Gemini.Finnegans.Wake.02

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Yet may we not see still the brontoichthyan form outlined aslumbered, even in our own nighttime by the sedge of the trouling stream that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on. His cubat edilis. Apud libertinam parvulam.

Whatif she be in flags or flitters, reekierags or sundyechosies, with a mint of mines or bagger a pinnyweight. Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we mean to say, lovelittle Anna Rayiny, when unda her brella, mid piddle med puddle she ninygoes nannygoes nancing by. Yoh! Brontolone slaaps yoh snoores. Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple Isout too. The cranic head on him, caster of his reasons, peer yuthner in yondmist. Whooth? His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where he last fellonem, by the mund of the magazine wall, where our maggy seen all, with her sisterin shawl. While over against this belles’ alliance beyind Ill sixty, ollollowed ill! begsides of the fort, bom, tarabom, tarabom, lurk the ombushes, the site of the lyffing-in-wait of the upjock and hockums. Hence when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is enjoyable of our mounding’s mass, now Wallinstone national museum, with, in some greenish distance, the charmful waterloose country and the two quitewhite villagettes who hear show of themselves so gigglesomes minxt the follyages, the prettilees! Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free. Welsh and the Paddy Patkinses, one shelenk! Redismembers invalids of old guard find poussepousse pousseypram to sate the sort of their butt. For her passky supply to the janitrix, the mistress Kathe. Tip.

As Friday night settles over Dublin, this paragraph asks us to look out into the darkness and see the form of the fallen giant, now integrated into the very landscape of the city. He hasn’t vanished entirely; he has become the earth itself.

Yet may we not see still the brontoichthyan form outlined aslumbered, even in our own nighttime by the sedge of the trouling stream that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on.
The question is posed: Can’t we still see him? His form is that of a brontoichthyan—a “thunder-fish,” recalling both his thundering fall and his transformation into the salmon of knowledge. He is sleeping by the trouling stream, the River Liffey, which he loved and now leans upon.

Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we mean to say, lovelittle Anna Rayiny, when unda her brella, mid piddle med puddle she ninygoes nannygoes nancing by.
In sharp contrast to the slumbering male giant, we see the female principle: the river, Anna Rayiny (Rainy Anna). While he is static, she is pure motion, nancing by in a piddle med puddle. She is the life that flows past the inert landscape.

Yoh! Brontolone slaaps yoh snoores. Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple Isout too. The cranic head on him…
Here, Joyce gives us a map of the giant’s body. Brontolone (Big Thunder) sleeps and snores. His head is Benn Heather (the Hill of Howth), and his feet are in Seeple Isout (Chapelizod). His body stretches across the entirety of Dublin Bay, a permanent feature of the geography you see every day.

His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where he last fellonem, by the mund of the magazine wall, where our maggy seen all, with her sisterin shawl.
We are brought back to the specific crime scene. The giant’s feet of clay (a symbol of his fatal flaw) are still sticking out of the ground at the mound (mund) by the Magazine Wall in Phoenix Park. This is a real, specific place. And there were witnesses: maggy seen all, representing the two washerwomen, or perhaps two magpies, who are the gossiping chorus of the book. The mystery remains, watched over by enemies in ambush (lurk the ombushes) nearby.

Hence when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is enjoyable of our mounding’s mass, now Wallinstone national museum… Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free.
The landscape of his body has undergone another transformation. The mound where he lies has become the Wallinstone national museum—the Wellington Monument, also in Phoenix Park. The site of the mythological fall is now a tourist attraction, a museum that people (Penetrators) can enter. History, sin, and myth have been tamed and turned into a public monument.

Welsh and the Paddy Patkinses, one shelenk! … For her passky supply to the janitrix, the mistress Kathe. Tip.
Joyce brings this cosmic vision crashing back down to the mundane reality of Dublin life. The grand “museomound” has an entrance fee (one shelenk), is frequented by old veterans, and its secrets are ultimately controlled by the janitress (janitrix), Mistress Kate, who holds the passkey and expects a Tip.

This paragraph beautifully illustrates a core theme: the epic is contained within the everyday. The body of a sleeping thunder-god makes up the hills and monuments of Dublin, but to get inside, you still have to deal with the caretaker.

01/08/2025, P.8.8, to be continued.