Weeks 21-24 (JF) - A Storiella and a Lesson

FW pp. 260-308

"If Chapter IX is denser than what preceded it, Chapter X should be densest; but Chapter XI is even denser.  A more elaborate comparison of adjectives is called for.  Lacking it, we must content ourselves with calling Chapters IX, X, and XI the densest part of the Wake."

That's Tindall at the beginning of his thing on Book II, Chapter II.  (He calls it Chapter X.  That's wrong.  JJ didn't number his chapters, only his books, so Bishop's system of book-and-then-chapter numbering for reference seems more legit.)  Mild Bill wasn't kidding about dense and denser.  I told OM that I understood around ten percent.  It was actually around five percent, and maybe less.  I went with ten because I knew the meanings of at least that many words.  How they fit together?  Not so much.

Basically, this chapter sucked for me.  I really disliked reading it.  I know O's been hit-and-miss for the past few chapters (his phrase when he's not into this project is "determined reading"), but this is where I checked out.  JJ is a great writer, and Ulysses is probably the greatest novel ever, but whatever he's selling here?  Yeah, no thanks.

The initial version of this post got amusingly negative.  I called this chapter literary masturbation, in which I choose not to participate posthumously.  (One could argue that parts of DFW's posthumous quasi-novel The Pale King were sorta masturbatory, but they were at least comprehensible and often funny.)  And I listed pithy examples of better things to do: fold laundry, chew tinfoil, suck on milk candy, babysit an infant with colic, watch a Jim Carey movie, and...slog through the second part of The Sound and the Fury.  That's a pretty good reference.  If you've ever read that novel, and not FW, the Quentin section and the beginning of Part II are dense in the same way.

Literary Modernism, go figure, right?  I'm in over my head here, and the online sources that I just consulted for a quick thumbnail sketch of that period/movement were laughably superficial.  Basically, Modernism spanned the late-19th to the mid?-20th Centuries, when the world was in a messy state of flux.  Cars and planes?  Whoa.  Telephones?  Whoa. A freaking world war?  Whoa (a half-hearted, meta-level whoa, in which Joey Lawrence insists he's "so much more than that word" and we all remain unconvinced because (a) how can anyone be more than a word - can an apple be more than an orange?, and (b) how can JL be more than the word with which he's so closely associated? - "more" is so quantitative and JL is quality).  For many reasons, artists and authors looked inside and decided that traditional forms of expression weren't sufficient to represent what they had experienced.  The web's examples are Picasso and Braque, but Stravinsky and Varese are just as good.  Everything just looked and sounded differently.  And felt differently, and it's literature that documents changes in our feelings and our emotional responses, mediated by language and time.

(Yep.  That's probably an internet first: Joey Lawrence and Edgard Varese in the same blog post.  We transact in the post-modern here at AYITW.  Who's got my #bitcoinwithJJsprofile?)

So there's weird-ass Erza Pound spouting off about making it new.  There's Wild Bill Faulkner, in his fourth novel, dropping serious inner-monolog bombs.  And there's JJ, who, after that Greek book, wanted to write a sleep book.

An aside, which is also my central point.  When readers initially picked up The Sound and the Fury or FW, what did they think?  I went into both with very little background - I still read the FW text before Tindall - and got/get lost too easily.  How would a reader know that Part I of TSATF is Benji's inner voice and that Part II is Quentin's?  How would a reader know that Part II, Chapter II of FW is a school lesson?

Well, they'd know because that chapter is written like a freaking textbook, that's how!  Sarcastic punctuation.  It's just not that obvious.  It's obvious something is different; it's not obvious what, other than the appearance of the text.  Wild Bill plays with italics in TSATF, but JJ ups him here by using a narrow column of text, italic comments on the left of that column, caps comments on the right, and footnotes.  So, maybe this is JJ's take on the form of a scholarly essay or a textbook?  How does form relate to modernism?  That's an actual question, which is way more interesting than anything in this chapter.  OM, anybody?

This chapter is a lesson.  Shem is the italics on the left; Shaun is the caps on the right (until they switch half-way through the chapter); Issy is the footnotes.  But how would I have ever known that myself without Mild Bill and various other sources?  And who's the lecturer?  JJ?  And why, in the deepest hour of the night of this book is he talking about school?  (Tindall doesn't touch that last question, really.  It's all about seeing through the veil, not why the veil is pedagogically-shaped here.)  This is a problem, my lack of understanding.  It means that maybe JJ didn't care if anybody got it.  And if he didn't care, why do we?  Why isn't a "determined reading" of the words themselves enough?  Why is a definitive reading better?   Why authorial intent?  The author is dead, right?

Right.  He is.  But here's the thing.  When a book is this dense and difficult, this unwilling to acknowledge a reader outside the writer, piecing it apart becomes an academic exercise, in a pejorative sense.  This isn't why I read (on that, later) - and it's why I don't want to read this particular book very much, tbh.  (As usual, the blog is behind, so I'm well into the next chapter - and, wow, it's even more indecipherable.)  I'm plowing through pages and pages, and getting zero out of them.  What's the point?

Recently, I had a quick text exchange with OM about that, and he reminded me that I know the point.  I took that to mean that the point was to finish the toughest book ever written in the English language during a calendar year.  He then asked, "But is it worth it?"  At this point, I just don't know.  I can read what JJ wrote; I can read what others wrote about what JJ wrote.  Both make me feel really dumb, and I can write about only the latter.  So what's the point.  You can do the same, and you're probably better at it.  Me, I'm a lawyer, who's reading this book for "fun."

Josh at the WordPress lit blog Original Positions has a chapter-by-chapter breakdown of FW.  As a teacher, he internalized the difficulty of reading this chapter:

"[T]his chapter is mind-blowing nonsense.  It took about two hours to read the 40 pages or so [fwiw, he read the next, longer chapter in three hours - it's taking me, ahem, somewhat longer], but all came together somehow, and made me see, in the most brutal manner possible, just what we really do to ourselves under the heading of 'education' - we try to compress centuries of received wisdom into arbitrarily-distinguished subjects, and then conclude, generation after generation, that 'these kids today' just can't do it."

Who's we?  Educators (what level)?  Parents/adults?  Whatever "we" that we're talking about, do we really do all that?  I don't think so.  Interdisciplinary education is the jam for kids these days, no?  You get reading in your math; you get math in your science?  Etc.  (That's how it's been presented at grade-school meet-the-teachers nights, in my experience.)  And, anyway, JJ is the greatest compressor of received wisdom - not just in this chapter or this novel, but across his entire body of work - even if he's not the greatest distinguisher of subjects.  To me, it's fishy to attribute a subjective epiphany, however personally interesting or meaningful, about education to JJ's unique style in a chapter nominally/formally about education, when that style is pretty consistent in other chapters about other stuff.  I don't want to bash a fellow FW blogger, especially one who's obviously got more lit crit chops than me.  (Are there FW bloggers with less than me?  I'm gonna guess no.)  Good on you, Josh, if you got something out of this chapter - I sure didn't.  It just seems to me that there's a load of post hoc, ergo propter hoc logic threaded through so much of the commentary on FW.  "I felt this way after I read that part, which must be because of JJ."

Deference to an assumed authorial intent here is weird.  Quite clearly, there was some intent by JJ; his notes and letters show that.  He just didn't give much of a shit if we understood anything, so why should we care?  FW is just an empty vessel, a source where you can cheerleader-identify (gimme an H, gimme a C, gimme an E, what's that spell? pervert!) anything you want just by pointing to enough letters of enough words.  And that's fine, that's great.  Vive Barthes!  Just don't give JJ even tacit credit for anything you come up with.

I felt dumb after I read this chapter, which must be because of JJ.  Honestly, I don't read to feel smart.  I read to learn how to write - how authors use words, how they adopt voices and tones, how I can adapt and appropriate those approaches in my own writing.  And, to me, great books or Western Canon stuff has more to offer than popular fiction.  But I don't read to feel dumb, either.  And the fact that I am has been well and truly driven home.  JJ isn't worried about words.  He's worried about wack-ass nat-lang in the service of his Vico/Bruno concept.  The difference (a difference) between FW and Ulysses is that the latter was based on a narrative, and the former is based on a couple of theories.  Struggling through JJ in narrative mode is way more fulfilling than struggling through JJ in theory mode.  (Imo, Wild Bill Faulkner was always in narrative mode; his style, usually difficult, varied based on the story he was telling.  Compare Absalom, Absalom and The Reivers.  Same guy, different style.  There's probably a style/genre Bakhtin point lurking around here, but that's beyond my current rant.)  I get it.  I. Get. It.  Fours/Vico and mirrors/Bruno, a lot of repetition, a subconscious version of English where every word is chock-full of allusions only some of which I'm supposed to catch.  Do I really need to finish this book?  Or is that all I'm gonna get out of it?  If this all sounds like a long-winded defense of quitting, it might be.  I haven't.  At least, not yet.

Onto the text.  This will be quick.

Tindall's description of the meta-level stuff sounds so cool to me that I really wish that I would have understood more.  Basically, because this chapter is about the three Earwicker kids doing homework (history is FCE, and geometry is ALP), they're offering a running commentary on not only the text before them, but also FW and texts in general.  I didn't get much of that.  What I did get is the different tone from the different commentators.  Shem's italics on the left are flaky and sorta poetic (e.g., "Will you carry my can and fight the fairies?"); Shaun's capital letters are categorical, like he's offering a study guide or outline (e.g., "EARLY NOTATIONS OF ACQUIRED RIGHTS AND THE INFLUENCE OF COLLECTIVE TRADITION UPON THE INDIVIDUAL"); Issy's footnotes are mostly readable or conversational, like she's taking notes and stream-of-consciousness riffing on the text or what her brothers are saying.  Some of Issy's comments are deep - "If we each could always do all we ever did."  Some are not - "Starnaked and bonedstiff.  We vivvy soddy.  All be dood."  Some are indecipherable.  Her longest footnote takes up most of p. 279.

Tidall calls pp. 268-70 "hilarious."  That's probably a tad strong.  He also called the geometry lesson given by Shem (Dolph) to Shaun (Kev) on "the heart of this chapter."  I missed that - there's a "aquilittoral dryankle," I guess, and ALP is all over the place initials-wise.  Anyway, Shem and Shaun switch sides page- and font-wise, and Issy offers a graphical representation of the family.  They all love/hate each other, and nothing is very different than before.  I could say more, but I'd only be cribbing Tindall.  He's got this; you lot do, too.

Better stuff, to close.  JJ published this chapter separately in 1937 as a little book titled Storiella as She is Syung.  The first page, with an illustration by JJ's daughter Lucia, is the header image above - super pretty.  And, apparently, someone wrote a whole book on this chapter.  Gj.  Finally, from our friends at Waywords and Meansigns, here's NYC author/artist Liz Longo and her daughter singing a passage from Book II, Chapter II.

More soon.  And don't expect more to be much more.  I don't have a lot to say about the next chapter other than it's denserest.

JF

312 Pages Out of 628

I have read 312 pages of Finnegans Wake, which is a 628-page book.  I know that it is 628 pages long because I carry it around in my backpack, and I think, “My back hurts because of this 628-page book that I am always carrying around.”

I’ve read longer books, heavier books.  My copy of Ulysses is 783 pages.  Gravity’s Rainbow checks in at 776. Infinite Jest tips the scales at 1,079. So why does Finnegans Wake feel so heavy in my bag?  Is it made from extra dense paper?  Does the universe simply recognize how much of itself has been collapsed between the covers? 

Finnegans Wake is the white dwarf of literature.

312 pages is very close to half of 628.  We began at Easter, and we’ll be past halfway before Halloween.  That’s not too bad.  I was feeling a sense of accomplishment when I finished the first book. That was back on page 216.  Since then, I’ve bushwacked my way through the first half of Book II. 

Why did Joyce wait until almost the midpoint to abuse us with Book II, Chapter II? Did he think that anyone who made it this far deserved the punishment?

My phone

If you didn’t want to suffer through 50+ pages of text laid out with notes on the left margin and Latin titles on the right and footnotes below, then why did you keep reading?  Maybe you were asking for it?

Recently, someone saw the book on my counter, and remarked, “I know that book.  They turned it into a movie a couple of years ago, didn’t they?”  No, I can assure you they did not turn it into a movie. Not unless you’re referring to 1965’s “Passages from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.”

Sometimes, when I look at the book, I think, “I kinda wish I was reading Ulysses right now.” 

Then I look down at my phone, which has a drawing of Leopold Bloom on the cover. Other times, I look at the book on my bedside table, where it is resting next to my copy of Dubliners, and I consider re-reading “The Dead” one more time.

I am a member of a book club.  Or maybe I should call myself an occasional member of a book club. The group is reading The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton.  That’s a very different kind of book.  I’m not really reading it.  I’d like to, but it’s not happening at the moment. If I’m being honest, this isn’t completely the fault of Finnegans Wake.  But the Wake is still my reading priority, so other things get pushed down the list.

I am still reading it, though. That’s something.

“312 pages is very close to half of 628,” I tell myself.  “We began at Easter, and we’ll be past halfway before Halloween,” I say. “Yeah, that’s not too bad.”  

Weeks 18-20 (JF) - Lollapalooza?

FW pp. 519-59

Hi.  Did you miss me?  Yeah?  Awesome.  I missed you, too.  I mean, I don't know you (except for OM), but I missed reading and writing about reading.  I started this post more than a month ago, and just finished it tonight.  The usual reason: Real life.  Busy at home, busy at work.  Too distracted to find the kind of attention that FW deserves.  And, whoa, it doesn't just deserve it in Book II, it demands it.  And then, after a few pages, it doesn't?  JJ lets you off the hook in a weird way.

Wester's online dictionary defines "lollapalooza" as "one that is extraordinarily impressive" or "an outstanding example," states its origin is unknown, and dates its first use as 1896.

I saw the second Lollapalooza Music Festival twice (nice symmetry there) in 1992.  Both shows were more enjoyable than Book II, Chapter I of FW, which includes the word lollapalooza - or JJ's version, "lollapaloosa."  Here's the sentence, so you get a sense of what these weekly segments were like:

"Doth it not all come aft to you, purity snooper, in the television opes longtime ofter when Potollomuch Sotyr or Sourdanapplous the Lollapaloosa?"

If you're thinking that that lacks context to make it more comprehensible, then you're thinking wrong.  There's a sliver of context there - the preceding sentence makes it clear that this is about HCE's indiscretion.  But the entire chapter is a struggle through dreamspeak and its accompanying allusions.  And fwiw, I'm pretty sure Perry Ferrell didn't snake the name of his cashcow from JJ.  I should tweet him and ask.  (Actually, I shouldn't because he'd probably file a trademark suit against the Joyce Estate.)

So.  An aside.  Like OM, I subscribe to The New Yorker.  Which means, personally, I get the magazine in the mail every week and feel pressure to read it before the next one arrives.  Which means, personally again, I get behind.  Idk know if you guys read TNY.  It's heady and cool, but not every article is interesting to me.  So I skim the culture stuff, check out the lead piece in "Talk of the Town," check out the cartoons and most of the poems, and then dogear the articles that I want to revisit.  My last issue came the other day, and I'm not reupping until I blast through the stack waiting.

Anyway, the other day [that is, sometime in August], I read a quasi-review of a Joan Didion biography in the Arts section.  As TNY readers know, a book review is rarely a book review.  They're usually a lot more - a review of the book, and a scan of the scholarship about the subject.  J.D. was kind of an asshole, tbh.  I loved her for her words and her Corvette, but now kinda hate her for voting for Barry Goldwater.  Whatever.  The reviewer, toward the end, got into something relevant to my journey through FW: close reading.  I was a poli-sci major in college, I was a con-law geek in law school, and I'm a textualist by trade IRL.  Close reading is what I do.  It's gauche.  Ha, I even didn't know.  It's how I'm approaching FW, and I didn't know that lit crits think it's bullshit.  Here's a blurb from the review:

"This makes her later work [of political events] seem a little more like literary criticism than like reporting.  Didion was an English major at Berkeley at a time when close reading was the gold standard in literary analysis, and Daugherty [the biographer] suggests that those methods stuck with her.  She has said as much herself.

There is a small but immitigable fallacy in the theory of close reading, though, and it applies to political journalism as well as to the reading of poetry [and prose].  The text doesn't reveal its secrets just by being stared at.  It reveals its secrets to those who already pretty much know what secrets they expect to find.  Texts are always packed, by the reader's prior knowledge and expectations, before they are unpacked.  The teacher has already inserted into the hat the rabbit whose production in the classroom awes the undergraduates."

Huh?  Two related points.  (They might be the same point, but I don't have the energy or, frankly, the intellectual chops at this hour to parse or reconcile them.) 

First, who's the teacher for me?  Mild Bill Tindall?  Ok, I get it.  He's got an agenda.  As do many of the people who have finished FW and want to school the noobs like OM and me who haven't.  And I'm wowed by them.  We had a weird, and fun, Twitter exchange a few weeks ago [again, sometime in August] with somebody who spent ten years reading this damn book and seemed to think that O's last post about dad jokes was...hm, how can I fairly characterize this?...insufficiently respectful of people who have devoted their lives to another person's 628-page creation.  (A laudable path, for sure, but that long?  A decade in the Wake?  I couldn't do it.)  Maybe it was?  I know that he's tiring of this project.  Shit, I am, too.  But wouldn't JJ want a dad of two boys (OM), or two dads of two boys (us), to occasionally take a piss on his masterwork?  Wouldn't he be into the entire FW blogosphere?  Not to mention, e-communication, which is our collective nat-language?

Second, and more importantly, The Death of the Author.  I've beaten this drum to death already, but it's a gotdam solid drum that defies death.  The problem with close reading, as identified in that blurb, isn't really a problem.  If the problem is that any reading is flawed because it's not definitive, so what?  There's no definitive, and that's cool.  We bring to this book what we bring to this book - intelligence, biases, etc.  And we got out of it what we get out of it.  You got that outta that, but I got this outta that.  And neither one of us is wrong, or right, but neither one of us gets to decide who's closer to close.

OM has bagged on Tindall.  I haven't.  And that's b/c I know, as a reader, there are huge gaps in my understanding.  JJ wasn't a fool.  He was a brilliant, and frustrating, writer.  Anybody who can help me approach his level is a well-appreciated friend.  This chapter more than ever so far, which brings me back to my intro.  JJ lets you/me/us off the hook here.  This chapter is JJ writing for himself, and not caring if we tag along.  [The next chapter is worse, in that way, imo.]  Get out of it what you get out of it, he challenges, and see you a few hours closer to morning.

Onto the close reading bs...

This chapter was very difficult.  I finished it without peeking at Tindall or anything else until afterwards.  I figured that was probably a mistake, but even Mild Bill admits that this is a headscratcher and that "nothing is denser."  Great.  Later, he claims that it's "[d]ense and allusive maybe, but pleasing."  It's definitely the former. 

Apparently, the overarching structure is provided by a group of children playing in front of HCE's pub as night falls.  I missed that initially, but it's there.  They're sort of performing a play called The Mime of Mick, Nick, and the Maggies.  JJ offers a cast of characters, including Glugg (Shem because he's played by Seumas McQuillad), Izod (or Issy, played by Mis Butys Pot, who, having jilted Shem, has turned her attention to Shaun), Chuff (Shaun because he's played by Sean O'Mailey), Ann (or ALP), Hump (or HCE, played by Mr. Makeall Gone), and Kate from the museum, along with the Floras (Issy's girlfriends) and some bar customers.  According to Tindall, this play is less a frame or vehicle for JJ than a metaphor for children playing.  It takes place in the "pressant," but its list of (theater?) support staff opens with references to the future and the past.  Cyclical, Wake-ian?  Sure.  And the main action is Issy asking a riddle that Shem tries several times without success to answer.

This is parroting Tindall a lot for two reasons: First, I read these segments several weeks ago, started this post, and forgot what I understood about them; second, what I understood about them was extremely limited.  My usual markings in the text are infrequent here, limited to an underlined name or letter or a few references to ALP ("Truly deplurabel!" p. 224).  There were several pages where I was completely lost.  (Tindall: "Nothing much happens in the interlude of several pages that follow[].")  Shem leaves for France, again, and Issy seems bummed, but she's ok later when he's around to whiff on more of her really tiresome, extended-riddle gag.

JJ's brother Stanislaus shows up at "Stainusless" (ouch) as an iteration of Shaun, whom the girls all love, and HCE, who rises (like Tim Finnegan, or because he's sexually aroused - "[w]ith his tumescinquinance on the thight of his tumstull") and becomes Shem.  I saw a couple of HCE references - "Howarden's Castle, Englandwales," "Hulker's cieclest elbownurse" - before "Housefather calls enthreateningly" for the children to end the/their play.

Then there's more riddle, ugh.  Tindal calls Issy "the incestuous girl," who hates to quit Shem.  I caught a lot of sex stuff here.  "If you nude her in her prime, make sure you find her complementary or, ... she'll prick you where you're proudest with her unsatt speagle eye."  "[W]ill ye na pick them in their pink of panties.  You can color up till you're prawn while I go squirt with any cockle."  And "She's her sex, for certain."  None of those lines made complete sense to me, but I sort of felt like it was about Issy and Shem.  There's a passage on p. 249 - the "In the house of breathings" paragraph, if you're one of those close-reading losers or, better, one of those following-along-at-home winners - that's quite beautiful, and too long to quote here, but which indicates that the stuff between them is mutual.

The Lollapalossa line is near the end of this chapter.  And there's this prayer to the playing children:

"Till tree from tree, tree among trees, tree over tree become stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever.

O Loud, hear the wee beseech of thees of each of these thy unlitten ones!  Grant they sleep in hour's time, O Loud!

That they take no chill.  That they do ming no merder.  That they shall not gomeet madhowiatrees.

Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low!

Ha he hi ho hu.

Muumuu."

That's pretty.  I'm happy for reading that, and for reading the rest of this book, even if I'm really just shooting for getting ten percent of it right now.

Tindall mentions that JJ wrote Books I and III before he wrote Book II, so when he got to Book II, he was just hitting his stride with this new way of writing and ready to cut loose.  That's obvious.  Also obvious?  Repetition.  JJ is a literary cubist, at times.  If Picasso in that period was interested in every facet of a face from every angle, Joyce is interested in every facet of a person from every other person's angle - how they appear to not only their closest others and the public, but their own subconscious.  

That's what OM and I have been talking about lately.  Repetition.  He's done with the next chapter, I'm almost done with it.  We're both bogged down in this project and wishing we could move to more enjoyable books.  A convo about that, and another multi-week post soon.  Sorry for the long gap.

JF

Joyce's 628-Page Dad Joke

Are puns the lowest form of humor? Why is it that after we make a pun, we often find it necessary to apologize?

“Sorry about that. Couldn’t help myself.”

Let’s be honest, puns are dad jokes, aren’t they?

"What do you call a belt made out of a watch? A waist of time."

There’s something about the way a pun twists in on itself, and away from the outside world, that makes most right-thinking people groan. The pun is simply about language. It’s not a joke about anything but itself. Once I make a pun, I’m no longer talking to you about something, I’m talking about the words I’m using to talk to you.

The lifespan of the pun is miniscule. It is alive only for that split-second it takes for your brain to solve the linguistic puzzle, and then snap, the pun is dead. Watch, waist, waste, time… Ugh. Clever, but fleeting. Quick, but without real depth.

Perhaps that’s why tabloid newspapers adore the pun so much.

I bring this up because I’m about 260 pages into Finnegans Wake, a novel which is based entirely on word play. My unofficial estimate is that 95% of the words printed on the pages of this book exhibit some sort of word play. Hell, 95% is probably low. It’s puns all the way down!

Does this make Finnegans Wake the world’s longest and most frustrating dad joke? Um, sort of? Let’s be honest, there is a lot of humor in these pages, and much of it is silly and sophomoric.

But (you just knew there was going to be a “but,” didn’t you?) this is James Joyce, so these aren’t just simple puns. The words in this book often exhibit several layers of punning. The book doesn’t take a half-step away from the world (as most puns do). Joyce keeps going, pushing the limit of how much meaning he can pack into each word and phrase and sentence and chapter.

Coiling in on itself, Finnegans Wake begins to emerge on the far side. Joyce takes the stuff of this world, bends and twists it as far as he can with the tools at his disposal, and ultimately ends up with a completely new universe, one that exists through a refraction of linguistic representation.

I’ve read that Joyce packed the history of the world into Finnegans Wake. I’m not sure that’s entirely true. I think he recreated the history of the world, and ended up with something that echoes our universe, but is totally and completely unique at the same time.

And he did it all with the lowest form of humor. Pretty neat trick.

Book I Clickbait (JF)

OM did a Book I recap, so I'll do one, too. I don't have nine points (was that some tether into FW? I don't remember many nines), only three. And if you multiply three by something, and add something to that, you get 1,001. For example, 3 x 333 + 2.  Joycean math, right? And 1,001 = ALP. Uh-huh. I think that's on line 17 of...hey, Tindall, which page is that number thing?

Anyway.

1.  I've gotten better at reading FW. Better's normally the first-step superlative of good, but it's also a relative to other adjectives. Check it out. "Anna, I've been a good husband, and I can be an even better one," vs. "Anna, I've been a bad husband, but I can be a better one." See what I did there?

On this project, I tend toward the latter better. There have been a lot of passages or segments, and posts about them, where I've been a bad reader (on the blog, that's where I whine and lean on Tindall). Not intentionally bad, but still bad. I've improved. And, hey, that's pretty cool. As I tell my kids, it's the hardest book ever written in English, even though most of it is not really written in English.  #natlanguage

2.  I'm daunted by the next howevermany pages. OM got bogged down a few chapters ago, and we texted and emailed about that. He's an avid reader; I used to be. This book often makes him want to quit and read something else, and it makes me want to do the same. Thanks to FW, I've remembered how much I love reading and writing. But, gotdam, I'd sure love to be reading almost anything else for the next eight months or so, and writing my own stuff in my all-too-little personal time. Maybe that's the best compliment about FW? It makes me want to absorb and create.

Those pages? Ugh. I'm behind, way behind - 24 pages on this Sunday. Book II is supposed to really suck, too, and I have an almost stepkid packing and moving to college this weekend. And the fifth anniversary of the first date with my gf is Friday.  (What do you get as a present for that, btw?  Pretty sure it's not a AYITW post, haha. Flowers, maybe?  Ugh, I always do flowers on Fridays.  No ... holy shit ... wait. I got it. Shhh.) Super hectic real life. Then again, when Shem and Shaun moved out, and Izzy followed the Ren Faire people, it must've been nertz.

3.  You. You guys, who are reading this. You guys, who seem to give a shit about this wack-ass thing that me and my too-far-away, new-father-again friend are doing. Yeah. His wife and my gf don't care much about this; they don't read the blog or share the tweets, but you do? You Twitter followers are sort of real to me. Weird? Not really. I'm pretty excited when I get a notification that another person is paying attention, or when I see our pageviews and learn that a person in Portugal is into this. So great. As OM mentioned in his most recent post, JJ would be proud to know that this book has united us. Maybe, because of that connection, this post isn't complete click-bait.

Oh. The header image?  It's Danis Rose, not Susan Sontag.  Mystery solved, and what I wouldn't give if Sue left notes on the Wake for us.  What I wouldn't give to spend a day with her - young/old, healthy/sick - and talk about lit and the content/context debate?

Anyway, redux.

More soon.

Music: From Newsom to Burgess and Beyond

Yesterday, Joanna Newsom released a video for a new song, "Sapokanikan." The song will be on her new album, Divers, and since its her first release since 2010, I went searching to see if I could find any more information. That's when I came upon this tidbit in a LA Times review of the song:

In the video for Joanna Newsom’s first new work in five years, “Sapokanikan,” the harpist-pianist-singer-composer-actor strolls through Manhattan in long takes while singing kaleidoscopic lyrics. Around her the city sparkles. As she moves, Newsom stares into the camera and offers a vivid recounting of James Joyce’s “Finnegans Wake.” ... Just kidding about that last part. 

Ah, can you only imagine if Joanna Newsom had decided to set Finnegans Wake to harp and glockenspiel?

Of course, there have been actual attempts to capture the music of FW. Is there anything stranger than this video of Anthony Burgess singing "The Ballad of Perse O'Reilly"?



The caption of the video states, "Finding himself happily locked in the pub after closing time, Burgess sings from The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly (from Joyce's Finnegans Wake)."  There's something distinctly creepy about this one.

Far more interesting for me is the project of Waywords and Meansigns. From the website's description: "Waywords and Meansigns is an unabridged musical version of James Joyce's famous text, Finnegans Wake. The book has been divided its 17 chapters, with a different musician or performance group assigned to each chapter."

Allowing each artist to interpret a chapter in his or her own way captures the essence of Finnegans Wake. This is the famous Work in Progress, a text so alive that you can encounter the word "googling" in a book written some 60+ years before anyone used Google to search for something. Stranger still, Joyce seems to be using the word correctly.



Above is the first chapter of Book II of FW by way of Waywords and Meansigns, and it gives you a good taste of what the project is all about. I think this is something Joyce himself would've got on board with!

I Finished Book One of Finnegans Wake – Now What?

Book One of Finnegans Wake is done, and I’ve already begun wading into Book Two. This means, at 230-ish pages down, we have a mere 400 or so pages to go.  Now seems like a good time for some general thoughts.

1. Book One, comprised of eight chapters, feels like a complete piece. Of course, it’s intended to be the first of the four cycles, so this shouldn’t be a shock. Still, I wonder what else Joyce could have up his sleeve.
2. The first two chapters of Book Two are reportedly two of the hardest chapters in the novel. It’s unclear how they could be more difficult than several of the previous sections, of which I understood basically zero percent. How can you understand less than nothing of a text? And yet, I don’t really doubt that Joyce pulls it off. He probably figured out a way to remove knowledge from your brain or something. (ed. note—20 pages or so into Book Two now, and it IS exceedingly difficult.)
3. I’m done with Tindall. In all honesty, I haven’t consulted him since Chapter 6 anyway. He writes as though he is the only authority on the text, but the more I’ve read and the more I understand about Finnnegans Wake, the less I agree with the old codger. Most damningly, the Finnegans Wake you can read about in Tindall is less interesting than the Finnegans Wake I’m holding in my hands. I don’t need someone to make this less interesting for me.
4. There must be a thousand and one other sources to consult. On the website Original Positions, a blogger recorded his thoughts on each chapter of FW as he read, and I’ve found this to be more enjoyable than dusty ole Tindall. Obviously, the OP blog doesn’t capture a fraction of what’s to be found in the book, but he makes some broad strokes that I find compelling.
5. I prefer my commentary on Finnegans Wake to grapple with the text, not try to dominate it. Remember that Joyce called this book Work In Progress as it was being written. This was not Joyce being lazy. He wasn’t saying, “Oh, I’ll think of a title when it’s done.” He meant that this new work was alive. Reading it will be an active process for as long as people dare to read it. Finnegans Wake will always be In Progress.
6. The first episode of the Reading Finnegans Wake podcast was posted shortly after A Year in the Wake began. The podcast performs a very close reading of the text, unpacking the various meanings to be found in single lines. Although I’m far ahead of the reader at this point, the podcast still sheds light on elements that I missed. If you’re not aware, Finnegans Wake is NOT a linear novel, so deepening my understanding of Chapter One has repeatedly enhanced my readings of later segments.
7. However, if I need a close reading of a segment in a later chapter, both this glossary and this wiki offer interpretations at the cellular level. Sometimes a new perspective on a single word can unlock an entire section. 
8. This whole book messes with my brain. Last night I read a bit before turning out the light, and spent 20 or so minutes thinking about what I’d read before falling asleep. That quiet thinking about Finnegans Wake took over my mind, and didn’t let go even after I’d fallen asleep. I woke up multiple times in the night feeling like the words in my head were scrambled. How ironic that this book, which many claim is Joyce’s attempt to reconstruct the night, actually makes it more difficult to sleep if I get too immersed in the text.
9. Finally, I’m not really overwhelmed by the 400 pages, or the three Books, or the nine chapters remaining. What’s daunting is the thought that I’ll still be reading 12 pages a week come February. Miles to go before I sleep!

László Moholy-Nagy's Diagram of Finnegans Wake

László Moholy-Nagy.  (Phonetic: Laz-lo Ma-ho-li Naj.)  Ever heard of him?

Amazing man, amazing artist.  Hungarian-Jew, born 1895, converted to Calvinism, fought in WWI for Austro-Hungary, supported communism, moved to Germany in 1920, taught at the Bauhaus, moved to England in 1935, moved to Chicago in 1937, taught at the New Bauhaus (later the Institute of Design or ID before Aaron Siskind and Harry Callahan) in Chicago, drew a weird diagram of FW and died in 1946.

That's it up there.  Kinda cool, mainly because the guy who made it is a modernist visual art icon, and, b/c I'm an ID fan and completely geek-into Siskind and Callahan, an influence on me.  (Influence more photography-wise, back when I used to do that, than writing-wise.)  Idk how helpful it is in reading the actual book.  It's not unhelpful, I guess.

Hope you're all having great weekends.

More soon.

I Walk Through Walls, I Float Down the Liffey

O

tell me all about

Anna Livia! I want to hear all

So begins Chapter 8 of Finnegans Wake. This is the final chapter of the Book I of the novel, and it's in this chapter that we cross the magical 200-page marker (ed. note -- there is nothing particularly magical about 200 pages). Chapter 8 is known as "Anna Livia Plurabelle," for it's in this chapter that the lens finally focuses on HCE's wife. 

Thanks, Google!

It's also perhaps the novel's most well-known chapter. When I typed "Finnegans Wake chap..." into Google, it appears as Google's fourth suggestion. Chapter 1 comes up first, but I guess that's due to all the English undergrads who've decided they're ready to take on the Wake, get to page 6, and then decide they better find out what the heck is happening in Chapter 1. Considering how many people bail on this after only a few pages, let's say that at least Chapter 8 is the second-most read chapter in the book.

So why do people care about so much about "Anna Livia Plurabelle"? For starters, the gimmick of the chapter is a neat one. Joyce worked in the names of over 350 rivers into the text. The character ALP is the river Liffey (aka the River Anna Liffey -- Abhainn na Life in Irish). Anna Livia Plurabelle is an important character, no doubt.  Heck, the novel begins with the word "riverrun." Now look back at the top -- the chapter opens with the Greek letter delta (Δ). Oh, hey, a river delta. Cool.

Statue of Anna Livia Plurabelle

The action here concerns two old washerwomen, wringing out laundry on the banks of the river. They chatter and gossip and tell the story of ALP.  One of the pervading ideas is that these two women are washing away the sins of the world ("the dneepers of wet and gangres of sin in it!"). In another sense, they are scrubbing at language, and Anna Livia is there to sweep everything away in her current. 

Perhaps another reason for its popularity? The entirety is around 20 pages long, making it fairly easy to excerpt and insert into whatever edition of "The Collected Works of James Joyce" or "The Essential Joyce" or "A Readers Guide to James Joyce" or what have you. Or maybe that's me being cynical.

For me, the best part may be the audio recording that exists of Joyce himself reading from the end of "Anna Livia Plurabelle." It was recorded in 1929 and gives a wonderful taste of how Joyce imagined the book to sound.  Hearing his sing-song Irish accent flow through the text is nothing short of glorious.

The video above has a slightly odd animation, but the audio is clear and the subtitles are a nice touch. You can sit back and listen to that recording without any context and, I think, enjoy the music of what you're hearing.

That gets to the heart of the matter, in fact. Finnegans Wake is a musical novel. I've written about it before, but reading it out loud is one of the best ways to attack the text. And because this chapter was written to flow like a river, it's develops a cadence that carries the reader along. 

Chapter 8 works quite well as a standalone piece of text, as long as you have a bit of context for what it's all about. In that sense, it's one of the pieces of FW that I'll likely return to after I've finished stabbing this beast with my steely knife sometime early next year. Well, I'm not going to immediately re-open the book to page 196, but perhaps I will  many years from now, when I want to remember what this project was all about.

And with that, I'll leave you with the final passage from "Anna Livia Plurabelle." Anna Livia has flooded her banks. The two gossiping washerwomen are fading from the story. One turns into a tree and one turns into a stone. It's quite beautiful. Listen to Joyce read it, or try it out loud for yourself. Either way, enjoy!

Can't hear with the waters of.  The chittering waters of.  Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk.  Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Thoma Malone? Can't hear with the bawk of bats, all thim liffey-ing waters of.  Ho, talk save us!  My foos won't moos.  I feel as old as yonder elm.  A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-sons.  Dark hawks hears us.  Night!  Night! My ho head halls.  I feel as heavy as yonder stone.  Tel me of John or Shaun?  Who were Shem and Suan the living sons and daughters of?  Night now!  Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm!  Night night!  Telmetale of stem or stone.  Beside the rivering waters of, highterandtithering waters of. Night!

Week 17 (JF) - Anna Livia Plurabelle

FW pp. 196-216

"Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be."

Chapter VIII, which closes Book I, is about ALP.  Actually, lit scholars refer to this chapter as simply "Anna Livia Plurabelle."  ALP is often symbolized as water or a river, and JJ mentions plenty (according to Tindall, hundreds) of rivers here, but the most important one is the Liffey, which runs through Dublin.  According to Annala Rioghachta Eireann (Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland), a 1851 book by Cucogry O'Clery, the river was originally called Abhainn Liphthe in Gaelic, and became Anna-Liffey (check out the header image) in English.  Anna-Liffey became, in Joycenglish, Anna Livia.  Anna means river.  Livia means life - liv is Danish for life, and the Danish were ancient rulers of Ireland.  Plurabelle, I'm not sure.  A website that popped up on a quick search posited that "plurabelle" was Italian for most beautiful, but Google Translate doesn't support that.  Bella is Italian for beautiful, but I couldn't get a hit for anything in that language beginning with plur.  ALP is many faceted/peopled, though, so I'll guess that plura is somehow related to plural.  (JJ, after playing with numbers and mentioning "she had three figures to fill [Shem, Shaun, Issy] and confined herself to a hundred eleven," says, "They did her well to rechristen her Pluhurabelle.")  ALP, the multiply beautiful river of life.

River...river...river...hm.  Hasn't there been a river mentioned in FW before?  Well, yeah.  Chapter I starts with the word "riverrun."  And Chapter VIII ends with the line, "Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!"  Remember Giambattista Vico, the 18th Century Italian philosopher, whose ideas about the cyclical nature of history influenced JJ?  It doesn't get much more cyclical than starting and ending like that.  Also, the Mookse and the Gripes episode.  Those guys were by a river at some point, hanging out with washerwomen, right?  The washerwomen return, and, together from opposite banks, they gossip about ALP.

I know that I've described certain parts of FW as lyrical or singsong-y or even poetic, but this chapter is full-on poetry without the annoyingly helpful line breaks.  Tindall says it resembles one of T.S. Eliot's longer poems, "a triumph of sequence, rhythm, and sound," and, because it's directed to the ear, it calls for reading aloud.  It's framed by (and, unlike much of the book so far, tethered to some narrative ground by) a conversation between these two women.  One knows more than the other, so the phrase "tell me" recurs frequently: "Onon! Onon! tell me more.  Tell me every tiny teign.  I want to know ever single ingul."  I thought about Bakhtin/Volosinov, and whether JJ is working some sort of indirect speech angle.  Nope.  Aside from the women addressing each other, there's not much speech at all.  It's pure third-person storytelling, which is interesting in itself because JJ, forging this high-modern dream-speak nat-language, almost entirely abandons traditional interlocution between characters for something both less and more (think Greek drama, or even Homer/The Odyssey) traditional, something collective or choral.

I liked this chapter a lot, if that's not obvious so far.  I was over my head (as usual) with the references (Tindall helped a little bit), but comfortable with the flow.  (River, flow?  Get it?  Rimshot.  I'll be here all year.  Please try the veal.)  Anyway.  According to Tindall, this chapter has three loosely-marked parts.

The first part is short.  It's about ALP and HCE, and their marriage, as the washerwomen clean his/their now-familiar dirty laundry.  Tindall is great here on the links to Ulysses.  HCE's "wee follyo" (because wee = oui, or yes in French) is Ulysses - that book ends with Molly Bloom's famous "yes."

The second part is longer.  It begins around a second, and way different, version of ALP's letter found by the hen in the park ("trouved [trouvé is 'found' in French] by a poule [poulet is 'chicken' in French, and poule is 'slut' in French] in the parco").  Per Tindall, it's about the hen and a knapsack in which she has presents for her many (1,001) children.  I got the gifts - a huge list (pp. 210-12) that mentions all three kids, as well as Kate, the ALP stand-in from the museum tour much earlier.  But I got more from this part, which Tindall glosses over.  He's all about the hen and the presents and the children, and whom the children represent.  Meh.  What comes before the list is better, and - hey, I've been reading this book for months, so lemme go off for a sec - more important than Wild Bill makes it seem.  In this part, you get the washerwoman's view of ALP as a young woman, before she was married: "She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most," with "a flewmen of her owen."  (Ohai, OM, lol.)  She was "just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing, then, sauntering, by silvamoonlake," who was "oso sweet and so limber" or "the wiggly livvly."  I need to reread this part to set it still in my head, but I feel like this is ALP's sexual history, which kicks off with her losing her virginity to a priest?  Then she meets HCE, "Her Chuff Exquire," and it's all over.

There are two passages that I loved in this part: The descriptions of ALP on pp. 206-07 - "First she let her hair fal and down it flussed to her feet its teviots winding coils" - and on p. 208 - "She wore a ploughboy's nail studded clogs."  I haven't spent enough time with either of them, tbh (the lead-ins are both dense af), but there's something incredibly beautiful, sad, weird, lost-soul - "Everyone that saw her said the dowce little delia looked a bit queer" - about both.  The former, I don't understand at all, and the latter?  Is that her on her wedding day?  Tindall?  Completely useless to me on this.  (OM, I'd love to hear your take on pp. 202-09.  Fwiw, I may update this post, if I dig into this part, or I may just press ahead.)

The third part is about the washerwomen themselves and the river.  Tindall calls it "a hymn to renewal, the fall of night, death, and the living river."  It read, to me, as more frame-y - the same way that the last verses of Bob Dylan's "Black Diamond Bay" and the Grateful Dead's "Wharf Rat" is frame-y.  We told you somebody else's story, and now we'll talk about our view, so you can see who and where we are.  

Sometimes, though not often enough, Tindall nails it.  He posits, "Maybe Joyce is the Wake's only reader and, though other readers dare other readings, the only reader's guide."  And the best part?  You can listen for yourself.  Here's JJ in 1929 reading the end of Chapter VIII.  Wow.  "[E]very telling has a taling and that's the he and the she of it."  Yep.  The washerwomen smack the clothes against the banks, and their conversation trails off - tbc in Chapter X, apparently.

I'm caught up, and we're 1/3 of the way through this thing.  Gj, O, and gl, us.  The next segment is gonna suck.

More soon.

Week 16 (JF) - Shaun on Shem

FW pp. 187-95

The end of Chapter VII is sort of a drag.  Shaun takes over, and he seems like a real dick, even moreso than he was in the previous chapter.  Remember that the Earwicker boys are twins, but Shaun acts more mature - older and smarter (he's definitely not the latter).  And he isn't afraid to lecture his brother about how his conduct has affected the family.

Shaun starts out his #rant with a pedantic grammar check, reminiscent of his overly formal response to the question about the drunk guy.  "Stand forth," Shem commands, "for no longer will I follow you obliquelike through the inspired form of the third person singular and the moods and hesitancies of the deponent but address myself to you, with the empirative of my vendettative, provocative and out direct."  "Stand forth," he repeats,

"come boldly, jolly me, move me, zwilling though I am, to laughter in your true colors ere you be back forever till I give you your talkingto!  Shem Macadamson [probably a reference to HCE, somehow] , you know me and I know you and all your shemeries.  Where have you been in the uterim [uterus + interim], enjoying yourself all the morning since your last wetbed confession?  I advise you to conceal yourself, my little friend [they're twins], as I have said a moment ago and have a nightlong homely little confiteor [confession, I think?] about things.  Let me see.  It is looking pretty black against you, we suggest, Sheem avick [not sure what avick means - maybe Irish slang].  You will need all the elements in the river [ALP, just wait] to clean you over it all and a fortifine popepriestpower bull of attender to booth."

Thanksgiving at the House of HCE sounds like a blast.  Dad's still in trouble with Mom about "that thing in the park they don't talk about."  Shem humblebrags, Shaun holyrolls, and Issy's a shapeshifting goth, who's probably into cutting.  (Jk.  We don't know much about her at this point.  She could be really sweet.)

There's not a lot in this segment to decipher.  I didn't get many of the references, but I did get the tone.  It's clear that Shaun hates/resents and, somewhere deep down damnit, loves Shem and his cosmopolitan lifestyle.  Maybe the hatred and resentment is directed less at Shem than at his choices, which took away the brother/twin that he needed and still needs.  I got a prodigal son vibe (hence, the header image - a Google image search score from a Bible study website, where bad choices look kinda fly), which I'm not sure is there.  I could make a case, though.  One brother leaves, one brother stays?

Oh, didn't JJ have a brother, too?  He sure did, Stanislaus, who...had a love-hate relationship with JJ.  Imagine that, pretty autobiographical.  Per that Wikipedia link, Stanislaus followed JJ to Italy (pre-FW) and bailed him out of financial shit several times.  Stanislaus eventually became a teacher, or lecturer, there, and commented later about his older brother, "It seems to me little short of a miracle that anyone should have striven to cultivate poetry or cared to get in touch with the current of European thought while living in a household such as ours, typical as it was of the squalor of a drunken generation."  What a drip, right?  Reminds me of another Stanis.  Tindall backs me up on this, fwiw, but he's mostly unhelpful and covers 12 pages of the Wake in record time - not without mentioning some Australian aboriginal device called the "deathbone."  Yeah, the word is in the text, and maybe that's what JJ meant, but still.  Shaun points the device at Shem, and turns over the conversation not to Shem, but to ALP?

I didn't get that on my initial read, tbh.  I thought it was Shem or HCE, but it's very clearly ALP.    She opens by admitting that she's cursed her womb that bore Shem and her husband, whom she "sometimes sucked."  (Fairly graphic, but that's on page 193, and what censor back then read that far?)  Then there's a confusing (and great, if I'm right about it) passage, where she understands that Shem has been haunted by a "convulsionary sense of not having been or being all that I might have been of you meant to becoming," of letting her down, and also understands that she's done the same to him, with good reason: Life.  "The days of youyouth," she says, "are evermixed with mimine."  He left from her, he laughed at her, and now he's forgetting her.  But parents are people, too, and their emotions are as valid, and their experiences are as memorable, as those of their children.  And their pain over the inevitable jump from the nest is visceral.  We birthed and raised you, and now you have the audacity to leave?  With a smirk on your beautiful face, like you know everything?  Sigh.  You'll see, if you're lucky enough to be a parent.

JJ closes this chapter with a really pretty pan back from ALP as she walks down the street, with her springy step and her curly hair.  "[A]s happy as the day is wet, babbling, bubbling, chattering to herself, ... giddgaddy, grannyma, gossipaceous Anna Livia."

Who just happens to be the focus of Chapter VIII.  Imagine that.  Progress-wise, I'm a few pages behind, but I want to read the next chapter as a whole - it's 20 pages, instead of the usual 12.  No big deal.  I haven't dived in yet, but I'm looking forward to more about OM's fictional gf.

More soon.

Conversation #3: In which our tired, but unbowed, correspondents congratulate each other on finishing Chapter VI, and seal a perhaps foolhardy deal to continue...with a Don Draper handshake

[This email chain happened a few segments ago, when we were both bogged down in Chapter VI.  The specifics are past tense now, but the general stuff is still relevant.]

OM: Tbh, this whole chapter has been a slog.  But I will readily admit that much of that has been my attitude.  I've been struggling to find a reason to continue reading.  And reading something that you don't want to read anymore kinda sucks. 

But it was good to get through a new post.  Felt like I was back on the horse.

JF: Dude, you and I can both read 12 pages of just about anything in a week.  Sure, it helps to actually want to read it, but whatever.  I've had issues reading for years - still do.  There are just very few opportunities time/space-wise for me to read/write.  So I'm actually ok with the slog aspect of this project.  I'm not getting a ton out of it, but I'm still going, and to me that's pretty important.

I generally try to read enough, so I can write about it on Wednesday nights.  If I don't read before then, it's tough to read FW, then read Tindall, then write a blogpost.  And this chapter really sucked, in a lot of ways.

The thing that sucks is that you're right, tho.  Now that I have some taste and interest in reading again - for the first time in years!! - I'd rather be reading almost anything else, ha.  There's a new-ish Bolano that I got last fall staring at me from the top shelf lately.  And Infinite Jest is just so pissed off at me that I stopped less then 200 pages from the end; I carry it in my backpack every day as penance.

OM: You're right, it's not that I can't read FW.  I can, and have for 12 straight weeks or whatever it is.  But I feel like I get it now.  I don't mean I get the whole thing, but I see what Joyce is doing with language, I have learned how to approach the text to extract what meaning I can, and I have broad ideas about what the book is about.  Are my understandings going to grow or change over the next 450 pages? That's the part that is disheartening.  I don't read as much as I'd like to, so why read something that is such a slog when I do have some time?

None of this is to say I've given up.  I haven't.  I think what I've realized, though, is that the blog is important.  It forces me to find something worthwhile in this endeavor.

JF: Same.

That's the thing, bigger picture.  How do we fit heady endeavors - there's probably a better millennial-speak term for a "for its own sake" or "because it's there" thing like reading FW that doesn't carry the perjorative weight of "heady" - into lives already chock full with work and home responsibilities?  I often struggle with that balance, and almost always err on the side of work/home.  That's might not be the best default, but it might be the easiest.  I'd rather be helpful around the house than useless because my head is lost on a page.

And the calculus gets messier for this particular book.  It's not really very "fun" to read.  Yeah, sure, it's challenging, and there's some fun in that, I guess.  But beyond that, it's pretty tough.  And you and I are doing this alone, with no support.  We're outside the academy (Tindall doesn't count - he's dead and annoying) and apart from our families and friends, who, for better or worse, just don't give a shit about JJ or FW.
 

I mean, here's a thumbnail of the text:

FW is a really long book written written mostly in unconventional English about a really long dream by an Irish bar owner who gets caught masturbating in the park by two young women messing around with three soldiers, which includes references to the guy's family - wife, twin sons, daughter - and various people and events in the history of Western Civilization.

And that makes it sound better than it is.  No wonder nobody reads our blog, haha.

OM: Hey, our blog has over 1200 pageviews.  Fame and fortune are sure to follow. I feel like that's pretty damn good, considering only a few people ever have actually read FW.  I'm not sure if this number is accurate, but I think we are the 63rd and 64th people in history to pass the 100-page mark in FW.

Not bad, my friend.  Not bad at all.

JF: The title of this post is totally gonna be "In which our tired but unbowed correspondents congratulate each other on passing the century mark, and seal a deal to continue... with a Don Draper handshake."

Yeah, I have no idea if 1,200 page views is good or not.  It's certainly a lot more than my other lame blogs have ever gotten.  But we only have one follower to the blog itself?  How does that work?

63 & 64, huh?  We should get jerseys with JJ's face on the front and those numbers on the backs.  You can be 63 because I'm pretty sure you got there first.

But what do you think about the point I made earlier?  Finding time for this stuff?  It's frustrating sometimes to me, but then I realize how silly that is.  Hobbies should be fulfilling, not frustrating.  Idk.  I feel like producing content - via the blog, via whatever - is important, as important sometimes as passive reading.  That's probably another point altogether.

OM: That is the title.  Good stuff. 1,200 is a lot more than I thought we'd get for the the entire life of this blog, so yeah, it's good.

I don't have a problem with finding time for reading and writing about literature in a general sense.  But I don't want to read a book that I don't enjoy or that I'm not feeling rewarded by. It's not a matter of reading or doing something else.  The equation for me is "read this" or "read that."  I will die before I read all the books I want to read in this life, so I don't like giving away precious reading time to something that doesn't deserve it.

This goes for any book I pick up. I'm not singling out FW.  I usually make a determination somewhere between pages 50 and 100 of any novel I'm reading.  "Is this worth my time?  If not, why continue reading when there is a world of literature out there to explore?"

JF: I do have a problem with finding time for reading and writing - in a general sense, and in a specific sense with FW.  I just have trouble finding the time/space.  I will die before I read, or write, all the books I want to, and for a few years my response to that has been a resigned shrug to ward off being pissed off.

Funny that I picked this book/project to get back into things.  When you proposed this project, I was like, eh, what the hell, I can read 12 pages of anything in a week, O's a great friend, this will be fun to share together.  I dove in, moved ahead, got behind, caught up, etc.  And looked around and you weren't here for a while, for legit reasons.  But what I realized then is that this isn't just about me doing something to share with you.  It's about doing something almost impossibly difficult, largely alone (reading isn't really a team sport like blogging), for myself.  To prove to myself that I can, that all the things I learned in college and grad school may not matter on a day to day basis, but matter in some other sense of self-worth.  I tell my kids sometimes when they bitch about homework that they're lucky because what I've been best at in my whole life is going to school and learning, and I don't get to do that anymore.

Actually, I do.  I'd say thanks, but I kinda came to this epiphany on my own.  What I'm grateful for, as far as you're concerned, is helping me find the opportunity to have that epiphany and to continue learning and growning my brain.