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.”
