Having read ten pages of Finnegan’s Wake a day since January 1, I am now done, surprisingly not because I gave up but because I got to page 628 in my copy and that’s the end, although it goes back to the beginning, so I guess I’m supposed to start again? I’m not going to, not least of all because I have a migraine right now and won’t even remember typing this tomorrow.

I said it was like reading white noise way back at the beginning. I haven’t varied in that. Sometimes it seemed okay. Sometimes I had an idea of what was going on. The whole ending eight pages I read today put me in the mood of the ending pages of Infinite Jest, on a beach, an awakening, or a wakening, or does it really matter? I don’t really understand what I was reading and I kind of wish I’d spent my time doing something else.

Now and then I liked the rhythm. Like listening to modern classical music like Stravinsky or theremins. Or sigur ros. But really, I like pop music and I’m always going to choose to read books with discernible plots over Finnegan’s Wake.

Geoff is impressed. I suppose that’s something.

One hundred pages to go.

Halfway done Finnegan’s Wake!

Remember back in 2003 or so, when spam messages were random words strung together. I guess spam filters have gotten wise to those types of messages, since I haven’t seen one like it in ages. But you used to scan through one occasionally, while bored or procrastinating, and wonder if maybe it did make sense, but you couldn’t say how.

I think if you ran Finnegan’s Wake through a spam filter, it would mark it as spam, like those random word string messages. I have no idea what is happening. I seem to be in some sort of play-without-characters section. Or maybe it’s the Bible.

In any case, wise words from Finnegan: “All the world loves a big gleaming jelly.”

Otherwise, to steal some creative spelling, I deespare.

At least Joyce didn’t italicize and indent it like Tolkien and like I’m going to do now or I would have probably ignored it.

If you met on the binge a poor acheseyeld from Ailing when the tune of his tremble shook shimmy on shin, while his countrary raged in the weak of his wailing, like a rugilant pugilant Lyon O’Lynn; if he maundered in misliness, plaining his plight or, played fox and lice, pricking and dropping hips teeth, or wringing his handcuffs for peace, the blind blighter, praying Dieuf and Domb Nostrums foh thomethinks to eath; if he weapt while he leapt and guffalled quith a quhimper, made cold blood a blue mundy and no bones without flech, taking kiss, kake or kick with a suck, sigh or simper, a diffle to larn and a dibble to lech; if the fain shinner pegged you to shave his immartial, wee skillmustered shoul with his oo, hoodoodoo! broking wind that to wiles, woemaid sin he was partial, we don’t think Jones, we’d care to this evening, would you?

Don’t ask me what it means. Maybe if they still do recitation and memory work at school, I’ll have Tesfa memorize it and say it aloud just to piss off her teachers.

In one of my more brilliant moments, I realized that Finnegan’s Wake might be taking place at an actual wake.

It’s kind of like reading white noise. And it goes quick, since I can’t figure out the plot or what’s going on, so I don’t have to waste time remembering what’s already happened or who the people are.

Actually a cheat since my copy starts on page four so I read from pages four through ten.

So they might be at a party? Or a museum? Those were the impressions I got. I doubt it really matters in the end since there don’t seem to be any characters yet or they are and they are drunk? I’m really not sure.

I’ll update again around page one hundred.