At first glance, it appears intimidating, unfathomable, and incomprehensible. However, when read aloud with an open mind, the meaning might dawn on you. I emphasize "might" because despite extensive reflection on certain paragraphs or lines, some meanings remain elusive, and I have no option but to accept them as they are.

Nevertheless, I find this book astonishing. It is truly one of a kind. What truly amazes me is its masterful play of words. Unparalleled and never before witnessed. The closest comparison I can make is Anthony Burgess's Clockwork, but it seems simplistic in contrast to Joyce's masterpiece. Joyce employs what is known as "portmanteau," fusing two or more words from the same or different languages. For instance, "kissmiss" represents both the festive season and something that could occur during it, with a hint of fate; the Holy Father becomes a "hoary frother"; and an old photo is a "fadograph." Reading this book demands Job's patience, but in the end, it is rewarding as it serves as yet another testament to James Joyce's brilliance as a writer. Finnegans Wake is like the playful, luminous moon to Ulysses' serious, bright sun. They complement each other, flaunting to the world that Joyce could be humorous after penning the profound retelling of Homer's classic epic poem, Odyssey.

I admit that at one point, I believed I would not be able to complete this book. After reading two chapters and understanding nothing, I contemplated giving up. I felt as if I was simply wasting my time. However, a Goodreads friend advised me to read online write-ups, which proved helpful. I referred to the internet after reading each chapter or part of it. There were times when I couldn't correlate the two, so I let it pass. This approach of reading a chapter and then referring to the internet was beneficial as I was at least able to grasp the basic plot. Still, it was confusing. The stories within seemed disjointed, and there was no central plot. It was only towards the end that I realized James Joyce was not telling a single story but multiple ones, as many as 17 according to Wiki. The most prevalent among these is a story of a fall that turns out not to be entirely negative, including the Fall of Man; an indiscretion in Phoenix Park, Dublin, involving an older man and two girls; and a tumble (Humpty Dumpty, yes, that children's song) from a ladder by an Irish builder, Tim Finnegan.

This book offers a unique reading experience. It is truly one of its kind. It is astonishing how James Joyce assembled this book and crafted all those hilarious verses. Undoubtedly brilliant.

And oh, I love that unfinished sentence at the end that loops back to the first sentence. When I began reading and saw the truncated first sentence, I was immediately taken aback and exclaimed "What is this?" But I thought that if I could finish Ulysses, I should be able to read this one too. Of course, the great encouragement from my Goodreads friends motivated me to continue reading, just in time for my daughter to request the return of this library copy.

(I now see some of those Goodreads friends liking this review, so I'd better stop now.) Thank you so much, Goodreads friends!

Why you will read Finnegans Wake:

The short of it is this: Have a think about all your greatest achievements, the accomplishments you’re most proud of. What they have in common is hard work and originality. Read Finnegans Wake. Fine, you know what? If you’re even in this review for the short term, chances are you won’t read it. But if anyone’s still interested, please let me convince you further.

Michael Chabon, a Pulitzer-prize winning author, wrote a big article for The New York Review of Books on why he wasn’t going to try and read Finnegans Wake any more. Quite frankly, it’s the proudest I’ve ever heard someone sound for not having read a book. If that strikes you as odd too, maybe it’s time you picked up a copy of Joyce’s 17-year distilled puntastic masterpiece.

No sooner do you enter the book than you realise you’ll be here for a while. Your reading slows down every time you hit an unfamiliar word. Perhaps it’s in one of the sixty to seventy languages that appear in the Wake, or maybe it’s a Joycean triple-pun. But when whatever they are is every second word in the book, it can feel like you’re reading treacle.

Yes, a lot of it is nonsense. But if I wrote a 600+ page book consisting mostly of invented words, I would judge anyone who wanted to read it. However, you and I didn’t write it. The greatest author of the 20th century wrote it, so don’t worry: it comes preapproved. It’s like that third Bloc Party album that made you turn your nose up the first listen, but somehow you knew you’d get into it if you persevered. The only difference is that with the Wake you’d be right.

Also, Finnegans Wake is the ace up the sleeve of a surprising number of authors. After spending a few months with the Finnegans, maybe you’ll pick up Lolita and say “Hang on a minute: that pun’s a bit familiar”. Perhaps it’s Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things that makes you think “Hm, language as rhythm… Not her idea!”, or you could find yourself raising your eyebrow knowingly at the latest Zadie Smith. It has been said that nobody reads FW any more, and it’s absolutely true. As a result, a lot of writers are having an “originality” field day with it. But you and I will know their secret!

Finnegans Wake, not Finnegan’s, the wake of many a Finnegan, Finnagain and Finnomore, is a cyclical hallucination of a book. Let Joyce himself tell you the story of two washerwomen having a chat, one slowly turning to stone and the other to an elm tree as night approaches. Read the longest story ever written about a man passing out drunk in his own bar. Feel characters blending and dissolving then budding off from each other once again in a dark rainy dream. Hear the thunder in Joyce’s 100-letter words.

Our hapless hero H.C. Earwicker, also known as Heinz cans everywhere and most appropriately Here Comes Everybody, is everyone. He’s ready to be you, too, even after all this time, if you give the Wake a chance. So pick it up, take it slowly, read it aloud, forget what you know about the novel and enjoy the music of the words. What does it mean? Three answers: nothing, we’ll never know, and whatever you want.

Incidentally, Vladimir Nabokov said that Finnegans Wake was "nothing but a formless and dull mass of phony folklore, a cold pudding of a book, a persistent snore in the next room [...] and only the infrequent snatches of heavenly intonations redeem it from utter insipidity.” Oh please! Could he be more jealous?

Prelured to a Nocturnal Pleasure

Steven Moore's words about trusting the artist and persevering with difficult works set the stage. He emphasizes that even the most challenging novels will eventually make sense, and if one misses something, a second try can always be made. Some people thrive on challenges and are open to new, initially puzzling experiences.

Thirst Daft from the Keg (Only Later in the Can)
The quest to understand "Funny Gunsmoke" begins. The text poses questions about how and where to start this large and complex work. It mentions the importance of the hemidemisentences and the return to Howth Castle & Environs. The abbreviations HCE and ALP are introduced, with their possible meanings hidden as spoilers. There is an invitation to explore more and discover the unity of people and place in time.
The Loneliest Sphere Amonkst Us
The journey starts at the bigending and comes full circle. The revolution described is not revolting but commodious. The text plays with words like "communionist" and "unionist" and warns against being misled by various things.
And We're Off a Way Alone a Lost Astray
The idea of being lost or astray is explored, along with the search for a worthwhile path. There are references to respecting different groups and being cautious of being misled. The text also includes a spoiler about the natural anthem of Ashtraylia and a list of places to avoid.
Annalytical Parabbelais
This section discusses "Finnegan's Wake" and its place among Joyce's works. It mentions the difficulty of the book and the reasons why some readers may be put off. However, it also emphasizes the value of persevering and the unique use of language by Joyce. The text includes examples of Joyce's punctuation and wordplay.
The Polyguous Diversity of the Multivurst
The novel is described as a universe of words and images, with many strange and polyguous words. It is intended for readers who enjoy perception and the exploration of different themes. The text warns against overanalyzing and suggests that the first reading should focus on the pleasures of the wordplay.
Four for the Price of Three (or Three for the Price of Two?)
The structure of the novel is analyzed, with its division into quartets and its connection to the themes of birth, sex, and death. The text poses questions about the interpretation of the work and suggests that there are many theories. It also includes a spoiler about the fourth stage of the novel.
The Beginning of Life
The question of which came first, the chicken or the egg, is raised, along with its connection to the themes of the novel. The role of women as the source of life and love is emphasized, and the text includes a long quote about the various activities and emotions associated with women. The river Liffey is used as an analogy for the cycle of life.
Onward Trysting Sodjers, Marching as to Whores
The roles of men and women in society and in relationships are discussed. Men are seen as having a minor role at the outset but being invited to participate in the process of love and parenthood. The text explores the different appetites and temptations of men and women and the semantic misunderstandings that can occur.
Finnegan's Wake-Up Call
The inevitable end of life is considered, but Joyce speculates that it may not be so bitter. The cycle of life is emphasized, with the idea that our ancestors live on in our genes. The text concludes with the question of how to write a suitable end to the novel.
Anna Livia Plurabelle
This section includes quotes about Anna Livia Plurabelle, a character in the novel who is a personification of the river Liffey and the river of life and love.
MISS ELAINE HERE: [Weiver a Gnidnep Nettirw]
This section seems to be a play on words or a code, perhaps related to the themes of the novel.
Professor Stephen Knight
The quote from Professor Stephen Knight about not having lectured on the novel adds to the sense of its difficulty and complexity.
Vroom the Beltholes
This section contains short phrases that may be related to the characters or themes of the novel.
A Game for Those Throne Open Doubleyous
The text mentions a game and a location where different elements meet, perhaps暗示了小说中的一些情节或关系.
SOUNDTRACK:
This section provides a list of songs that may be related to the novel or its themes. The songs include works by Radio Birdman, The Doors, Suede, Thelonious Monk, and Tangerine Dream, as well as a short film by Bórd Scannán na hEireann. The quotes from the songs and the novel add to the overall atmosphere and help to bring the text to life.

Read even a little about James Joyce and you will quickly learn three significant things. Firstly, he was undeniably a genius. His works are a testament to his extraordinary literary abilities. Secondly, he was acutely aware of his own genius long before others recognized it, and this led to a certain degree of depression as he waited for the world to catch up and realize what a supreme talent he was. Thirdly, he was completely obsessed with Shakespeare's genius and the relationship between Shakespeare's work and his own.

If these aren't exact facts, they are close enough for me. I have a deep love for "Dubliners". I enjoy casually flipping through "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man". I am truly awed by the remarkable accomplishment that is "Ulysses". I even hold in high esteem Joyce's little-known and even less produced play "Exiles". However, I have a strong aversion to "Finnegan's Wake". And I believe it serves as an illustration of why Shakespeare is the superior writer.

"Hamlet" and "King Lear" are not only brilliant but also highly accessible. You don't have to be a genius yourself to thoroughly enjoy them. The stories are captivating, the characters come alive on the page, and there is a constant flow of action. If, by some stroke of luck or curse, you happen to be a genius, there is even more within these works to occupy your attention. Indeed, I am certain that Joyce got far more out of Shakespeare than I could ever hope to.

"Finnegan's Wake", on the other hand, is not accessible to everyone. It was written by a genius specifically for the uber-literate and no one else. As a result, it has become a sort of secret smart test. Person X brags about getting through it and understanding the jokes, while Person Y is made to feel stupid because they gave up.

Writing a play like "Hamlet" that manages to be both an amazing story and a profound meditation on existence - that is the highest accomplishment for a writer. Drafting the longest consecutive string of in-jokes, as in "Finnegan's Wake", is, in my opinion, just a waste of time and talent.

I don't give many books bad ratings. But I really do hate this book and what it represents.

Carac

Review.

If (a) I ever manage to find the time and inclination to read this, and (b) I ever get around to removing that rather conspicuous "P", then (so the syllogism goes) I solemnly promise to completely refrain from using any language that is similar to Finnegan's or otherwise seems silly in the review. Sawhepme Gawd.

This statement presents an interesting set of conditions and a subsequent promise. The use of the word "if" indicates a degree of uncertainty regarding both the act of reading the material and the removal of the "P". The mention of abjuring the use of a particular type of language adds another layer of complexity to the situation. It implies that the author is aware of a certain style of language that they consider inappropriate for the review and is committed to avoiding it.

The phrase "Sawhepme Gawd" at the end seems rather out of place and perhaps adds a touch of humor or an element of the unexpected. Overall, this text invites further exploration and speculation about the nature of the review, the significance of the "P", and the author's attitude towards language use.

Major life admission: I've never actually finished this book. Let me explain.

I first encountered Joyce in the spring of 1996. When "Araby" was assigned for an evening's BritLit homework, I was fifteen and still engrossed in playing Final Fantasy Legend on my Gameboy from that Christmas. Up until that MARTA ride home, The Catcher in the Rye had seemed the most meaningful and personally evocative thing. The last line almost took my breath away:

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

What? Where did that come from? Is that it? Is this for real?

I reread "Araby" several times before devouring the essay entitled "Epiphany" that Prentice-Hall thought suitable for innocent 10th graders. After a year of American Lit wasted on Transcendentalist nonsense and a subsequent semester devoted to memorizing large parts of The Exeter Book and Chaucer's Tales in their original forms (being a Catholic school, we were spared much exposure to the great heretic Milton), I made a decision: I wanted more of this Mr. Joyce. We would become friends.

Searching Ms. Via's shelf, I found an older Prentice-Hall and, more importantly, "Eveline", and this was love, you must understand. These were powerful blows. Mr. Huelin had, some months earlier, given grand exhortations regarding Donne's "Batter my Heart". Oh, how he wanted us to understand just a fraction of his understanding! (Mixed ninth- and tenth-graders are, of course, at best a difficult group to teach such things to, no matter how smart their uniforms, and Mr. Huelin was finishing his Ph.D. at UChicago last I checked).

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

"Come!"

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.

"Come!"

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

"Eveline! Evvy!"

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Yes, even though the ABBA rhyme scheme couldn't help but sound childish in those days, and despite finding the mention of God and Bog more repugnant at that time than before or after, I then understood Donne's need:

BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you\\t
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;\\t
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend\\t
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

I believed that no literature was more superb than Ulysses almost before I bought a copy, and certainly well before finishing it (dazzled, overwhelmed, often giddy and in no small part bewildered) several sublime weeks later. I knew immediately that, as long as my eyes and mind worked and my soul drank deeply, I would love and reread and take even more from Joyce's mattoncino. Eleven years and approximately 8 readings of varying intensity have proven it, in the terms of Weiner, a positive feedback loop. In its shadow and those of a few others (The Illuminatus Trilogy, Catch-22, The Brothers Karamazov, etc), the broad outlines of a weltanschauung were formed. It was into trembling hands that the Wake was given, now in the fall of 1997.

I've tried numerous times, but I'll try no longer. I've opened it to different places and started with "riverrun round Adam and Eve's", but never got more than a few dozen pages in - and by then, I've skipped a bit. I've read whole pages out loud, wondering how to pronounce hundred-letter words representing the Voice of Thunder, imagining Joyce in Trieste with his eye patch, laughing at Eliot and cackling to himself. I've read Campbell's A Skeleton Key to Finnegan's Wake and several others and tried to read them alongside, to no avail. I've tried to read it in the manner of deconstructionism, as a tone poem, with meditations on Ireland and rivers and Vico's theories of cyclical history, on various pharmaceuticals, and in the dark. I've given up on trying to remember what happened ten pages ago, and sometimes even on the same page, and made no more progress. I've read every word in the book, and yet haven't really read a goddamn word at all.

Finally, I accepted it as a pretty good trick and put it aside. Kertwang! You got us that time, James. You certainly got anyone who reads The Role of Thunder in Finnegan's Wake and especially anyone who spent $80 for that particular privilege, a bit of literary theory that seemed like satire. You got me good, Mr. Joyce.

Bladyughfoulmoecklenburgwhurawhorascortastrumpapor

nanennykocksapastippatappatupperstrippuckputtanach.

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunn

trovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnukawwwgofuckyourself.

[0:] Patrick Chisholm, that was for you.

In 2014, I read "Finnegans Wake". I think I now understand that this current compulsory confinement of mine is not so difficult because it is not the first. Back then, in 2014, of course I could go out and go anywhere, at any time. However, I had become so withdrawn that I spent most of the day staring at the ceiling of my house.

If I could describe all the stages of a long-term unemployed person, this one, of resignation, is the most burdensome. And this book gave me a purpose, a temporary job. I woke up. I made coffee. I started my reading work for the next 8 to 12 hours. I was satisfied with the moral feeling that I had spent an interesting and creative day.

I know what it means to lose your job. I know what it's like not to find a job. I have lived through the anxiety about the next day, the insecurities and the loans, the terrifying uncertainty, the fear of ending up on the street.

This mixture of resignation, uncertainty, anxiety, fear and suppressed anger is explosive. This world can become so crazy. Everything is so confused that there is no language in the world to express what is happening around us and inside us. It is always the same story that is repeated since the creation of the world and at the same time it is always a new story that starts with our birth and ends with our death. And if someone managed to depict this in the most unique and demonic way, that is Joyce in "Finnegans Wake".

By giving a parodic dimension to the Fall of Man as presented in Christianity, he presents the fall of the builder Finnegan from a high wall. Finnegan or Earwicker is presented as a sprawling giant whose limbs spread across the entire area.

Everything seems like a war, which is at the same time a comedy and a tragedy, religious wars between Protestants and Catholics, etc. With the phrase "Fall alone if you will, but you must rise", he defines the framework of Finnegan's fall: Freedom coexists with necessity in an eternal cycle of life and death.

The master builder Finnegan, who was probably drunk, "hammered" his head hard into a "scaffold". He stumbled, fell and died. His fall has at the same time a moral dimension, an indeterminate sin or offense that he may or may not have committed, for which he must be judged and may or may not be acquitted. The degree of his personal responsibility towards the collective sins of humanity that he represents is never completely clear.

Reference is made to a cat called Biddy Doran who climbs and stirs the rubbish. This is the pretext for the story to unfold, as she "tramples on mislogues and thrown away senseless mysteries". With the word "Sleeplessly Awake" we return to the story of the dead Finnegan, who resurrects when, while he was being mourned as dead, a bottle of whiskey fell on him and brought him back to life.

But it would have been better if he had stayed dead. It would have been better with the corpses than accountable for a whole host of offenses. Because there are rumors circulating about his person, that he is a drunkard and sick and commits indecencies with innocent girls in Phoenix Park in Dublin. The self of the central hero is divided and multiplied into countless versions of himself, parallel to the rumors and accusations that take on another form and version as they pass from mouth to mouth.

Finally, the trial is the inevitable outcome of this confused story that has everything: Four judges who are also identified with the four evangelists (mamalujo, that is, Mark, Matthew, Luke, John), quarrels and mutual accusations, Finnegan's patient wife, Anna Livia Plurabelle who swears to the innocence of her husband and again the dirty cat, who, climbing the "garbage chute", found an incriminating letter regarding the immorality, carelessness and unfaithfulness of the old - Finnegan.

Anna Livia has 111 children, a three-digit number (Some say she had three figures) with which, optically, with the three digits, her three children are indicated (the twins Shem and Shaun who have a competitive relationship and her daughter Issy who fuels or feeds their competition). She is the one who brings the gift of life, she is also the washerwoman who, together with the other women, washes the clothes in the river, cleansing the old sins of this world to make way for new ones to be committed.

Finnegan's children, in the Phoenix Hotel, the family business, prepare improvised performances, play knowledge games, study their lessons, paint and make up, live among the drunken taverns, the accusations and the dirt of the world and their personal offenses. A sister as the object of longing for the two brothers, who are obliged to defend her honor, the honor of the family and society while at the same time desiring to do exactly the opposite, but in the end do nothing.

Just as their father has done nothing, who calls himself Adam, thinks he is vindicated because of an ancient law and states that he has lived an honorable life. He clarifies that he is not guilty and has not committed any crime and has never bothered any girl. Because he has a beautiful wife who satisfies him and whom he loves. And his spiritual priest can vouch for him, for his pure character and his innocence. He repeats that when he was in the park and the girls did their business, it was not him who came into contact with them, but someone else: "This is someone else who resembled me enormously".

Then he talks about the city of Dublin and presents himself as its founder and protector. He talks about the management of taxes, the repair of the walls, the opening of roads and the battles he fought and other achievements. At the end, he returns to the topic of his marriage and the love he has for his wife, whom he takes care of and provides everything for. His apology ends with a quadruple sigh: "Mattahah! Marahah! Luahah! Joahanahanahana!".

Finally, this is the story of a dysfunctional family, a story of Ireland and, by extension, a story of humanity. With the obsessions, the inbred, the need to perpetuate its existence and multiply in the countless versions that result from the original, the first Finnegan family that contains everything and from which everything originates.

As a new day dawns, a question is posed that summarizes the eternal conflicts and disputes that disrupt the world: "So that when we shall have acquired unification we shall pass on to diversity and when we shall have passed on to diversity we shall have acquired the instinct of combat and when we shall have acquired the instinct of combat we shall pass back to the spirit of appeasement?"

As a sacrificial victim, Anna Livia is left to be carried away by the river and ends her life exactly where the story begins, a new cycle of repetition. She will bear all the guilt of her family and, being baptized in the river, will purify it.

Anna Livia explodes: "I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me". Then she gives her last goodbye and takes with her as a souvenir a leaf to remind her of life. And she gets lost in the river, while the story, seeing the shape of the circle, starts again from the beginning as the last sentence of the text is cut off and is at the beginning, at the start of the book: "A way a lone a last a loved along the ---> riverrun".

In 2014, I wrote a more extensive analysis that still exists on LtB although I don't think it could offer particular help to Finnegan readers.

For someone to read this book, they must be either extremely adventurous in reading or completely desperate psychologically.

I am perhaps flattering myself to say that I have 'read' this book. I have, at any rate, looked at all the words.

Why the low rating? Well, call me old-fashioned, but I firmly hold to the belief that good communication necessarily involves some effort on the part of the transmitter of information to condescend to the level of the recipient.

Let's take an example. A ball that is simply dropped might be the fault of either the thrower or the catcher. However, a ball that is launched into orbit is entirely the responsibility of the launcher.

In the context of this book, it seems that the author has failed to make that necessary effort to connect with the reader on a more accessible level. As a result, the message that could potentially have been conveyed effectively has been lost in a jumble of complex language and convoluted ideas.

Perhaps if the author had taken the time to simplify and clarify their thoughts, the book would have received a more favorable rating. But as it stands, it remains a challenging read that may leave many readers feeling frustrated and unfulfilled.

The other day, we had the opportunity to watch The Ghost, the rather remarkable new movie by Polanski. Ewan McGregor takes on the role of a ghostwriter who is brought in to polish the memoirs of a British ex-Prime Minister who, of course, isn't Tony Blair. He is handed the manuscript and immediately groans in pain.

"That bad?" asks the woman who isn't Cherie Blair.

"Well it's got all the words," says McGregor. "They're just not in the right order."

This incident led me to conduct a simple experiment with Finnegans Wake, one of the greatest works in the English language. I downloaded an electronic version from the Web and wrote a small script. The script calculates statistics for the frequencies of each letter based on the three preceding ones and then generates random text using that model. Here is a sample of what was produced:

rivin's Fleperumpholature, puirel from the going beamstroki, genes aultealsion! Captermidcauting. Allfishe'll theiresendt all, andfall the blisation (for of ally witnes of coulminus. Blugger, wher nutbrings my los oned? Mch? What sting up funnies! Huddamsome Bankata, the keter soother sets the beloomostes, sable us in duallects neupon, wholy not does! Exceed in siltop as taned mucheepiworder aflute. While store your bred welchups we kitch oxbell, old som! Curly vale. The scenty view (the our civisierengracles was dupshua milisquewing bransisterrand the knobo, prise fall knacordy) and picky karu? Yip! I sait is, worts fore fassoo thath they speechappy inted that bit thall kning to thehry. For the like fing of the untill Buggedy Acreside? Bygmour flatehaun sore! But a cal, them doland up (and you, perfor virging of the Gachind lilt and supping's the that the saint, him my brade rainpleave you abothe king Jerospears forews wer's vitrodalths vitation abou remen thorly wated bease, there lit is like the Lucat wattern-his in thing hone: he willwho it bynemberumphs, faraden, here they sail nought of the sweet-puls temple of are whirk and eld not and Palm aro! This evers, Exmoonanture, thead fied and too tron the lanagain ther! Marre! Kevitutterod. Shaughter of Eons, Potter rud of thin collow. One to beehights headlos he gue. Dalilitopspes hers and a Noho. All to evers scan night!

Juva: Sod the thurch he breated! And the ming's my schlucises lausan the coy Brael mudder Sever, a his nakewdy feat Bashoweriful and it feet to mire blowsome, thems bis!

Admittedly, it is not as refined as the original. However, if a competent ghostwriter were brought in and given a month to enhance it, who knows what could be achieved? The random generator has indeed produced some promising lines. I quite fancy "For the like fing of the untill Buggedy Acreside?" and "Juva: Sod the thurch he breated!" seems interestingly blasphemous...

In my Joyce group, we have a monthly meeting where we engage in the activity of reading aloud.

It has been a long and arduous journey as it took us a total of 27 months to complete reading this book. We maintained a reading pace of 25 - 30 pages per month.

I firmly believe that the only feasible way to get through this book is by being in a group. Reading alone might have been too overwhelming and perhaps even discouraging.

Undoubtedly, it was a significant challenge, but one that I am extremely glad I undertook. The group provided the necessary support, motivation, and different perspectives that enhanced my understanding and appreciation of the book.

Looking back, I can see how this experience has not only deepened my knowledge but also strengthened my bond with the members of the Joyce group.

It has been a truly rewarding and memorable adventure that I will cherish for a long time to come.

I think I still don't understand many of Joyce's masterpieces, but that's where their charm lies.

They are so unique and sublime. It would be great if today's writers were as good and original as those of the past.

Joyce's works are like a mystery waiting to be解开. Each page seems to hold a hidden treasure.

Even though I struggle to fully comprehend them, I can't help but be drawn in by their beauty.

The way he uses language, the complex characters he creates, and the intricate plots he weaves are all truly remarkable.

I often wonder if modern writers can ever achieve the same level of greatness.

Maybe they can, but it will take a lot of hard work and a special kind of talent.

For now, I'll continue to explore Joyce's works and hope to gain a deeper understanding of his genius.

I firmly refuse to be caught off guard by those who claim that Finnegans Wake is on the same level as The Second Coming. This book is nothing but a fraud, hyped up by addicted Modernists who likely haven't even read it. I'm well aware that I've heard all the justifications before.

"Well, Finnegans Wake is an experience. You must set aside your preconceived notions of what beauty is. But if you persevere, you'll realize that it's a work of great merit precisely because it's inexplicable. That's where its value lies." I could make the same argument when I encounter my sons' dirty diapers.

James Joyce was indeed a very talented writer, but he defrauded his sycophantic followers, first with Ulysses and then with this work. He must have been astonished that nothing he wrote could stop them from singing his praises. Any rational person would see right through his ploy.