Gemini.Finnegans.Wake.01

Posted on 2025-07-31 Edited on 2025-08-02

Let’s explore Finnegans Wake by James Joyce. I’ll send you the text of the book paragraph by paragraph, and then we can discuss it together. Please introduce the book to me first. Thank you.

Of course. This is an ambitious and wonderful project. Diving into Finnegans Wake is a unique literary adventure, and exploring it together paragraph by paragraph is an excellent way to approach it.

Given your unique background, you might find this book fascinating on multiple levels. As someone living in Dublin, you are immersed in the book’s very landscape. And as an engineer with an interest in cybersecurity and large language models, you might appreciate the book’s structure as a kind of deeply encrypted, multi-layered system of information.

Here is an introduction to what awaits us in James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.

An Introduction to Finnegans Wake

Finnegans Wake (1939) is James Joyce’s final and most experimental work. If his earlier novel Ulysses chronicled a single day in Dublin, Finnegans Wake attempts to chronicle a single night, plunging into the universal dream-world of its sleeping protagonists.

1. The “Plot” - A Dream of Everything

At its most basic level, the book is the dream of a Dublin publican, Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker (often just called HCE), who lives in Chapelizod, a suburb of Dublin right next to Phoenix Park. The dream also encompasses his wife, Anna Livia Plurabelle (ALP), their twin sons, Shem the Penman and Shaun the Post, and their daughter, Issy.

However, these characters are not fixed individuals. In the fluid logic of a dream, they constantly melt into other figures from history, mythology, and literature.

HCE becomes everyman, from Adam and Humpty Dumpty to historical leaders and fallen giants. His “fall” is a central, recurring theme.
ALP, his wife, is associated with the River Liffey that flows through Dublin. She is the eternal river of life, always changing but always constant. As someone living in Dublin, you’ll find the river itself is perhaps the book’s most important character.

2. The Language - “Wakese”

This is the book’s most famous and challenging feature. Joyce doesn’t write in standard English. He created a unique dream-language, often called “Wakese,” which is built on:

Portmanteaus: Words blended together to create multiple meanings simultaneously (e.g., “moananoaning” combines “moaning,” “onan,” and the sound of the sea).
Multilingual Puns: The text is a collage of puns, jokes, and references from over 60 different languages.
Sound and Rhythm: The book is meant to be read aloud. The sound of the words often reveals meanings that are hidden on the page. For someone studying English, it’s a fascinating, if extreme, exploration of the language’s sonic possibilities.

Think of it less as a narrative to be read and more as a code to be deciphered or a complex system to be explored. Your background in cybersecurity might give you a unique appreciation for this—it’s like a text that has been deliberately and beautifully obfuscated, with layers of meaning hidden within its structure.

3. The Structure - A Cycle

The book is a circle. The very last sentence of the book is unfinished, and it flows directly back into the opening sentence.

(Last sentence): A way a lone a last a loved a long the

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

This structure is inspired by the cyclical theory of history proposed by the Italian philosopher Giambattista Vico. It represents the endless cycles of history, life, death, and resurrection—the “wake” is both a vigil for the dead and an awakening to a new day.

How to Approach It

Don’t try to “solve” it. It’s not a puzzle with a single right answer.
Embrace the confusion. Let the language wash over you.
Read it aloud. Listen to the music of the words.
Be an “observer” and a “player.” Observe the patterns and recurring sounds, but also play with the possible meanings.

It’s a book that resists being understood in a conventional way, much like how an LLM might struggle to parse its logic because it’s built on human dream-associations, not just statistical patterns. It demands a different kind of reading.

I am ready to begin this exploration with you. Please send the first paragraph whenever you’re ready.

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

Excellent. We begin in the middle of a flow. This very first line is actually the end of the book’s last sentence, immediately plunging us into the circular structure we discussed.

Let’s break it down.

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

This single, flowing sentence establishes the book’s core themes and methods.

The Subject: “riverrun”
The sentence begins with its subject, the “riverrun,” which we can understand as the River Liffey flowing through Dublin. This is our main female principle, Anna Livia Plurabelle (ALP). The word itself is fluid, active, and continuous.
The Path: Time and Space
- past Eve and Adam's: This is our first major clue. It refers to the biblical beginning, Adam and Eve, but Joyce reverses the names. This might be to place the female principle first. More concretely, this is a real place you could see in Dublin: the Church of Adam and Eve on Merchants Quay. The river flows right past it.
- from swerve of shore to bend of bay: This is pure musical description of the river’s physical journey, winding its way to the sea at Dublin Bay. The alliteration (s and b sounds) makes the language itself feel like it’s meandering.
The Engine: The Viconian Cycle
- brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation: This is the philosophical heart of the sentence.
  - commodius: Spacious, ample.
  - vicus: Latin for ‘street’ or ‘road’.
  - recirculation: The key theme of cycles.
    This phrase is a direct, albeit punning, reference to Giambattista Vico, the Italian philosopher who argued that history moves in great cycles (ages of gods, heroes, and men, followed by a ricorso or return). So, the river is taking us on a spacious “Vico Road” of recirculation.
The Destination/Origin: HCE
- back to Howth Castle and Environs: This is the destination. Howth is the great peninsula that forms the northern arm of Dublin Bay. But look closer at the initials: Howth Castle and Environs.
- This is the first appearance of our main male protagonist, Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker (HCE), hidden in the landscape itself.

From your perspective as a “security researcher,” this is the first encrypted key. The landscape of Dublin itself contains the initials of the main character. The book immediately tells you that its meaning is layered, hidden in puns, acronyms, and geography.

So, in one sentence, Joyce gives us:

The female principle (the river, ALP).
The male principle (the landscape, HCE).
The setting (the city of Dublin, from its quays to the bay).
The theme (the beginning of humanity, Eve and Adam's).
The structure (a vicus of recirculation).

What are your initial thoughts or feelings reading this? Does anything in the sound or the words jump out at you?

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

This paragraph shifts gears dramatically. If the first sentence was the smooth, flowing overture of the river, this is a stuttering, static-filled overture of history and myth. Joyce is laying out the key ingredients of his story by telling us what hasn’t happened yet.

Let’s unpack this dense piece of code.

Sir Tristram, violer d’amores, fr’over the short sea, had passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor to wielderfight his penisolate war:

This sets the scene with a legendary arrival.

Sir Tristram: The hero from the romance of Tristan and Iseult, a story strongly connected with Dublin (the suburb of Chapelizod, where HCE lives, is supposedly named for Iseult’s Chapel). He represents the archetypal invader/hero arriving in Ireland from across the sea.
passencore rearrived: A brilliant portmanteau. It combines the French pas encore (“not yet”) with the idea of a recurring arrival (rearrived). So, he has “not yet” arrived, but his arrival is a cycle that is always about to happen.
North Armorica / scraggy isthmus of Europe Minor: This is North America and Ireland. Joyce links the ancient legend to modern migration.
penisolate war: A pun on the Peninsular War, but also suggesting a war fought with a pen in isolation, or a conflict of a sexual (penis) nature.

…nor had toppsawyer’s rocks by the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County’s gorgios while they went doublin their mumper all the time:

Here, Joyce jumps across the Atlantic with a fantastic pun.

Laurens County… Oconee: This is a real place in Georgia, USA. And the county seat of Laurens County is a city named Dublin.
doublin their mumper: A pun on “doubling their number.” These American Georgians are “doubling” or imitating the original Dublin, Ireland. The book is already playing with copies, echoes, and namesakes.

…nor avoice from afire bellowsed mishe mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick:

This line stages a foundational conflict for Ireland.

avoice from afire… mishe mishe: This evokes the biblical Burning Bush. The voice bellows mishe mishe, which is the Irish Gaelic for “I am, I am” or “It is I.” It’s a primal, native voice.
tauftauf thuartpeatrick: This is the response. Tauf is German for “baptize,” and the phrase sounds like “Thou art Patrick.” This is the voice of St. Patrick, the Christian missionary. The line pits the old pagan Ireland against the new Christian one.

…not yet, though venisson after, had a kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all’s fair in vanessy, were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe.

These two clauses introduce the theme of sibling/romantic rivalry, which will become central to the story. They reference:

The biblical story of Jacob (the kidscad or kid-cad) tricking his father Isaac to steal his brother’s birthright.
The tangled love life of the famous Dublin author Jonathan Swift, who had relationships with two women named Esther (the sosie sesthers or twin sisters).

Rot a peck of pa’s malt and Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen ringsome on the aquaface.

This final, cryptic sentence is the punchline. It tells us what the result of all this history and conflict will be.

pa’s malt: The father’s (HCE’s) legacy, the raw material for the story.
Jhem or Shen: Our first glimpse of the rival twin sons, Shem and Shaun. Shem is the artist, the writer (often identified with Joyce himself, or “Jem”). Shaun is the postman, the man of the people.
regginbrow: A scrambled “rainbow.”
aquaface: The face of the water.

So, the legacy of the father (pa's malt), processed by the rival sons (Jhem or Shen), will eventually produce a rainbow (regginbrow) that can be seen in a ring (ringsome) on the face of the river (aquaface).

In essence, this entire paragraph is an overture that states: The ancient cycles of invasion, conflict, and family rivalry haven’t quite started yet, but their combination is the formula that will produce the story we are about to read—a rainbow reflection on the river of time.

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

Excellent. This paragraph contains one of the most famous moments in the book—the first of the ten “thunderwords.” It signals a catastrophic event, a great fall that echoes through the entire text.

The fall(bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) of a once wallstrait old parr is retaled early in bed and later on life down through all christian minstrelsy.

Right away, we are confronted with the event itself: The fall.

The 100-letter word in parentheses is the sound of that fall. It’s a cosmic thunderclap representing many things at once: Adam’s fall from grace, a castle wall crumbling, the sound of God’s voice, a door slamming, a stutter. It’s constructed from words for “thunder” in a host of languages—Irish (torann), French (tonnerre), Italian (tuono), Greek (brontē), Japanese (kaminari), and many more. It is the ultimate multilingual, onomatopoeic portmanteau.

This fall belongs to a once wallstrait old parr:

This is our man HCE.
wallstrait is a pun on Wall Street (suggesting a fallen capitalist titan) and a “straight wall” that has now crumbled.
parr is a young salmon, but also “Pa” or father.
This story, the paragraph says, is retaled (re-told) both privately (early in bed, in the dream) and publicly (down through all christian minstrelsy).

The great fall of the offwall entailed at such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse sold man, that the humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in quest of his tumptytumtoes:

Here, Joyce layers three falls on top of each other:

The fall of the offwall: This is explicitly the fall of Humpty Dumpty, who famously fell “off the wall.”
the pftjschute of Finnegan: This links the fall to Tim Finnegan, the hero of the Irish-American ballad “Finnegan’s Wake.” Finnegan was a hod-carrier (erse sold man or Irish old man) who fell from a ladder to his supposed death. The word pftjschute is a perfect sound effect for a sudden, fizzling fall.
humptyhillhead of humself: This merges HCE with Humpty Dumpty and a hill (hillhead, like Howth Head).

The fall immediately prompts an investigation. An unquiring one (an inquirer) is sent to find the pieces (his tumptytumtoes), just as “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.” The rest of the book is, in a way, this quest to understand what happened.

and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since devlinsfirst loved livvy.

This grounds the cosmic, mythical fall in a very specific Dublin location.

the knock out in the park: “Knock” (from the Irish cnoc) means hill. The location is a hill in Phoenix Park, a place you can visit right there in Dublin. The “knockout” is the fall itself. This is often interpreted as being near the Wellington Monument.
where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green: This is pure Irish political history. “Oranges” symbolize the Protestant Orangemen (followers of William of Orange), while “the green” is the color of Irish nationalism and Catholicism. The fall happens at a site of ancient conflict, where these two forces have been left to “rust” upon each other.
since devlinsfirst loved livvy: Since Dublin (Devlin) first loved the River Liffey (Livvy). This conflict has existed since the city’s very beginning.

So, this paragraph takes a universal myth (The Fall), gives it a sound (the thunderword), embodies it in a nursery rhyme (Humpty Dumpty) and a ballad (Tim Finnegan), and then places the “crime scene” squarely in the middle of Phoenix Park, embedding it in centuries of Irish history. The investigation has begun.

What clashes here of wills gen wonts, oystrygods, gaggin fishygods! Brekkek Kekkek Kekkek Kekkek! Koax Koax Koax! Ualu Ualu Ualu! Quaouauh! Where the Baddelaries partisans are still out to mathmaster Malachus Micgranes and the Verdons catapelting the camibalistics out of the Whoyteboyce of Hoodie Head. Assiegates and boomeringstroms. Sod’s brood, be me fear! Sanglorians, save ! Arms apeal with larms, appalling. Killykillkilly: a toll, a toll. What chance cuddleys, what cashels aired and ventilated! What bidimetoloves sinduced by what tegotetabsolvers! What true feeling for their’s hyair with what strawng vice of false jiccup! O here here how hoth sprowled met the duskt the father of fornicationists but, (O my shining stars and body!) how hath fanespanned most high heaven the skysign of soft advertisement! But waz iz! Iseut! Era were sewers! The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

This paragraph is a blast of pure chaos. If the last one described the Fall, this one drops us right into the noisy, confusing immediate aftermath. It’s a collage of battle sounds, historical arguments, and philosophical declarations.

Let’s try to navigate the noise.

What clashes here of wills gen wonts, oystrygods, gaggin fishygods! Brekkek Kekkek Kekkek Kekkek! Koax Koax Koax! Ualu Ualu Ualu! Quaouauh!

The paragraph opens with a cacophony.

It’s a clash of wills and wants (wills gen wonts).
It’s a battle of ancient tribes or gods: the oystrygods (perhaps Ostrogoths, or closed-off oyster-like gods) versus the gaggin fishygods (Visigoths, or gagged fish-like gods).
The Brekkek Kekkek... Koax... is a direct lift from the ancient Greek comedy The Frogs by Aristophanes. It’s the sound of a frog chorus from the underworld, serving as a chaotic, primitive commentary on the events.

Where the Baddelaries partisans are still out to mathmaster Malachus Micgranes and the Verdons catapelting the camibalistics out of the Whoyteboyce of Hoodie Head.

The noise becomes more specific, grounding itself in Irish history. This describes endless, recurring feuds.

It pits factions against each other: the Verdons (a Norman family) against the Whoyteboyce (the “Whiteboys,” an 18th-century Irish secret society).
The battleground is Hoodie Head—another name for Howth Head, HCE’s location. The eternal arguments of Irish history are being fought on his very doorstep. Camibalistics is a wonderful portmanteau of cannibal and ballistics, suggesting they are slinging savage, self-destructive arguments at each other.

Arms apeal with larms, appalling. Killykillkilly: a toll, a toll.
The sounds of war and death. A call to arms (Arms apeal), appalling alarms (larms, appalling), the sound of killing, and bells tolling for the dead.

What chance cuddleys, what cashels aired and ventilated! … O here here how hoth sprowled met the duskt the father of fornicationists…
The focus abruptly shifts from public battle to private sin. The chaos seems to stem from a transgression.

The language hints at illicit sexual encounters: “chance cuddles,” “loves induced by… absolvers.”
the father of fornicationists: This is a direct accusation against HCE, describing him sprawling in the dusk (hoth sprowled met the duskt). This is a glimpse of the rumored sin in Phoenix Park.
strawng vice of false jiccup: A “strong voice” with a “false hiccup.” This introduces HCE’s characteristic stutter, which emerges when he is guilty or defensive.

But waz iz! Iseut! Era were sewers! The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

This is the paragraph’s stunning conclusion. After all the chaos, it provides the book’s central thesis.

The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay: A beautiful image of cyclical renewal. The old (ald) oaks are dead in the bogs, but new life (elms) springs from the ashes (askes) of the past.
Phall if you but will, rise you must: This is one of the most important lines in Finnegans Wake. It’s a pun on Fall and Phallus. The fall may be a matter of choice or will, but resurrection and rising again is a cosmic law. It is inevitable.
the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish: The whole “farce” will have a “phoenix” finish. The cycle of destruction will end in a rebirth, just like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. This is the promise of the book and the ultimate meaning behind the name of the location of the fall: Phoenix Park.

So, this paragraph throws us into the chaos of the fallen world but ends by stating the fundamental law of that world: everything that falls is destined to rise again in a new form.

Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, Freemen’s maurer, lived in the broadest way immarginable in his rushlit toofarback for messuages before joshuan judges had given us numbers or Helviticus committed deuteronomy (one yeasty day he sternely struxk his tete in a tub for to watsch the future of his fates but ere he swiftly stook it out again, by the might of moses, the very water was eviparated and all the guenneses had met their exodus so that ought to show you what a pentschanjeuchy chap he was!) and during mignty odd years this man of hod, cement and edifices in Toper’s Thorp piled buildung supra buildung pon the banks for the livers by the Soangso. He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur. Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part inher. Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in grasp and ivoroiled overalls which he habitacularly fondseed, like Haroun Childeric Eggeberth he would caligulate by multiplicables the alltitude and malltitude until he seesaw by neatlight of the liquor wheretwin ‘twas born, his roundhead staple of other days to rise in undress maisonry upstanded(joygrantit!), a waalwarth of a skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with larrons o’toolers clittering up and tombles a’buckets clottering down.

This is a magnificent paragraph. It’s a mythological biography of the builder himself, our central character HCE/Finnegan. After the chaos of the last section, Joyce zooms in to give us a portrait of the man whose fall is the cause of everything.

Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, Freemen’s maurer, lived in the broadest way immarginable in his rushlit toofarback for messuages before joshuan judges had given us numbers or Helviticus committed deuteronomy…

We get his name and profession:

Bygmester: A Scandinavian/German title for “Master Builder,” famously used in Henrik Ibsen’s play The Master Builder, about an architect who falls to his death from a tower he built. The foreshadowing is clear.
Finnegan: The builder now has the name from the ballad.
of the Stuttering Hand: His flaw isn’t just in his speech, but in his very work. He is a flawed creator.
Freemen's maurer: A “Freemason,” a member of a secret society of builders.
He is a primordial figure, living in a toofarback time before the biblical books of law (Joshua, Judges, Numbers, Leviticus, Deuteronomy) were written.

(one yeasty day… what a pentschanjeuchy chap he was!)
This parenthetical story illustrates his magical power. He sticks his head in a tub of water (or Guinness) to see the future, and by his sheer power (the might of moses), the primordial brew (guenneses, a pun on Guinness and Genesis) evaporates and disappears (met their exodus). He is a pentschanjeuchy chap—a joker powerful enough to play with the Pentateuch (the first five books of the Bible).

…this man of hod, cement and edifices in Toper’s Thorp piled buildung supra buildung pon the banks for the livers by the Soangso.
For years, in Toper's Thorp (Drunkard’s Village, i.e., Dublin), he built endlessly (buildung supra buildung is German for “building upon building”) on the banks of the river (Soangso, a song-like river, the Liffey) for the people who live there (livers).

…like Haroun Childeric Eggeberth he would caligulate by multiplicables the alltitude and malltitude…
He is a composite of all powerful, patriarchal rulers (Haroun Childeric Eggeberth). He is a grand, almost mad (caligulate contains Caligula) planner, calculating the height (alltitude) and magnitude (malltitude) of his creations.

…until he seesaw by neatlight of the liquor… his roundhead staple of other days to rise in undress maisonry upstanded(joygrantit!), a waalwarth of a skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from next to nothing and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, with a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with larrons o’toolers clittering up and tombles a’buckets clottering down.

This is the paragraph’s climax: a drunken vision of his ultimate creation.

He sees his masterpiece: a tower, a roundhead staple (steeple), a skyerscape (skyscraper).
It’s an Irish creation, erigenating (originating from Eriu/Ireland) and rising to the heavens (celescalating - celestial/escalating).
It is of immense height (eyeful hoyth, as high as Howth Head).
The building itself is described by one of the book’s greatest portmanteaus: hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, a word containing hierarchy, architect, tip, top, and lofty.
The ultimate act of hubris: the tower has a burning bush abob off its baubletop. The builder places the symbol of God’s presence on top of his own creation, making himself a rival to God.
The final sounds are of its construction, with larrons o'toolers (a pun on St. Laurence O’Toole, the patron saint of Dublin, and “larcenous toolers” or thieving workers) climbing the ladders.

This paragraph shows us the “pride” that comes before the “fall.” We see the builder’s magnificent, god-rivalling ambition. This is the Tower of Babel being built in Dublin, and it is the construction of this impossibly arrogant structure that will lead to the thunderous collapse we read about two paragraphs ago.

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

This paragraph brings the towering figure of the “Bygmester” crashing down to earth with a barrage of mockery. The tone shifts from mythic biography to public ridicule, as if we’re hearing the gossip and taunts of the Dublin crowd.

Of the first was he to bare arms and name: Wassaily Booslaeugh of Riesengeborg. His crest of huroldry, in vert with ancillars, troublant, argent, a hegoak, poursuivant, horrid, horned. His scutschum fessed, with archers strung, helip, of the second. Hootch is for husbandman handling his hoe.

First, he is given a grand, mock-heroic identity:

His Name: Wassaily Booslaeugh is a pun-filled name. It evokes the Russian folk hero Vasily Buslayev, a powerful but rebellious character who defies all authority and meets a foolish end. It also contains booze and laugh. He is from Riesengeborg, German for “Giant’s Mountain.” So he is a drunken, rebellious giant.
His Coat of Arms: Joyce parodies the formal language of heraldry (huroldry) to describe his crest. The key image is a hegoak... horrid, horned. The grand hero’s symbol is a lecherous, horned male goat, hinting at the sexual nature of his sin and his status as a cuckold or devil figure. His shield (scutschum, punning on scrotum) is beaten and besieged.
The Punchline: The grand description is immediately deflated with a line that sounds like it’s from a children’s alphabet book: Hootch is for husbandman handling his hoe. The giant builder is reduced to a simple, drunken farmer.

Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you’re going to be Mister Finnagain! Comeday morm and, O, you’re vine! Sendday’s eve and, ah, you’re vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you’re going to be fined again!

The paragraph then dissolves into a direct, taunting chant. This is where Joyce lays some of his key themes bare, turning them into playground songs.

The Cycle of Rebirth: Mister Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain!
The name of the ballad hero, Finnegan, is turned into a promise of cyclical return. To be “Finn” is to “begin again.”
The Cycle of Decay: Comeday morm and, O, you're vine! Sendday's eve and, ah, you're vinegar!
This captures a smaller, weekly cycle. On “Comedy-morn” (Monday), he’s fresh and full of promise like wine (vine). By “Sendday’s eve” (Sunday), he has soured into vinegar. Life itself is a process of inevitable decay, which in turn prepares for a new beginning. As it’s Thursday evening now, we’re well on our way to the vinegar stage of the week.
The Cycle of Transgression: Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again!
The hero is now just “Mister Funn,” a figure of fun. The cycle is framed legally. His sin is not a one-time event; he is a repeat offender, destined to be fined again. This brilliant pun (Finnagain / fined again) connects the theme of rebirth directly to the theme of recurring guilt and punishment.

This paragraph acts as a comic chorus. It takes the epic figure from the previous section and cuts him down to size, showing us how he is perceived by the gossiping, ever-watchful public.

What then agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday this municipal sin business? Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness to the thunder of his arafatas but we hear also through successive ages that shebby choruysh of unkalified muzzlenimiissilehims that would blackguardise the whitestone ever hurtleturtled out of heaven. Stay us wherefore in our search for tighteousness, O sustainer, what time we rise and when we take up to toothmick and before we lump down upown our leatherbed and in the night and at the fading of the stars! For a nod to the nabir is better than wink to the wabsanti. Otherways wesways like that provost scoffing bedoneen the jebel and the jpysian sea. Cropherb the crunchbracken shall decide. Then we’ll know it the feast is a flyday. She has a gift of seek on site and she allcasually ansars helpers, the dreamydeary. Heed! Heed. It may half been a missfired brick, as some say, or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his back promises, as others looked at it. (There extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same). But so sore did abe ite ivvy’s holired abbles, (what with the wallhall’s horrors of rollsrights, carhacks, stonengens, kisstvanes, tramtrees, fargobawlers, autokinotons, hippohobbilies, streetfleets, tournintaxes, megaphoggs, circuses and wardsmoats and basilikerks and aeropagods and the hoyse and the jollybrool and the peeler in the coat and the mecklenburk bitch bite at his ear and the merlinburrow burrocks and his fore old porecourts, the bore the more, and his blightblack workingstacks at twelvepins a dozen and the noobibusses sleighding along Safetyfirst Street and the derryjellybies snooping around Tell-No-Tailors’ Corner and the fumes and the hopes and the strupithump of his ville’s indigenous romekeepers, homesweepers, domecreepers thurum and thurum in fancymud murumd and all the uproor from all the aufroos, a roof for many and reef for hugh butt under his bridge suits tony) wan warning Phill filt tippling full. His bowd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (There was a wall of course in erection) Dimb! He stottered from the latter. Damb! he was dud. Dumb Mastabatoom. Mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For whole the world to see.

This is an incredibly rich and pivotal paragraph. It asks the central question of the book directly and then dives into the competing theories, the chaotic urban environment, and a fragmented vision of the fall itself.

What then agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday this municipal sin business?
The inquiry begins. What caused this “tragedy-goat-day” (tragoady) on this specific Thursday (thundersday)? Notice how the sin is described as “municipal,” a civic problem, not just a personal one. Given that it’s Thursday evening for you in Dublin right now, we’re reading this on the very day of the week the “sin” occurred.

Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness to the thunder of his arafatas but we hear also through successive ages that shebby choruysh of unkalified muzzlenimiissilehims that would blackguardise the whitestone…
There are two sources of information. First, the physical place (Our cubehouse, HCE’s pub) which was an earwitness to the thunderous fall. Second, the endless, shabby chorus of public rumor and slander (shebby choruysh) that seeks to defame (blackguardise) his reputation (the whitestone).

Heed! Heed. It may half been a missfired brick, as some say, or it mought have been due to a collupsus of his back promises, as others looked at it. (There extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same).
Here are the two main theories:

The Accident: It was a simple, physical event, a missfired brick.

The Moral Failure: It was a collupsus of his back promises, a collapse of character.
Joyce then immediately tells us that there are one thousand and one stories about this event, a direct reference to The Arabian Nights. The truth is buried under a mountain of conflicting narratives, perhaps told to delay a final judgment.

But so sore did abe ite ivvy’s holired abbles… (what with the wallhall’s horrors of rollsrights, carhacks… under his bridge suits tony) wan warning Phill filt tippling full.
This long, parenthetical sentence is a masterpiece. It’s a portrait of the modern city in all its chaotic glory. Joyce catalogues the sensory overload of Dublin: the traffic (rollsrights, carhacks, autokinotons), the noise (megaphoggs), the mix of sacred and profane (basilikerks and aeropagods), the police (the peeler in the coat), and the general uproar (strupathump). This entire urban chaos is the context for the fall. It’s the bewildering world that Phill (Finnegan) was tippling full (very drunk) in.

His bowd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (There was a wall of course in erection) Dimb! He stottered from the latter. Damb! he was dud. Dumb Mastabatoom. Mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For whole the world to see.
And here, we get the closest look yet at the fall itself.

His body (bowd) and his builder’s hod (hoddit) are unsteady.
The scene is set with a pun: (There was a wall of course in erection).
The event is described in dull, stuttering thuds: Dimb!. He stottered from the latter (stuttered/tottered from the ladder). Damb!.
The immediate judgment: he was dud. A failure.
His new name is Dumb Mastabatoom. He is silenced (Dumb), and a Mastaba is an ancient Egyptian tomb. He is now a living tomb, a dead man walking. The name also carries humiliating suggestions of masturbation.
The whole thing happened publicly, For whole the world to see.

This paragraph plunges us into the heart of the mystery, suggesting the “truth” is a mixture of accident, moral failure, and the overwhelming chaos of city life, all witnessed and then endlessly retold by the public.

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

This paragraph plunges us directly into the wake of the fallen builder. It’s a scene of quintessential Dublin chaos: profound mourning mixed with riotous, drunken celebration. This is the event that gives the book its title, based on the old Irish-American ballad.

Shize? I should shee! Macool, Macool, orra whyi deed ye diie? of a trying thirstay mournin?
It opens with a drunken exclamation and a classic Irish lament. The fallen Finnegan is elevated to the status of Macool (the mythological hero Fionn mac Cumhaill), and his death on a “thirsty Thursday morning” (thirstay for both the day and the thirst for drink) is mourned.

Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain’s chrissormiss wake, all the hoolivans of the nation, prostrated in their consternation, and their duodisimally profusive plethora of ululation.
The scene is set at Fillagain's wake—a perfect name for a man who is destined to “fill again” or live again. The mourners are the hoolivans of the nation, and Joyce uses hilariously academic language (duodisimally profusive plethora of ululation) to describe their excessive wailing.

Agog and magog and the round of them agrog. To the continuation of that celebration until Hanandhunigan’s extermination!
The attendees are biblical giants (Agog and magog), they’re drinking rounds (a round of them), and they’re drunk (agrog). The toast is to keep the party going until the end of time. The grief is already a full-blown celebration.

He’s stiff but he’s steady is Priam Olim! … Sharpen his pillowscone, tap up his bier! E’erawhere in this whorl would ye hear sich a din again?
The corpse (He's stiff but he's steady) is identified as another fallen patriarch, Priam Olim (King Priam of Troy, once upon a time). The preparations are both funereal and festive: tap up his bier is a brilliant pun on preparing his funeral bier and tapping a keg of beer. Joyce asks rhetorically, where in the world (whorl, suggesting a spinning cycle) would you find such a chaotic scene?

They laid him brawdawn alanglast bed. With a bockalips of finisky fore his feet. And a barrowload of guenesis hoer his head.
This is the heart of the paragraph and a crucial image for the entire book.

They lay him out on his last bed (alanglast bed).
At his feet, they place a bockalips of finisky: a bottle (bock) of whiskey (finisky) that also contains the Apocalypse and the end (finis).
Over his head, they place a barrowload of guenesis: a load of Guinness that is also Genesis, the beginning.

The corpse is literally laid out between the beginning and the end, between Genesis and Apocalypse, between Guinness and whiskey. This is the perfect setup for the central event of the ballad: the resurrection. In the song, a fight breaks out and a splash of whiskey (the water of life, uisce beatha in Irish) brings Tim Finnegan back from the dead. Joyce has placed all the elements in the room for that to happen.

Tee the tootal of the fluid hang the twoddle of the fuddled, O!
The paragraph ends with a toast to the total amount of alcohol (the tootal of the fluid) and a joyful disregard for the nonsensical chatter (twoddle) of the drunk (fuddled). It is a celebration of the creative, chaotic energy of the wake itself.

Hurrah, thereis but young gleve for the owl globe wheels in view which is tautaulogically the same thing. Whell, him a being so on the flounder of his bulk like an overgrown babeling, let wee peep, see, at Hom, well, see peegee ought his ought, platterplate, E Hum! From Shopalist to Bailwick or from ashtun to baronoath of from Buythebanks to Roundthehead or from the foot of the bill to ireglint’s eye he calmly extensolies. And all the way (a horn!) from fjord to fjell his baywinds’ oboboes shall wail him rockbound (hoahoahoah!) in swimswamswum and all the livvylong night, the delldale dalppling night, the night of bluerybells, her flittaflute in tricky trochees (O carian! O carina!) wake him. With her issavan essavans and her patterjackmartins about all them inns and ouses. Tilling at teel of a tum, telling a toll of a teary turty Taubling. Grace before Glutton. For what we are, gifs a gross if we are, about to believe. So pool the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. Omen. So sigh us. Grampupus is fallen down but grinny sprids the boord. Whase on the joint of a desh? Finfoefom the Fush. Whase be his baken head? A loaf of Sinapantry’s Kennedy bread. And whase hitched to the hop in his tayle? A glass of Danu U’Dunnell’s foamous olde Dobbelin ayle. But, lo, as you would quaffoff his fraudstuff and sink teeth through that pyth of a flowerwhite bodey behold of him as behemoth for he is noewhemoe. Finiche! Only a fadograph of a yestern scene. Almost rubicund Salmosalar, ancient fromout the ages of the Agapemonides, he is smolten in our mist, woebecanned and packt away. So that meal’s dead off for summan, schlook, schlice and goodridhirring.

This paragraph is extraordinary. The rowdy wake from the last section quietens, and the focus shifts to the corpse itself. But instead of a simple resurrection, we witness a profound and bizarre transformation.

Hurrah, thereis but young gleve for the owl globe wheels in view which is tautaulogically the same thing.
The paragraph opens with a cheer, affirming the cycle of life: “young life for the old globe.” The turning of the world is a tautology—a fundamental, undeniable truth.

Whell, him a being so on the flounder of his bulk like an overgrown babeling, let wee peep, see, at Hom… From Shopalist to Bailwick… he calmly extensolies.
We are invited to “peep” at the body. He is presented as Hom (Ecce Homo or “Behold the Man”). His body is no longer just a body; it has become a landscape, stretching from one end of Dublin to the other, referencing real locations in a punning way. He “extends and lies” (extensolies). He contains the whole city.

And all the way (a horn!) from fjord to fjell his baywinds’ oboboes shall wail him… her flittaflute in tricky trochees (O carian! O carina!) wake him.
The landscape of his body is serenaded by the mournful oboes of the wind from Dublin Bay. But it is her flittaflute—the sound of his wife/the river ALP—that is meant to wake him. Her voice is the catalyst for whatever comes next.

Grace before Glutton. For what we are… about to believe. So pool the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. Omen.
The scene makes a shocking turn. The wake becomes a meal, and the corpse is the main course.

Grace before Glutton is a perversion of “Grace before meat.”
“For what we are about to receive” becomes For what we are... about to believe. Consuming the body is an act of faith.
Omen: The prayer ends not with “Amen,” but with a sign of what’s to come.

Whase on the joint of a desh? Finfoefom the Fush. Whase be his baken head? A loaf of Sinapantry’s Kennedy bread. And whase hitched to the hop in his tayle? A glass of Danu U’Dunnell’s foamous olde Dobbelin ayle.
A catechism asks what the meal consists of. His body is now broken down into specific Dublin products:

His body (joint of a desh) is fish (Fush).
His head is a loaf of Kennedy bread—a famous Dublin bakery.
His tail is a glass of Dobbelin ayle (Dublin Ale), invoked with the name of Daniel O’Connell, “The Liberator.”
The community is about to consume their fallen leader in a bizarre Eucharist, absorbing his substance and spirit, which are made of the very fabric of the city.

But, lo, as you would quaffoff his fraudstuff and sink teeth through that pyth of a flowerwhite bodey behold of him as behemoth for he is noewhemoe. Finiche!
This is the climax. Just as the mourners go to eat him, he vanishes. behold of him... for he is noewhemoe—he is “nowhere more” or “no way more.” He is gone. Finiche!—it’s finished.

Only a fadograph of a yestern scene. … he is smolten in our mist, woebecanned and packt away. … schlook, schlice and goodridhirring.
The resurrection is not what we expected. He doesn’t sit up. Instead, he transforms. He becomes a fadograph (faded photograph), a memory. He is the Salmosalar (the Salmon of Knowledge from Irish myth), who smolten in our mist—dissolves into the atmosphere. The final line suggests the whole episode might be a goodridhirring (“good riddance” + “red herring”).

Instead of a simple physical revival, Finnegan’s “resurrection” is a transformation into story, memory, food, and the landscape of Dublin itself. He hasn’t come back to life; he has been recycled into the world.

31/07/2025, P.7.19, to be continued.