been completed a heavy rainstorm had suddenly broken and washed it away, so it had been necessary to remain and rebuild it. (Crow 77)

As the scholars were leaving the border of Lu for the state of Tsi, the Master and his followers passed near the edge of the great sacred mountain of Tai Shan which on a clear day could be seen from any point in Lu. Master Kung was attracted by the heartbroken wails of a woman who was crying by the roadside and sent one of his disciples to inquire the reason. ‛My mother’s brother, and my husband were killed here by a ferocious tiger,’ she said, ‛and now my son has met the same fate.’ ‛Why do you not move away from such a dangerous neighbourhood?’ inquired the disciple. ‛But the officials here are not oppressive,’ the woman explained. Master Kung was told of the incident and said to his disciples: ‛You hear that, my children! An oppressive official is more to be feared than a dangerous tiger!’ (Crow 123)

Tai Shan

It was said that this music could not be credited to the creative talents of the musicians of Tsi, but was the genuine music of the ancient King Shun, which had somehow been forgotten in the other states but was preserved in this. Each of the little principalities had its own court musicians, some of whom developed themes of their own, while others perpetuated the ancient compositions and by constant and careful repetition of the ancient tunes kept them free from change. (Crow 128)

One incident they record tells of Master Kung’s ability to interpret themes. He was attempting to learn to play the zither and after ten days had made no progress. ‛We will try something else,’ said the teacher, but Master Kung replied: ‛I have practised the melody, but have not yet acquired the rhythm. They continued studying and practising the same tune and again the teacher tried to urge his pupil to greater progress by saying: ‛Now that you have practised the rhythm, we will proceed.’ The pupil was still not satisfied and said: ‛I have not caught the mood.’ After a while the teacher spoke again: ‛Now that you have practised the mood, we will proceed.’ ‛I have not yet ascertained the kind of men who composed the music,’ said the pupil and the teacher observing him said: ‛You must think deeply and seriously. You must look into the subject with a cheerful mood, high hopes and an open mind.’ ‛Now I know who he was,’ cried Master Kung. ‛His complexion was so dark as to be almost black. He was tall and stout and his eyes when they looked into the distance had the calm gaze of a sheep. His mind was that of a king who could rule the four quarters of the earth. No one but King Wen could have composed this song! If it was not King Wen, who else could have composed anything like this?’ The music master rose from the mat on which he was seated bowed twice and said: ‛You are my master. According to the traditions of the ancient musicians it is actually reputed to be a melody composed by King Wen.’ (Crow 128-131)

King Wen of Zhou

In his youth [ie Yen Ying’s, the hunchback philosopher and minister of the state of Tsi] there had been three older ministers who stood in the way of his advancement and he concocted a clever scheme to get rid of one of them. He persuaded the marquis to propose a prize of two peaches to the two ministers who offered him the best advice on certain problems of state. With only two prizes, and three contestants, it was a foregone conclusion that one would fail to win and might reasonably be expected to feel so humiliated that he would resign, thus leaving only two rivals to contend with. The scheme was far more successful than he could possibly have anticipated, skilful as he was in all kinds of political artifices. Two contestants appeared, and, as there were no other contenders, they were awarded the peaches. After they had eaten the prizes with considerable relish and satisfaction, the third contestant arrived. When he presented his plan the marquis was compelled to admit that it was so far the best, that he really deserved both the peaches but could not be awarded either of them as they had been consumed by his competitors. In their chagrin and humiliation over this development the two who had eaten the peaches committed suicide. The third contestant was so grieved at having been the indirect cause of the death of two men whom he held in the highest esteem that he also committed suicide. The scheming hunchback had by one sly trick eliminated all three of his rivals and after that he was careful to see that no other rival got a foothold. (Crow 133-134)

Yan Ying

the three great families of Lu ... the Chi and Shuh-sun families ... the weak Meng family ... (Crow 147 ... 149)

In the context of Finnegans Wake, three males contesting for two peaches, leading to the death of all three, can only refer to Shem, Shaun & the Oedipal Figure vying for the hand of schizophrenic Issy.

  • plicyman, plausiman, plousiman, plab policeman, ?, rich man (Ancient Greek: πλούσιος [ploúsios], rich), plebeian.
  • Tsin, tsin, tsin, tsin! Combining the Chinese state of Tsi (Qi) with the familiar zinzin zinzin motif, which is usually associated with the Magazine Wall, scene of HCE’s fall, and the tinkling of bells. I have suggested that these may be the alarm bells on HCE’s safety coffin, tinkling to indicate that he has risen from the dead. Greek: μέλος [melos], melody, tune, song : limb, body part. A mode is a musical scale and the melodic and harmonic behaviours characteristic of it.
  • the hope of the ghouly ghost Romans 15:13: Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost (Gordon 57.6).
  • ghost Crow does not mention any ghosts. In the Humphriad, ghosts always evoke the Ghost of Hamlet’s Father, who confronts the son on the battlements at Elsinore—another sort of Oedipal Encounter. Ibsen’s Ghosts, in which children, repeating the sins of their parents, become the revenant ghosts of their own parents, is also relevant.

William Blake

William Blake

In this paragraph, the Four Old Men are explicitly linked to the Four Zoas of William Blake:

They answer from their zoans. Hear the four of them! Hark, torroar of them! I, says Armagh, and a’m proud o’ it. I, says Clonakilty, God help us! I, says Deansgrange, and say nothing. I, says Barna, and what about it? Hee haw!

The English poet William Blake was one of Joyce’s favourite writers, and his figure looms large over the text of Finnegans Wake. Of all his writings it is his last work, Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, which contributed the most to Joyce’s last work. In The Finnegans Wake Experience, Roland McHugh recounts his discovery of the close connection between these two long and difficult texts:

My progress through FW was characterized by paroxysms of enthusiasm for some element in the text which seemed of paramount urgency when discovered, but which gave way to some totally different enthusiasm a few months later. In December I read Blake’s Jerusalem, knowing from the account in Critical Writings that Joyce approved of Blake. Suddenly I perceived the analogy between the sleep of Albion and that of Finnegan. Both were giants and both were emotionally involved with two women. That type of relationship could also be found in Swift, in Ibsen’s heroes such as the Master Builder, and even in Jesus with Martha and Mary, which Bloom recalls occasionally in the context of his own dual relationship with Martha Clifford and Molly. It seemed for a time that FW was all about Blake, but then my enthusiasm shifted, first to Le Fanu’s The House by the Churchyard and then to Madame Blavatsky’s Isis Unveiled. (McHugh 36)

Jerusalem (Plate 2)

In 1958 Karl Kiralis penned a short paper on the relationship between Blake and Finnegans Wake. Kiralis, a renowned expert on the writings of William Blake, died in 1982, the year of Joyce’s centenary. He was possibly the first to note the important influence Jerusalem had on the composition of Finnegans Wake:

Thematically and structurally, Jerusalem and Finnegans Wake are quite similar. Both are concerned with man’s fall and awakening. Early in Jerusalem Blake explicitly states his theme: “Of the Sleep of Ulro” and of the passage through Eternal Death! and of the awaking to eternal Life. this theme calls me” (4:1-3) ...

“The Sleep of Ulro” is usually explained as the living death of man in mechanistic materialism, but since Jerusalem contains at least the rudiments of a psychology of sleep, Joyce may have interpreted the phrase as a clue to a dream structure ...

Structurally more basic to Jerusalem than the dream is the growth cycle. As Blake says on Plates 14 and 98, he is concerned with man’s childhood, manhood, and old age. This normal physical progression is expressed as a philosophical or spiritual history of man’s errors in Judaism (childhood), deism (manhood), and Christianity (old age) ... (Kiralis 33)

Jerusalem (Plates 14 & 98)

Kiralis’s description of the opening chapter of Jerusalem doubles as an accurate description of the opening chapter of Finnegans Wake:

The first chapter, like an overture, contains in brief all the major and minor themes as well as the leading characters of the whole. Having passed through the stages of eternal death, man is finally awakened to eternal life (Plates 95-98), but, as described on Plate 99, he must fall again into the cycle from mundane to eternal existence. The renewal of the cycle is pictured on the final plate. (Kiralis 331-332)

I have suggested that where Joyce’s cyclical depiction of human existence diverges from that of Giambattista Vico, we should look to Hegel for his inspiration. But Kiralis argues that Blake is Vico’s true rival:

It seems significant that in some of his many deviations from Vico Joyce is close to Blake. Edmund Wilson contends that Vico’s cycles are not progressive; certainly those of Joyce [The Dream of H. C. Earwicker, Givens, pp. 319-342, p. 326)] and Blake are except that the cycle from darkness to light, from man’s fall to his awaking, is renewed at the end of both Jerusalem and Finnegans Wake. Harry Levin notes that whereas the second stage of Vico’s cycle is the family, Joyce’s second section is dedicated to childhood. Blake’s second chapter is primarily concerned with man’s spiritual childhood, Judaism. (Kiralis 332-333)

Jerusalem (Plate 99)

In the context of the present paragraph, it is the Four Zoas that concern us. In Blake’s personal mythology Albion is the primeval man whose fall and division results in the Four Zoas: Urizen, Tharmas, Luvah-Orc and Urthona-Los. Albion’s name derives from an ancient and mythological personification of Britain. In the mythical history of Britain, Albion was a giant, the son of Poseidon. He settled in Britain, where his giant descendants dwelt until the coming of Brutus from Troy around 1136 BC. Blake expounded his vision of Albion and the Four Zoas in two of his prophetic poems

  • Vala, or The Four Zoas
  • Jerusalem

Vala was begun around 1796 but abandoned while still incomplete around 1807. It exists in two versions:

  • Vala, or The Death and Judgement of the Eternal Man: A Dream of Nine Nights (1796-1802)
  • The Four Zoas: The Torments of Love & Jealousy in the Death and Judgment of Albion the Ancient Man (1800-1807)

In Jerusalem the Four Zoas are associated with the four points of the compass and with four cities—just like the Four Old Men in Finnegans Wake:

And the Four Zoas clouded rage, East & West & North & South:

They change their situations, in the Universal Man ...

For Four Universes round the Mundane Egg remain Chaotic:

One to the North, Urthona: One to the South, Urizen:

One to the East, Luvah: One to the West, Tharmas:

They are the Four Zoas that stood around the Throne Divine:

Verulam, London, York & Edinburgh, their English names ... (Blake 41 ... 68)

Here, Joyce represents the Four with Armagh (Ulster), Clonakilty (Munster), Deansgrange (Leinster), and Barna (Connacht). Why these four towns?

Jerusalem (Plate 59)

The Four Zoas each possess their own unique character:

THEY saw their Wheels rising up poisonous against Albion.

Urizen, cold & scientific; Luvah, pitying & weeping;

Tharmas, indolent & sullen; Urthona, doubting & despairing;

Victims to one another & dreadfully plotting against each other

To prevent Albion walking about in the Four Complexions. (Blake 68)

One curious passage of Jerusalem connects Ireland with the Four Zoas:

I see a Feminine Form arise from the Four terrible Zoas,

Beautiful but terrible, struggling to take a form of beauty,

Rooted in Shechem: this is Dinah, the youthful form of Erin. (Blake 91)

I am reminded of Yeats’ description of the Ireland that emerged from the crucible of the Easter Rising in his poem Easter, 1916, which was first published in 1920:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born (Yeats 9)

Easter, 1916 (Yeats 11)

Kiralis notes other parallelisms between Jerusalem and Finnegans Wake:

Most obviously akin are the sleeping giants, the prototypes of their races, Albion and Finn (or his embodiment, H. C. Earwicker), who represent mankind ... Shem, the creative man, and often Joyce himself. may be equated with Blake’s Los, the imaginative man who at times also represents his creator. The recurrence of the Great Letter in Finnegans Wake, penned by Shem, seems to be a less direct insistence by Joyce upon Blake’s oft-claimed divinity for the poet’s words. Shaun, the popular poetaster, is reminiscent of Jerusalem’s Hyle (or William Hayley, a popular poet of Blake’s time), both figures representing false art as compared with the true art of Shem and Los. Earwicker’s twelve customers and accusers may be compared to either the twelve sons or the twelve daughters of Albion, both sons and daughters being accusers and judges if not executioners of their father. The four judges ... call to mind the four Zoas of Blake, though of course there is a long list of archetypal correspondences ... The twenty-eight cities which question yet comfort Albion may be related to the twenty-eight rainbow girls who bring hope as well as ask a basic question. There is a magic in numbers ... Noah’s rainbow is utilized as an important symbol of hope in both works. (Kiralis 333)

John Gordon notes that this paragraph’s allusion to four (the forefarther folkers), three (Ming, Ching and Shunny), and two (two peaches) encodes the year 432, the traditional date of St Patrick’s arrival in Ireland (Gordon 57.5).

St Patrick in 432 CE

Kiralis concludes his paper with the following peroration:

... it seems fair to conclude that Joyce was influenced by Jerusalem in his writing of Finnegans Wake. If there was no direct influence, Joyce at least seems to have been more familiar with Jerusalem than were most Blake scholars of his time. But most important is the appreciation of the fact that since Blake and Joyce often thought and wrote in much the same way, a study of either of their “textbooks” helps to understand both. (Kiralis 334)

Closing Lines

The final lines of this paragraph are largely unchanged from the first draft:

Before he fell hill he filled heaven: a sdream, alplapping streamlet, coyly coiled um, cool of her curls. We were but thermites then, wee, wee. Our antheap we sensed as an Hill of Allen, the Barrow for an People, one Jotnursfjaell: and it was a grummelung amung the porktroop that wonderstruck us as thunder yunder.

The allusions are fairly transparent and not too difficult to tease out. As we have seen, the termites and ants pick up the earlier allusion to Robert Emmet. HCE is often depicted as an insect (earwig), which always carries the overtone of incest.

  • Ancient Greek: θερμός [thermos], heat, contrasted with the preceding cool. As we saw above, Campbell & Robinson discerned an allusion to the Thermidorian Reaction, when Maximilien Robespierre’s Reign of Terror was brought to an end. This is supported by the following wee, wee*, which combines the French: oui, oui**, yes, yes, with the hypocorism for micturition and the common adjective meaning small.

The Hill of Allen

  • Hill of Allen This hill in County Kildare was the traditional seat of Finn MacCool.
  • Jotnursfjaell Icelandic: jötnar, giants : fjall mountain _. In Jonathan Swift’s _Gulliver’s Travels, the Lilliputians referred to Gulliver as Quinbus Flestrin, “the Great Man-Mountain” (Swift 33).
  • Jotunfjell A mountain range in Norway. Early Norse sagas mention the Jotunheim Mountains, but they were not fully explored until the early 19th century. Jotunheimen (“The Giant’s Home”) were named Jotunfjell (“Giant’s Mountains”) in 1822, but since the 1860s they have been known as Jotunheimen (“Giant’s Home”) (SabinoCanyon).
  • a grummelung amung the porktroop a grumbling among the people (Gordon 57.14-15). How did Joyce come up with porktroop? Is there an allusion here to Patrick? According to tradition, Patrick tended swine for his master Miliucc on Mount Slemish, County Antrim, when he was a boy. But Joyce’s first-draft had porkbrutes. In the Odyssey, Odysseus’s men are transformed into swine by the witch Circe. Might there also be an allusion here to the Gadarene Swine?

And that’s as good a place as any to beach the bark of our tale.

Slemish Mountain

---

References

  • William Blake, The Prophetic Books of William Blake: Jerusalem, Edited by E R D Maclagan & A G B Russell, A H Bullen, London (1904)
  • George Borrow, Romano Lavo-Lil: Word-Book of the Romany, or, English Gypsy Language, John Murray, London (1907)
  • Joseph Campbell, Henry Morton Robinson, A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York (1944)
  • Carl Crow, Master Kung: The Story of Confucius, Tudor Publishing Company, New York (1937)
  • Walter Hubert Downing, Digger Dialects: A Collection of Slang Phrases Used by the Australian Soldiers on Active Service, Lothian Book Publishing Co, Melbourne and Sydney (1919)
  • David Hayman, A First-Draft Version of Finnegans Wake, University of Texas Press, Austin, Texas (1963)
  • Samuel Carlyle Hughes, The Pre-Victorian Drama in Dublin, Hodges, Figgis, & Co, Ltd, Dublin (1904)
  • Eugene Jolas & Elliot Paul (editors), transition, Number 3, Shakespeare & Co, Paris (1927)
  • James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, The Viking Press, New York (1958, 1966)
  • James Joyce, James Joyce: The Complete Works, Pynch (editor), Online (2013)
  • Karl Kiralis, Joyce and Blake: A Basic Source for “Finnegans Wake”, Modern Fiction Studies, Volume 1, Number 4, Pages 329-334, The Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, Maryland (1958)
  • Roland McHugh, The Finnegans Wake Experience, University of California Press, Berkeley, California (1981)
  • Danis Rose, John O’Hanlon, The Restored Finnegans Wake, Penguin Classics, London (2012)
  • Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels, The Prose Works of Jonathan Swift, D D, Volume 8, Edited by G Ravenscroft Dennis, George Bell & Sons, London (1905)
  • William Butler Yeats, Michael Robartes and the Dancer, The Cuala Press, Churchtown, Dundrum (1920)

Image Credits

  • The Four Zoas: William Blake (artist & engraver), Milton: A Poem, Copy C, Object 34, New York Public Library, Public Domain
  • Three Peaches Kill Two Knights, Wu Liang (artist), Rubbing from the Wu Family Shrines, Jiaxiang, Shandong, 1st Year of Jianhe, Eastern Han Dynasty (147 CE), Fine Arts Library, Special Collections, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Public Domain
  • Aristotle’s Four Causes: © Ian Alexander (designer), Creative Commons License
  • Birseis: John William Godward (artist), Private Collection, Public Domain
  • Classic and Restored Finnegans Wake (RFW 045.36-046.15): © Raphael Slepon, Fair Use
  • Oh! Breathe Not His Name: Thomas Moore (lyricist), Charles Villiers Stanford (arranger), The Irish Melodies, Page 7, Boosey & Co, London (1895), Public Domain
  • Walter Hubert Downing: The Scotch College, Public Domain
  • George Borrow: Henry Wyndham Phillips (artist), National Portrait Gallery, London, Public Domain
  • Carl Crow: Carl Crow Papers, 1913-1945, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, Columbia, Missouri, Public Domain
  • Tai Shan: Charlie fong (photographer), Public Domain
  • King Wen of Zhou: Anonymous Painting, Ming Dynasty, Public Domain
  • Yan Ying: Anonymous Painting, Probably Qin or Han Dynasty, Public Domain
  • William Blake: Thomas Phillips (artist), National Portrait Gallery, London, Public Domain
  • Jerusalem (Plate 2): William Blake (artist & engraver), Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, Copy E, Plate 2, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut, Public Domain
  • Jerusalem (Plates 14 & 98): William Blake (artist & engraver), Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, Copy E, Plates 14 & 98, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut, Public Domain
  • Jerusalem (Plate 99): William Blake (artist & engraver), Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, Copy E, Plate 99, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut, Public Domain
  • Jerusalem (Plate 59): William Blake (artist & engraver), Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, Copy E, Plate 59, Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut, Public Domain
  • Easter, 1916 (Yeats ): Alice Boughton (photographer), Public Domain
  • St Patrick in 432 CE: St Patrick’s Silver Medal, © The Franklin Mint, Fair Use
  • The Hill of Allen: © Michael J Anderton (photographer), Fair Use
  • Slemish Mountain: © Mervyn Campbell (photographer), Fair Use

Useful Resources 

22 January 2023

Inn the Days of the Bygning

Inn the Days of the Bygning (RFW 045.27-35)

This short section of Chapter I.3 of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake continues the Cad’s Side of the Story.

First-Draft Version

This paragraph was not part of the original draft of this chapter, which Joyce began in November 1923. An early version of it, however, was included in the draft that appeared in June 1927 in the third issue of Eugene Jolas & Elliott Paul’s literary journal transition:

Not olderwise Inn the days of the Bygning would our Traveller remote, unfriended, from van Demon’s Land, some lazy skald or maundering pote, lift wearywilly his slowcut snobsic eyes to the semisigns of his zooteac and lengthily lingering along flaskneck, cracket cup, downtrodden brogue, turfsod, wildbroom, cabbageblad, stockfisch, longingly learn that there at the Angel were herberged for him poteen and tea and praties and baccy and wine width woman wordth warbling: and informally quasi-begin to presquesm’ile to queasithin’ (Nonsense! There was not very much windy Nous blowing at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!) (Jolas & Paul 37)

This is identical to the final version published in 1939—which is something one can hardly ever say of Joyce’s early drafts. Ever the tinkerer, Joyce could never leave well enough alone, but must always be adding more and more layers of obfuscation to his text. For once, however, it seems that he was happy with his first thoughts. In The Restored Finnegans Wake, however, Danis Rose & John O’Hanlon have made three minor emendations:

  • They inserted a comma after zooteac and.

  • They replaced cracket cup with cracketcup.

  • They replaced quasi-begin with quasibegin.

In each case, they restored what Joyce had first written. To be strictly accurate, what was published in transition in June 1927 was not quite the first draft. For that, see the James Joyce digital Archive, which includes the following passage from one of Joyce’s Finnegans Wake notebooks:

Not otherwise inn the days of the bygning did a traveller, some lazy skald or maundering pote, lift wearily his slowcut eyes to the signs of the auberge and, lengthily lingering over along flaskneck, cracktcup, trodden hoof, strawluft wet and stockfish, know that there herberged for him poteen & tea & praties tobacco & wine & woman & song & smile to think (VI.B.18:41a, slightly emended)

Parnell Gesturing towards the Wellington Monument

Meaning

The preceding paragraph concluded by rehearsing once again the crucial moment during HCE’s Oedipal Encounter with the Cad in the Phoenix Park when he pointed towards the Wellington Monument and swore that he was innocent of the crimes that were being laid at his door. As he did so, the ghost of a smile disfigured his face, similar to a beam of sunshine upon a coffinplate.

In the present paragraph this smile is compared to that which appears on the face of a benighted traveller—a wandering poet—as he looks up at the signs of the zodiac outside a tavern, and anticipates the pleasures that await him inside: wine, women and song.

I have never really understood why HCE’s gesture is so memorable. Recently, I noticed that the statue of Charles Stewart Parnell at the top of O’Connell Street is gesturing towards the west—in the general direction of the Wellington Monument in the Phoenix Park. There is not the ghost of a smile on Parnell’s dour face, and he is not really pointing. Nevertheless, it is an interesting coincidence.

Of course, there is much more to these nine lines than the simple picture of HCE gesturing towards the Wellington Monument, whatever that gesture means. So let’s take a closer look.

Map of the Parnell and Wellington Monuments
  • Danish: bygning building.

  • Traveller, remote, unfriended ... some lazy skald or maundering pote ... Mr Melancholy Slow The preceding paragraph included an allusion to a passage in Oliver Goldsmith’s brief biography of Thomas Parnell. The opening lines of this paragraph parody the first two lines of another of Goldsmith’s works, his philosophical poem The Traveller, or A Prospect of Society:

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po

  • van Demon’s land Van Diemen’s Land, the earlier name of Tasmania, after the Dutch explorer and colonial governor Anthony van Diemen. Joyce originally wrote our traveller from Nau Sealand, which was taken from a phrase in Thomas Macaulay’s essay Ranke’s History of the Popes. The passage is worth quoting at length, as the context is relevant to this paragraph:

The Papacy remains, not in decay, not mere antique, but full of life and youthful vigor. The Catholic Church is still sending forth to the farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those who landed in Kent with Augustine, and still confronting hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted Attila. The number of her children is greater than in any former age. Her acquisitions in the New World have more than compensated for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual ascendency extends over the vast countries which lie between the plains of the Missouri and Cape Horn, countries which, a century hence, may not improbably contain a population as large as that which now inhabits Europe. The members of her communion are certainly not fewer than a hundred and fifty millions; and it will be difficult to show that all other Christian sects united amount to a hundred and twenty millions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term of her long dominion is approaching. She saw the commencement of all the governments and of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the world; and we feel no assurance that she is not destined to see the end of them all. She was great and respected before the Saxon had set foot on Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, when Grecian eloquence still flourished in Antioch, when idols were still worshipped in the temple of Mecca. And she may still exist in undiminished vigor when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul’s. (Macaulay 2-3).

Weary Willie & Tired Tim
  • skald A Scandinavian poet of the Viking age. In Annie Walsh’s Scandinavian Relations with Ireland during the Viking Period we read:

On the other hand, Icelandic sources mention at least three skálds who made their way to Ireland during the tenth century. (Walsh 71)

  • wearywilly Weary Willie was one of a pair of lazy tramps in the English comic-strip Weary Willie and Tired Tim, inspired by Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. They were created by Tom Browne) and first published by in 1896 by the newspaper magnate Alfred Harmsworth, a native of Chapelizod.

  • snobstick (slang) a scab, a worker who refuses to join a strike.

Semisigns in His Zooteac

The most striking thing in this paragraph is the short list of semisigns in his zooteac:

  • signs of the zodiac The twelve astrological signs corresponding to the twelve constellations of the night sky through which the Sun passes on its apparent annual journey around the Earth. Here it is unclear whether our Traveller is beholding the constellations in the night sky or looking at the images on a signboard hanging outside HCE’s tavern. As this is Finnegans Wake, the one does not exclude the other.

  • Ancient Greek: σῆμα [sēma], sign : omen, portent : barrow, tumulus, tomb : constellation. All these meanings are relevant.

  • Ancient Greek: ζῷον [zōon], animal : figure, image (not necessarily of an animal). All but one of the twelve signs of the zodiac depict animals. The exception is Libra, the Balance.

  • Irish: teach, house. A zooteach would then be an animal house. This could refer to Noah’s Ark as well as to an actual animal house in the nearby Dublin Zoo.

  • German: Herberge, inn, hostel.

  • Norwegian Bokmål & Nynorsk: herberge, hostel, lodging, shelter.

  • Danish, Dutch: herberg, inn, hostel, lodging.

  • French: auberge, inn, hostel. In the first draft, Joyce wrote signs of the auberge, before changing it to semisigns in his zooteac. The former reminds me of Canteloube’s Songs of the Auvergne, which were quite new in 1927.

The Constellations of the Zodiac

Only seven of the twelve signs of the zodiac are listed, which is significant in itself:

flaskneck, cracketcup, downtrodden brogue, turfsod, wildbroom, cabbageblad, stockfisch ...

This is followed by another list, which seems to mirror that of the semisigns:

poteen and tea and praties and baccy and wine width woman wordth warbling

Are there six or seven items in this second list? woman wordth warbling obviously means women worth celebrating in song (warble, to sing like a bird). But wordth could also be interpreted as with, which suggests that warbling is also a noun, the seventh item in the list: women with song. As we have seen, Joyce originally wrote: & wine & woman & song. This echoes the title of Johann Strauss’s waltz Wein, Weib und Gesang, which was taken from Johann Heinrich Voss (JJDA: 41(a))).

This short paragraph has attracted a lot of attention from Joycean scholars. Between 1976 and 1979 no less than four articles appeared in A Wake Newslitter devoted to the semisigns in his zooteac. Roland McHugh was the first to give it a crack:

56.24-5 [RFW 045.30-31] gives seven signs of the zodiac, some only of which belong in the zoohouse. Three appear as pictograms of the astrological sign, three as pictograms [of] the constellation and one by a reference to its meaning: (AWN 13:4:75)

AWN 13:4:75

Correspondences with the subsequent list of the Traveller’s interpretations of the signs become increasingly difficult to posit. (AWN 13:4:75)

Next up was Nathan Halper in August 1977:

Roland McHugh is almost certainly right. In AWN, XIII.4, 75, he tells us that ‘semisigns of his zooteac’ (56.23) is followed in the next two lines by seven of these signs. His list begins with Aries —as, indeed, it should. It continues: Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Aquarius, Pisces. That is, numbers 1-5 ... 11-12.

Some of the identifications seem a little tenuous. For example, the pictograph of the constellation Aquarius doesn’t look like a ‘cabbageblad’—a bit of cabbage. Maybe the reader does not see a fine point that McHugh is making. Or McHugh didn’t see an even finer point that Joyce himself is making. Or it may be that Joyce himself had to strain a little. None the less, enough of the suggested identifications are directly on target. So much so it seems more than likely that the other words in the passage refer to signs of the Zodiac.

As for ‘cabbageblad’—the order that McHugh gives is plausible. If Aquarius is the eleventh sign, it should follow that this word somehow represents Aquarius.

I suppose that we could force the identification. If that is what the order demands. we could play some ingenious verbal trick (as only we Joyceans can). But I would suggest a different order. 1-6 ... 12 is at least as possible. If so—the penultimate sign is not Aquarius but Virgo. The result is à la mode de Joyce.

‘Cabbage’ is the female pudenda. (See Partridge, Dictionary of Slang.) ‘Virgin’ suggests something that is young, something not yet ripe. ‘Cabbageblad’—a bit of female pudenda. (AWN 14:4:61)

Roland McHugh & Petr Škrabánek

In December 1977, Petr Škrabánek had a go:

Nathan Halper (AWN, XIV, 4, 61) suggests that cabbageblad (56.25) is ‘a bit of female pudenda’, ergo Virgo. Roland McHugh AWN, XIII, 4, 75), on the other hand, identified cabbageblad as Aquarius. I believe that McHugh is right for wrong reasons. It is true, as Halper points out, that the constellation of Aquarius does not look at all as cabbageblad. However, the symbol of Aquarius is two wavy lines which look very much like a crumpled cabbageleaf. In Ireland children are not brought by stork but they are found under a cabbage leaf. Joyce was born under a sign of Aquarius. True, he was born through the female pudenda but he was also told that he was found under a cabbageleaf. These two statements are not contradictory. On the contrary, they are perhaps the key to the slang meaning of ‘cabbage’. The symbol of Aquarius represents prophetically the stream of water, i.e. FW. And Joyce is the waterbaby. Don’t you know he was kaldt a bairn of the brine, Wasserbourne the waterbaby? (198.07). He is the Waterman the Brayned (104.13). Naturally, these expressions also refer to Noah with whom Joyce identified himself (Letters, III, 364). The zooteach is also Noah’s ark and the seven signs of zodiac allude to the seven colours of iris which the weeping exiled Joyce Traveller (maundering pote with snobsic eyes) sees through his teary glaucomatous eyes. (AWN 14:6:98)

McHugh returned to the subject three years after his first foray into the field:

In my account of 56.24-5 (AWN XIII.4,75) I stated that ‘Correspondences with the subsequent list of the Traveller’s interpretations of the signs become increasingly difficult to posit’. I now see that the key to these correspondences lies in recognizing the items in the first list as inn signs advertising those in the second list. That this was Joyce’s logic becomes evident on examining the following deleted passage in notebook VI.B.6.154:

innsigns bottleneck = poteen broken cup = tea old shoe on pole = ? [Joyce’s question mark] wisp of straw = bed broom = whiskey sod of turf = tobacco (AWN 16:4:62)

With the help of these equations and the two lists in the published text we can construct a table of possible correspondences:


  • Poteen (illicitly distilled spirits) comes in bottles.

  • Taurus begins with T, while tea comes in cups.

  • Shoes—like Gemini, the Twins—come in pairs. But praties (ie potatoes)?

  • Was it known in Joyce’s day that tobacco causes cancer? In 1912 Isaac Adler.jpg) theorized that smoking might be to blame for the growing incidence of lung cancer (Proctor 87).

  • Lions are wild. Wild Broom, Cytisus scoparius, is also known as Scotch Broom—hence the whisky.

  • The equation of cabbageblad = Aquarius is still a little problematic. It is certainly not obvious why a cabbage leaf should be associated with the Water Carrier.

  • German Stockfisch, dried cod (or similar fish), stockfish. John Gordon notes that “stockfish” has a rich history of signifying either old cunt or old cock, but I don’t see how this is relevant to Pisces or warbling (Gordon 56.25).

  • Echoes

    This passage echoes a line or two from the opening pages of the book (Inn the days of the Bygning ... quasibegin):

    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!

    With the advantage of hindsight, we can now see that this mysterious passage was hinting at a confrontation (met) between the Devil (the father of fornicationists) and a celestial creature, like the Egyptian goddess Nut), whose star-spotted body—tattooed with the signs of the zodiac—spans the heavens:

    Nut

    This could be a foreshadowing of the children’s game Devils & Angels in II.1, The Mime of Mick, Nick and the Maggies. It may also allude to the original Oedipal Encounter, between Oedipus and his father, Laius. The father bit the dust, while the son became a fornicator.

    • hoth Howth, which is a peninsula. French: presqu’île, peninsula.

    • the skysign of soft advertisement This is usually understood to be a reference to the rainbow that appeared in the sky after Noah’s Flood (Genesis 9:13). The Noachic allusions in the present paragraph are striking enough to explain why only seven signs of the zodiac are mentioned. This skysign also refers to an advertisement on the roof a building, so constructed that its letters stand out against the sky, as well as an advertisement in sky-writing (FWEET).

    Whenever a list of seven items occurs in Finnegans Wake, one always suspects that it represents the familiar laundry list of HCE’s Seven Items of Clothing. John Gordon suggests that the seven items in this zodiacal list are not so much items of clothing as accoutrements a traveller might carry:

    With some leeway, all plausibly items that might be on the person of a traveler, although “item” is not quite the word for the last three. See notes to 56.24-5, 56.25. As for the second-to-last, “cabbageblad” (Danish cabbage leaf), perhaps the down-and-out equivalent of a fig leaf. For “turfsod,” see “Grace:” “There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod of turf under his oxter.” (Gordon 56.24-5)

    Finally, the phallic overtones of the passage

    Phall if you but will, rise you must: (RFW 004.06-07)

    may also be echoed in wearywilly ... lengthily lingering. Perhaps Gordon’s “stockfish” remark is relevant after all.

    Clive Hart

    Structure and Motif in Finnegans Wake

    In 1962 the Australian scholar Clive Hart published his classic study of Finnegans Wake. As we have seen, he would later repudiate much of what he wrote in Structure and Motif in Finnegans Wake, but in my opinion this is still one of the most elucidating analyses of Joyce’s masterpiece. In Chapter Four, Spatial Cycles I: The Circle, Hart theorizes that Shem and Shaun, the two sons of HCE, circle the globe in Finnegans Wake: Shaun travels from east to west between Dublin and America, while Shem travels from north to south between Dublin and Australia. Shaun is the Angel, and the US is his Heaven, the Promised Land. Shem is the Devil, and Australia is his Hell, the Underworld:

    ... in Ulysses, as everyone now takes for granted, the pattern is that of the labyrinthine city, on the plan of which line after line is traced until the miniature Odyssey is complete; in Finnegans Wake, as we should expect of an essentially archetypal book, though all these patterns and more are subsumed, the underlying structure is simpler, even if surface details sometimes tend to obscure it. The two main spatial configurations governing its shape are those which have always had pre-eminence in western symbology—the circle and the cross, together with their combination in a three-dimensional figure consisting of two circles intersecting on the surface of a sphere. [See Figure III, below.]

    Circle and Cross (Hart 117, Figure III)

    The importance that Joyce attached to these structural symbols may be judged from the fact that he assigned the mandala symbol

    The Mandala: Joyce’s Siglum for the Viconian Cycle

    to the key passage in I.6 dealing with the pattern of cycles in Finnegans Wake (question 9 [RFW 143]) . The intersecting circles are of course also represented in the two-dimensional diagram on page 293 [RFW 226]. (Hart 110)

    The Vesica Piscis, or Euclid 1:1 (RFW 226)

    Within this world neither Shem nor Shaun does any travelling at all outside Chapelizod, but at higher symbolic levels the ‛circumcentric megacycles’ of their respective journeys take in, first the whole of Ireland—‛from the antidulibnium onto the serostaatarean’ (310.07 [RFW 238.28])—then Europe, the globe, and finally the heavenly spheres ... Their orbits, like those of Plato’s Same and Other, are inclined to each other. Shaun follows an east-west trajectory, while Shem prefers to travel north-south, passing through the antipodes. (Hart 111 ... 112-113)

    For my own part, I have hypothesized that in the “real world” of Finnegans Wake—assuming there is such a thing—the landlord of the Mullingar House in Chapelizod has two sons, one of whom has emigrated to America, the other to Australia. But this is pure speculation on my part. En passant, one might also recall the Celtic Cross, which consists of a circle (possibly representing the Celtic Sun God) superimposed on a cross (possibly representing the Celtic Earth Goddess).

    Like the Tsar in Stephen Hero, Shaun is a ‛besotted Christ’ (SH 112), a holy idiot and scapegoat-Mediator incapable of grasping even the truth about himself. As a ‛deliverer of softmissives’ it is his job to voyage ‛round the world in forty mails’ (237.14 [RFW 187.18-19]). His travels take him along one arm of the cross of the cardinal points of the compass, symbolised by the Christian cross and the Church which is built in its image. The representative of a worn-out Age, Shaun moves westward to the bottom end of this cross where, a sun-god sinking below the horizon, he will rejoin the mute earth from which he sprang. (Hart 114)

    Celtic Cross, Glendalough

    In Book III, Shaun’s trajectory will be reversed, as he is depicted floating eastwards down the Liffey towards Dublin City in a Guinness barrel.

    While Shaun’s east-west journey is quasi-horizontal, Shem’s displacement is in the vertical north-south direction. Shem is the thinker, the artist who plumbs the depths and loses his soul in the process ... A Miltonic Satan, though less attractive, Shem finds his Pandemonium in the hot and hellish antipodes of Australia—‛down under’, as it is popularly called. (Hart 116 ... 117)

    Shem’s and Shaun’s cycles intersect in the first place in Dublin, where a conflict between the two always takes place, just as Christ and Satan find common ground on earth, midway between Heaven and Hell. This pattern is roughly reflected in Joyce’s own experience. His several trips back to Dublin after his initial flight always brought him into conflict with the Shaun-figures of that city, and a number of those Shauns, notably Byrne and Gogarty, did in fact go to the United States. (Hart 117-118)

    In the present paragraph, our Traveller, like Shem, is a poet (skald ... pote) from the Hell of down under (van Demon’s land). The tavern he visits is called the Angel, which brings Shaun into the mix. This confrontation between Devil and Angel anticipates the children’s game in II.1, The Mime of Mick, Nick and the Maggies. This allows us to identify the woman wordth warbling as their sister Issy, who stands at the apex of the brothers’ isosceles love triangle.

    Van Diemen’s Land

    Hart’s comments on the present paragraph are apt:

    The facts of life, as we know, played into Joyce’s hands with astonishing frequency: in addition to the general aura of death and damnation associated with ‛New Holland’ there was the original name of the island-state of Tasmania—‛van Diemen’s Land’—which so easily and so inevitably becomes ‛van Demon’s Land’ (56.21 [RFW 045.28]). This is Shem's spiritual home; it is from here, as a Goldsmithian Traveller (‛some lazy skald or maundering pote’—the Devil is traditionally a wanderer), that he comes to Ireland, ‛Inn the days of the Bygning’, just as Satan made his way from Hell to tempt Eve. According to certain ‛toughnecks’ quoted by Shaun (169.02 [134.01-02]), Shem is in fact a black Australian ‛aboriginal’. If he was there from the beginning, he is evidently a Manichean co-eternal Satan, which is a sorry thing for Shaun’s vanity to have to admit. (Hart 118-119)

    Chapter Four of Hart’s Structure and Motif in Finnegans Wake is well wordth reading in full.

    Joyce and Wyndham Lewis

    We never learn what the maundering pote quasi-thinks, because the rest of this paragraph is missing. Instead, the narrative is interrupted by a short parenthetical passage:

    queasithin’ ... (Nonsense! There was not very much windy Nous blowing at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!)

    The windy noise that blows when Mr Melancholy Slow is talking through his hat could simply refer back to the skirling of harsh Mother East—the shrill sound of the east wind—that almost drowned out the ringing of the Angelus during HCE and the Cad’s Encounter in the Park (RFW 028.25). On the first page of Chapter Four of his book, however, Clive Hart invokes the writer Wyndham Lewis:

    Wyndham Lewis

    Wyndham Lewis chided Joyce for being time-centred rather than space-centred and there is a sense in which his argument is valid, but, as Joyce asked Frank Budgen, ‛is it more than ten per cent of the truth?’ In so far as he consistently organises his creations according to almost visible spatial patterns, Joyce is surely one of the most spatially conscious of writers. (Hart 109)

    Wyndham Lewis was a British author and artist, an insufferable snob who went out of his way to belittle Joyce the writer. In an earlier article we read Richard Ellmann’s account of Joyce’s first meeting with Lewis and T S Eliot in Paris in 1920. That was taken, for the most part, from Lewis’s book Blasting and Bombardiering, which devotes a short chapter to his First Meeting with James Joyce. Joyce entertained the two men during their brief stay in Paris, always insisting on paying their cab fairs and restaurant bills:

    Eliot and myself remained in Paris for some days ... All of our time was passed in the hospitable company of James Joyce ... Except for our hotel bill—which he made no attempt, as far as I know, to settle—we lived free of charge ...

    ‛I find our friend,’ said I, ‛very affable and easy don’t you, if a shade stilted?’ But Eliot found him definitely burdensome, and arrogant.

    ‛I do not think he is arrogant,’ I said, astonished at this description of Pound’s proud protégé, who seemed to me to be a civil, unassuming man enough, of agreeable and accommodating manners, except for his obsession regarding economic independence, which was harmless after all ...

    T S Eliot

    ‛He may not seem so!’ Eliot answered, in his grim Bostonian growl. ‛He may not seem arrogant, no.’

    ‛You think he is as proud as Lucifer?’

    ‛I would not say Lucifer!’ Eliot was on his guard at once, at this loose use of the surname of the Evil Principle.

    ‛You would not say Lucifer? Well, I daresay he may be under the impression that he is being “as proud as Lucifer,” or some bogtrotting humbug of that order. What provincials they are, bless their beastly brogues!”

    ‛Provincials—yes!’ Eliot agreed with contemptuous unction. ‛Provincials.’

    ‛However he is most polite.’

    ‛He is polite.’

    ‛I have never succeeded in getting out of the door behind him, have you? He is very You First. He is very After you!

    ‛Oh yes. He is polite, he is polite enough. But he is exceedingly arrogant. Underneath. That is why he is so polite. I should be better pleased if he were less polite.’ Eliot was very grim.

    ‛I personally don’t care if he is arrogant—all I ask, in the words of the New England literary chanty, is “a little god-darned seevility and not much of that!” But I should be surprised if he is really arrogant,’

    ‛No-o?’ Eliot was impressed by my persistence. ‛You may of course be right. It doesn’t matter.’ (Lewis 1967:296-297)

    Joyce, Lewis & Eliot

    Lewis was never more than begrudging in his praise of Joyce’s art:

    I cannot see that any work of Joyce—except Ulysses—is very significant. It was about six or seven years ago that I first became acquainted with his writing. The Portrait of the Artist seemed to me a rather cold and priggish book. It was well done, like the Dubliners, which I have just read; and that was all that I could discover. Chamber Music would certainly not have secured its author a place ‘among the english poets,’—it would hardly even have set the Liffey on fire for five minutes. No writing of his before Ulysses would have given him anything but an honourable position as the inevitable naturalist-french-influenced member of the romantic Irish Revival—a Maupassant of Dublin, But without the sinister force of Flaubert’s disciple.

    Ulysses was in a sense a different thing altogether. How far that is an effect of a merely technical order, resulting from stylistic complications and intensified display, with a Dubliners basis unchanged, or, further, a question of scale, and mechanical heaping up of detail, I should have only partly to decide here. But it places him—on that point every one is in agreement—very high in contemporary letters. (Lewis 1927:91)

    It must have galled Wyndham Lewis to behold this Provincial with his beastly brogue being lauded as a great writer after the publication of Ulysses in 1922. Five years later Lewis published Time and Western Man, in which he turned his critical pen against his fellow modernists: Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein, Marcel Proust, James Joyce, and others.

    First published in 1927, this is Wyndham Lewis’s most important book of criticism and philosophy. He turns against his fellow modernists, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein and James Joyce, to show how they have unconsciously turned their supposedly revolutionary writing into a vehicle for ideologies that undermine real human creativity and progress. The heart of this critique is a devastating assault on metaphysical doctrines that, Lewis believed, robbed the human mind of its creative power and handed that power over to time as a vital principle animating matter. In some of Lewis’s most vivid writing, Bergson, Whitehead, Russell and William James are all mercilessly attacked for their implicit fatalism. (Goodreads)

    Time and Western Man

    Almost forty pages of Time and Western Man are devoted to Joyce. In contrast, only seventeen pages are devoted to Pound and eleven to Stein. Lewis cannot deny that Ulysses places Joyce very high in contemporary letters, but that is as far as his praise extends. The remainder of his chapter on Joyce is hostile.

    Joyce is the poet of the shabby-genteel, impoverished intellectualism of Dublin. His world is the small middle-class one, decorated with a little futile ‘culture,’ of the supper and dance-party in The Dead. Wilde, more brilliantly situated, was an extremely metropolitan personage, a man of the great social world, a great lion of the London drawing-room. Joyce is steeped in the sadness and the shabbiness of the pathetic gentility of the upper shopkeeping class, slumbering at the bottom of a neglected province; never far, in its snobbishly circumscribed despair, from the pawn-shop and the ‘pub.’ (Lewis 1927:93)

    The thesis of Time and Western Man is a curious one. Lewis condemns his fellow modernists for being time-centred rather than space-centred—for setting time up as a fourth dimension, as real and as existential as the three dimensions of space. What does that even mean? It is certainly a most original reason for condemning any writer.

    I regard Ulysses as a time-book; and by that I mean that it lays its emphasis upon, for choice manipulates, and in a doctrinaire manner, the self-conscious time-sense, that has now been erected into a universal philosophy. This it does beneath the spell of a similar creative impulse to that by which Proust worked. The classical unities of time and place are buried beneath its scale, however, and in this All-life-in-a-day scheme there is small place for them. Yet at the outset they are solemnly insisted on as a guiding principle to be fanatically observed. And certainly some barbarous version of the classical formula is at work throughout, like a concerted daimon attending the author, to keep him obsessionally faithful to the time-place, or space-time, programme ... (Lewis 1927:100)

    So he collected like a cistern in his youth the last stagnant pumpings of Victorian anglo-irish life. This he held steadfastly intact for fifteen years or more—then when he was ripe, as it were, he discharged it, in a dense mass, to his eternal glory. That was Ulysses ... (Lewis 1927:109)

    So though Joyce has written a time-book, he has done it, I believe, to some extent, by accident. Proust, on the contrary, was stimulated to all his efforts precisely, by the thought of compassing a specifically time-creation—the Recherche du Temps Perdu. The unconscious artist has, in this case, the best of it, to my mind. Proust, on the other hand, romanticizes his Past, where Joyce (whose Present it is) does not ... (Lewis 1927:109-110)

    The craftsman, pure and simple, is at the bottom of his work ... In Ulysses, if you strip away the technical complexities that envelop it, the surprises of style and unconventional attitudes that prevail in it, the figures underneath are of a remarkable simplicity, and of the most orthodoxly comic outline. Indeed, it is not too much to say that they are, most of them, walking clichés. (Lewis 1927:112)

    James Joyce by Wyndham Lewis

    The following passage probably informed the maundering pote of Finnegans Wake:

    But if they are clichés, Stephan Dedalus is a worse or a far more glaring one. He is the really wooden figure. He is ‛the poet’ to an uncomfortable, a dismal, a ridiculous, even a pulverizing degree. His movements in the Martello-tower, his theatrical ‘bitterness,’ his cheerless, priggish stateliness, his gazings into the blue distance, his Irish Accent, his exquisite sensitiveness, his ‘pride’ that is so crude as to be almost indecent, the incredible slowness with which he gets about from place to place, up the stairs, down the stairs, like a funereal stage-king; the time required for him to move his neck, how he raises his hand, passes it over his aching eyes, or his damp brow, even more wearily drops it, closes his dismal little shutters against his rollicking irish-type of a friend (in his capacity of a type-poet), and remains sententiously secluded, shut up in his own personal Martello-tower (Lewis 113-114)

    Joyce read Time and the Western Man carefully and took its criticisms seriously. In a letter to his patron Harriet Shaw Weaver, he acknowledged that Lewis’s hostile criticism is by far the best that has appeared (Letters III, 22 July 1932). He discussed that criticism with his English friend Frank Budgen, who later recollected the following remark:

    I have commented elsewhere on Joyce’s reactions to the criticisms of Clutton Brock and H. G. Wells, but his remark when I mentioned Wyndham Lewis’s criticism of Ulysses is worth recording: ‛Allowing that the whole of what Lewis says about my book is true, is it more than ten per cent of the truth?’ (Budgen 359)

    Adaline Glasheen

    Joyce took Lewis’s criticisms seriously enough to respond to them in the pages of Finnegans Wake itself. In Adaline Glasheen’s Third Census of Finnegans Wake the entry for Lewis takes up more than a page—most entries in the Census comprise no more than two or three lines. Glasheen claims that Lewis’s chapter on Joyce, An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce, had appeared previously in Lewis’s literary journal Blast. This is not quite true. Only two issues of Blast were ever published—the first in June 1914 and the second in July 1915—both long before Ulysses saw the light of day. Glasheen has confused Blast with another of Lewis’s shortlived journals, The Enemy: A Review of Art and Literature, three numbers of which were published between 1927 and 1929. Curiously, Glasheen correctly identifies this as the original source for An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce in her entry on the similarly named D B Wyndham Lewis, a British humorist, who was not related to his more famous namesake.

    Glasheen’s assessment of Wyndham Lewis is memorable:

    W. L. seems to me to have been a clever, dirty infighter, spasmodically brilliant, a nasty piece of goods with detestable ideas (virulent anti-feminism, antisemitism, anti-nigger, anti-children, anti-anything-small), a perfectly splendid piece of literary copy. (Glasheen 166)

    In her entry on the Jewish philosopher Lucien Lévy-Bruhl, Glasheen links him with Lewis:

    I have often read Time and Western Man without finding out what Wyndham Lewis means by “time,” but I am clear that Lewis hated Jews, primitives, children, and anything small, and said Joyce was all these things. So, I take it, Joyce teases Lewis by joining him to Lévy-Bruhl. (Glasheen 166)

    Lucien Lévy-Bruhl

    Joyce’s response to Lewis’s criticism was that time-honoured recourse of Irish bards, the lampoon:

    Joyce retaliated (see Goldsmith) in FW (then a work in progress) by using W. L. (it was a kind of afterthought) as the principal model for Shaun, especially Shaun as Professor Jones, a teacher of little boys who imagines himself pope (see Adrian IV, Mookse) ... W. L. then attacked Joyce and his works in the first part of The Childermass ... Joyce attacks W. L. not only in “No. 11” but as Brutus, Ondt, Enemy, Hound, Henry Carr, Lewis Carroll, Alice and—W. L. being Joyce’s identical opposite—he is frequently linked to Dedalus. W. L. is indicated by just about all permutations of “wind” and “nous” (see also Aeolus) and of “time” and “space.” The mutual savaging or flyting of Joyce and Lewis is extended, specific, detailed, and badly needs to be studied. Who won the flyting—I mean the real-life fighting, not the picture of it in the writing of Joyce and Lewis? I think that, for sheer nastiness and a fine instinct for his opponent’s jugular vein, Lewis won hands down; I think that, as the better literary artist, Joyce came out of the fight with a masterly picture of the Enemy. (Glasheen 166-167)

    Lewis’s novel The Childermass, which was first published in 1928, parodies Joyce’s Work in Progress—early drafts of chapters of Finnegans Wake that had been appearing regularly in Eugene Jolas & Elliott Paul’s transition. As Glasheen points out, Lewis renews his attack on Joyce in the characters of Bailiff, Belcanto, Pullman, Sattersthwaite, and a moulting Phoenix. For example:

    BAILIFF. ‘Ant add narfter thort wilt? nope one mild one just this dear Shaun as ever was comminxed wid Shem Hamp ant Japhet for luck (for he’s a great mixer is Master Joys of Potluck, Joys of Jingles, whom men call Crossword-Joys for his apt circumsohitions but whom the gods call just Joys or Shimmy, shut and short.—“Sure and oi will bighorror!” sez the dedalan Sham-up-to-date with a most genteelest soft-budding gem of a hipcbugh. “Oh solvite me”—bolshing in ers fist most mannerly—“Parn pardoner tis the cratur that causes me to bolshie and all and sure I partook a drop over the nine impransus for ther lardner’s empty save for the glassy skin of the cratur—short commons is short shrift and short weight ensues shortly upon the heels of Famine and the wind rises in voluntary in vacuo for we come like Irish and like wind we—arrah we’re born in a thdrop of bogjuice and we pops off in a splutter of shamfiz or sham pain.” (Lewis 1965:174-175)

    The Childermass was the first part of a trilogy, Lewis’s masterpiece The Human Age. This was intended to be his Ulysses, but he abandoned it after completing the first part. He returned to it at the end of his life, completing parts two and three in 1955.

    The Human Age

    In the present paragraph, Joyce’s parting parenthesis

    (Nonsense! There was not very much windy Nous blowing at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!)

    is a parody of the closing lines of the following passage from Time and Western Man:

    Yet that the time-sense is really exasperated in Joyce in the fashion that it is in Proust, Dada, Pound or Miss Stein, may be doubted. He has a very keen preoccupation with the Past, it is certain; he does lay things down side by side, carefully dated; and added to that, he has some rather loosely and romantically held notion of periodicity. But I believe that all these things amount to with him is this: as a careful, even meticulous, craftsman, with a long training of doctrinaire naturalism, the detail—the time-detail as much as anything else—assumes an exaggerated importance for him. And I am sure that he would be put to his trumps to say how he came by much of the time-machinery that he possesses. Until he was told, I dare say that he did not know he had it, even; for he is ‘an instinctive,’ like Pound, in that respect; there is not very much reflection going on at any time inside the head of Mr. James Joyce. That is indeed the characteristic condition of the craftsman, pure and simple. (Lewis 1927:106)

    Peter Chrisp has an excellent overview of the relevance of Wyndham Lewis to Finnegans Wake on his blog From Swerve of Shore to Bend of Bay. I heartily recommend it.

    And that’s as good a place as any to beach the bark of our tale.


    References

    • Frank Budgen, Further Recollections of James Joyce, Oxford University Press, Oxford (1972)
    • Joseph Campbell, Henry Morton Robinson, A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake, Harcourt, Brace and Company, New York (1944)
    • Richard Ellmann, James Joyce, New and Revised Edition, Oxford University Press, Oxford (1982)
    • Adaline Glasheen, Third Census of Finnegans Wake, University of California Press, Berkeley, California (1977)
    • Oliver Goldsmith, The Traveller, John Sharpe, London (1827)
    • Clive Hart, Structure and Motif in Finnegans Wake, Northwestern University Press, Evanston, Illinois (1962)
    • David Hayman, A First-Draft Version of Finnegans Wake, University of Texas Press, Austin, Texas (1963)
    • Eugene Jolas & Elliot Paul (editors), transition, Number 3, Shakespeare and Co, Paris (1927)
    • James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, The Viking Press, New York (1958, 1966)
    • James Joyce, Stuart Gilbert (editor) & Richard Ellmann (editor), The Letters of James Joyce, Volume 1, Volume 2, Volume 3, Viking Press, New York (1957, 1966)
    • James Joyce, James Joyce: The Complete Works, Pynch (editor), Online (2013)
    • Wyndham Lewis, Time and Western Man, Chatto and Windus, London (1927)
    • Wyndham Lewis, The Childermass, John Calder, London (1965)
    • Wyndham Lewis, Blasting and Bombardiering, Calder and Boyars Ltd, London (1967)
    • Wyndham Lewis, An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce, The Enemy, Volume 1, Frank Cass and Company Limited, London (1968)
    • Thomas Macaulay, The Complete Writings of Lord Macaulay, Volume 15, Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston (1900)
    • Robert N Proctor, The History of the Discovery of the Cigarette–Lung Cancer Link: Evidentiary Traditions, Corporate Denial, Global Toll, Tobacco Control, Volume 21, Issue 2, Pages 87-91, British Medical Association, London (2012)
    • Danis Rose, John O’Hanlon, The Restored Finnegans Wake, Penguin Classics, London (2012)
    • Annie Walsh, Scandinavian Relations with Ireland during the Viking Period, The Talbot Press Limited, Dublin (1922)

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