S: “In dreams begin responsibilities,” wrote W. B. Yeats, (whose birthday is today) in Responsibilities, 1914.
“History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake,” wrote Joyce, (whose Bloomsday is nigh) in Ulysses, 1922.
M: Here in the mi(d)st of the trial we reported from earlier, we are treated to a list of accusations, over a page long (FW 71-72) pedestrian to sublime, against HCE, including but not limited to:
Same time, sometime later: word has it that Hosty, singer/songwriter of the scandelrous ballad, a tenor (like Joyce himself), has simply vanished. A’Hara – previously identified as O’Mara – is now referred to as Hosty’s “husband.” FW 40. 2. (Curiously, he was “locally known as mildew Lisa).” FW 60. 52. It’s said he became a mercenary, a wild goose chaser, and expired in a faraway fray. Paul Horan – once known as Peter Cloran a/k/a Moran – is alleged to be confined in an Ulster madhouse. (Tautology) Fr. Browne, that loose-lipped Jesuit, is now said to have been a barefaced Carmelite, and in some versions of the story, plays the role of the confrontational cad with the pipe.
“Firstnighter, Informer…”
Chinese Whispers is a British parlor (parlez vous?) game, identical to the one the French call le téléphone arabe. A tale is told and tolled and trolled and talled and retailed until it is mythunderstood – “History is a pack of lies we play on the dead,” observed M. Voltaire. c.f. the eternal search for the Hysterical Jesus.
“Tight before Teatime…”
“This is the West, sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” declared newspaper editor Maxwell Scott in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, 1961.) If you want just the facts ma’am, consult the webb, Jack.
“Milkinghoneybeaverbrooker…”
The guilt of the accused is assumed, as in every trial kaf kaf.
“Barbarean…”
Gratuitous personal note: as a little child, I often awoke screaming in fear of a nightmare entity I called the Judge. Not until I read Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian did I know how right I was.
“Cainandabler” (probably my favorite), which is not only fun to say, but a suggestive reminder of HCE’s two sons, Shem and Shaun who will join us anon.
Are you right there Michael? (Giggle that for a google.)
And there, tucked in the middle of all this vitriol, right between “Burnham and Bailey” and “Unworthy of the Homely Protestant Religion,” we find the most telling slur of them all: “Artist”!
sum mer de le wake 