Following the flow of the ‘Wake’ to its source
How can you capture the dark seam of energy and form at the heart of ‘Finnegans Wake’? By giving voice to the river that runs through James Joyce’s extraordinary book
Dublin’s river Liffey, which is at the heart of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, and riverrun, which was created by Olwen Fouéré. Photograph: Angela Sorrentino/Getty Images
In Sydney, Australia on June 16th, 2011, I agreed to perform a reading from James Joyce’s Ulysses for the Irish Consulate, “in honour of the day that was in it”, on condition that I include a reading from Finnegans Wake.
Never having read the book in any linear fashion – instead I had dived into snippets by opening it at random – I was a great fan of the Wake’s mercurial form and had carried, at the back of my mind, the possibility of giving voice to all that wild language in performance.
I had no interest in a “story” beyond the language, with its play of cultural and cosmic forces, and was not a great reader of Joyce, but I saw the Wake as a seam of dark matter, somewhere between energy and form, music and language: the trace of a boat on an endlessly changing surface.
So, on that day, at the event in Sydney, I chose to read the last page, where Anna Livia Plurabelle (ALP) , in her guise as the river “Life”, dissolves into the great ocean of time.
And that’s how it all began, with an audience, in a public space. Something happened during the reading, a moment where a few atoms changed shape and traversed the energy of the river approaching her death and transformation in the arms of the sea: “The moyles and moyles of it, maonanoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick and I rush, my only, into your arms. I see them rising!
“Save me from those therrble prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval.
“Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, Far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlee, mememormee! Tillthousends thee. The keys to. Given.”
By the end of the reading, with the suspended last line too precious to repeat here, the decision was made, inspired by the buzzing of atoms and a moment of flight.
There was no choice, really. Working backwards from the end of the book, the performance idea was taking shape. The river Liffey (Life) was all the rivers of the world, including our body’s bloodstream: a force of constant renewal, moving us forwards, towards the dawn.
Then it was simply a matter of following the river’s path, moving backwards towards the source that was pulling like a deep song from Deep time; intuitively selecting journey points, skipping chunks of text, inserting a couple of short passages from earlier in the book, all gathering at the starting point marked Book IV, the beginning of the end of the book, referred to by scholars as the Ricorso, or Renewal or Dawn.
The performance of Riverrun begins there, at the meridian of day and night, male and female, earth and space, island and sea. The first three words are Sanskrit, meaning the twilight of dawn: “Sandhyas! Sandhyas! Sandhyas! Calling all downs. Calling all dawns to dayne. Array! Surrection. Eireweeker to the wohld bludyn world. O rally, O rally, O rally! Phlenxty, O rally!
“To what lifelike thyne of the bird can be. Seek you somany matters. Haze sea east to Osseania. Here! Here! Tass, Patt, Staff, Woff, Havv, Bluvv and Rutter. The smog is lofting. Sonne feine, somme foehn avaunt!”
Finn MacCool and Foyn MacHooligan, cartoon-like heroes, music-hall gags, a giant body and its cosmic counterpart, the constellation of Orion, Ursa Major, the Egyptian book of the dead, various characters – celestial, human, animal, vegetal and mineral – hover. They emerge and morph on rhythms as subversive and agile as Charlie Chaplin.