Gemini.Finnegans.Wake.16
Jute. - Simply because as Taciturn pretells, our wrongstoryshortener, he dumptied the whole borrow of rubbages on to soil here.
Mutt. - Just how a puddinstone inat the brookcells by a riverpool.
Jute. - Load Allmarshy! Wid was for a norse like?
Mutt. - Somular with a bull on a clompturf. Rooks roarum rex roome! I could snore to him of the spumy horn, with his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton on, did Brian d’ of Linn.
This dialogue continues the conversation between Jute, the questioner, and Mutt, the keeper of ancient history. They explore exactly why the spot they are on is so significant.
The Rubbish Heap of History
Jute explains why this place is so important by quoting a fake Roman historian, Taciturn. He says a great historical figure dumptied the whole borrow of rubbages on to soil here.
This means the hill they are on is a tumulus—an ancient burial mound. It’s literally a heap of the “rubbish” of the past—artifacts, bones, and discarded items—piled up to form the landscape. Mutt, the primitive man, embodies this living rubbish heap.
Mutt agrees, comparing the mound to a puddinstone—a type of rock formed from many different pebbles and fragments cemented together. This is a perfect metaphor for how Dublin, its history, and Finnegans Wake itself are all built from countless different pieces of the past.
The King in the Mound
Jute asks if the mound was made for a Viking (norse). Mutt’s reply confirms he is intimately familiar with the buried king:
I could snore to him… by the neck I am sutton on, did Brian d’ of Linn.
Mutt reveals that he is so close to the buried figure that he is sitting on his very neck. The place-name Sutton (a real area near Howth in Dublin) is woven into the line. He identifies the buried king as a version of the great Irish hero who defeated the Vikings at Clontarf: Brian Boru from Dublin (Brian d' of Linn).
The conversation reveals that the very landscape of Dublin is formed from the buried bodies and historical debris of its past heroes. History isn’t just something in a book; it’s the ground beneath your feet.
Jute. - Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic in such a patwhat as your rutterdamrotter. On heard of and umscene! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed.
Mutt. - Quite aggreem. Bussave a sec. Walk a dun blink roundward this albutisle and you skull see how olde ye plaine of my Elters, hunfree and ours, where wone to wail whimbrel to peewee o’er the saltings, where wilby citie by law of isthmon, where by a droit of signory, icefloe was from his Inn the Byggning to whose Finishthere Punct. Let erehim ruhmuhrmuhr. Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. Morthering rue. Hither, craching easturards, they are in surgence: hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce. ountlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage, flick as flow flakes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of whirlworlds. Now are all tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!
Jute, the modern questioner, expresses his frustration with Mutt’s archaic and confusing language.
Jute. - Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly forsstand a weird from sturk to finnic in such a patwhat as your rutterdamrotter. … See you doomed.
He complains he can barely understand a word (beuraly forsstand a weird) of Mutt’s “patois” (patwhat) and dismisses it as gibberish (rutterdamrotter). Giving up, he tries to leave with a morbid “See you doomed” instead of “See you soon.”
Mutt, the embodiment of history, urges him to stay and truly look at the landscape.
A Tour of the Landscape
Mutt asks Jute to save a second and take a quick walk around the hill, which he calls this albutisle (the “almost-island,” a perfect description of the Howth peninsula). He promises that if Jute looks with his skull (a pun on “shall” and the skull of the buried giant), he will understand.
Mutt’s speech transforms the physical landscape into a living history book, revealing its layers:
The Primordial Beginning
The land itself was formed by an icefloe (a glacier). Its existence is a cycle, from his Inn the Byggning (his Inn the Beginning) to whose Finishthere Punct (whose Finish-there is an End).
The Tides of History
The story of Dublin is like the tide. Two races, one of freshwater (swete, the native Irish) and one of saltwater (brack, the Norse invaders), mearmerge (sea-merge). The invaders crash in from the east at high tide (surgence) and then settle at low tide (ebb). This is the eternal rhythm of invasion and settlement that shaped the city.
The Mound of Stories
Finally, Mutt reveals the ultimate nature of the landscape.
Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage… Now are all tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!
Countless life stories have fallen on this shore (plage) like snowflakes. Now, all those lives are buried in the mound—isges to isges, erde from erde (ashes to ashes, earth to earth). The ultimate prize that all human pride wins is simply to become part of this great, silent landscape of memory.
15/08/2025, P.17.30, to be continued.