Nearly every serious James Joyce fanatic has maintained that Finnegans Wake is a text that is meant to be read out loud. Considering that the title comes from the Irish ballad "Finnegan's Wake", it is likely the text is best treated as a song to be sung, preferably while intoxicated.
The sheet music of Beethoven is a dictation of the sounds heard in Beethoven's head, sounds translated into a technical language capable of being reproduced by anyone capable of reading the written language and playing the instruments intended. And then conducting them all at the same time. It's complicated, but in the hands of a group of talented musicians, it recreates quite closely the symphony as heard in the mind of the creator himself.
The sheet music of James Joyce Finnegans Wake is a dictation of the wordsounds in Joyce's head, a musical narrative translated into a technical language capable of being reproduced by anyone capable of reading and singing the written language, but instead of musical notes played by multiple instruments, Joyce is using words used by multiple cultures. It too is a symphony. Conducting this symphony is complicated, but we do it. At least we try to do it.
But unlike Beethoven, whose technical language is exact, can we ever know if we are translating/singing Joyce correctly? How do we know if our symphony is recreating the sound of the symphony as heard in the head of the creator himself?
But unlike Beethoven, whose technical language is exact, can we ever know if we are translating/singing Joyce correctly? How do we know if our symphony is recreating the sound of the symphony as heard in the head of the creator himself?
Hundreds of thousands of hours have been poured into inspecting and dissecting the multitude of words that make up the musical language of Finnegans Wake; hundreds of thousands of interpretations are possible. I am sure Joyce entertained many different twists on this language, much like the way jazz musicians twist a note or a phrase; I imagine Joyce's sheet music incorporates many of these improvisations. Beethoven didn't do that (not a judgement of Beethoven, simply the marvel of Joyce).
Really, the closest we could get to a definitive version of Finnegans Wake would be to have James Joyce himself sing Finnegans Wake from start to finish, to hear him interpret the wordsounds in the style he intended. But sadly this is lost to time, fallen deep into the well of history with his death in 1941.
Lenny Bruce, like Joyce, demolished the linear flatness of language as well, a jazz musician who conducted a one man symphony of speech and language and voice, a true artist, bravely ahead of his time. Also like Joyce, he incorporated a mixture of languages and slang to reference his opinions of contemporary society, of art, music, film, television, politics, law, poetry, love, hatred, fear, etc. His tempo and rhythm crackled with the electricity of the moment. He speeded beyond speed itself into hyperdrive, always threatening to crash and burn, always chasing that crystal clear vision of the truth. He didn't stop to apologize to those who couldn't keep up, and, really, I can't comprehend how anyone could ever really keep up.
Oddly enough, for all this hype, the first time I heard the legendary comedian I quickly fell into a profound state of boredom. No funny. It was truly one of the bigger disappointments of my life. None of it seemed to make any sense. It certainly didn't seem obscene.
Kind of like cracking into Ulysses (or FW) for the first time. No. EXACTLY like cracking into Ulysses the first time.
That first exposure to Bruce or Joyce can never adequately live up to the hype, and for those who say otherwise, well…..fine. But for me, the second, third, and seventh times were no picnic either. But boredom breeds a special kind of patience, one I know very, very well. So I spent time with Bruce, I lived with Joyce. Over many hours spread out over many days and months, I suddenly awoke. Or maybe they did, and suddenly I understood the praise, I believed the hype. The true magnitude of these great Masters was revealed.
Kind of like cracking into Ulysses (or FW) for the first time. No. EXACTLY like cracking into Ulysses the first time.
That first exposure to Bruce or Joyce can never adequately live up to the hype, and for those who say otherwise, well…..fine. But for me, the second, third, and seventh times were no picnic either. But boredom breeds a special kind of patience, one I know very, very well. So I spent time with Bruce, I lived with Joyce. Over many hours spread out over many days and months, I suddenly awoke. Or maybe they did, and suddenly I understood the praise, I believed the hype. The true magnitude of these great Masters was revealed.
Joyce and Bruce: Jurassic Grow Beasts
"What rough grow beast,
its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"