Only a fadograph – karl reisman’s pages

Only a fadograph of a yestern scene
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce 7.15

There are some special Pages:
1. some articles of mine on Finnegans Wake

2. And some things relevant to Leo Reisman
– see the Caricature by Miguel Covarrubias done around 1936.
3. A graphic presentation of the pages of
Tom Kittle;s Wake
as published in Jamaica in 1876

4. Some notes and photos for a biographical
sketch – People in Time Lost

Life is a collective fantasy with real landmines bullets and wildflowers ,and trees, real obligations, real pills, real loneliness and sorrows,  real pain, real redwoods, and real dreams.
I am trying to write a blog in which I am able to put the ideas, the personal observations, reactions to media and events, beautiful language, music, performances, and other things that occur to me or that I feel strongly about. –
as well as information I think is special or useful
So I can say these things freely.

“The helmsmen of explorations have discovered how to disturb the peace of others, to profane the guardian spirit of other countries, to mix what prudent nature kept separate, to redouble men’s wants by commerce, to add to the vices of one people those of another, to propagate new follies by force and to set up unheard of lunacies where they did not exist before, and finally to give out the stronger as the wiser. They have shown men new ways, new instruments, new arts by which to tyrannize over and assassinate one another. Thanks to such deeds, a time will come when other peoples, having learned from the injuries they have suffered, will know how and will be able/ to return even worse fruits of such perniciousness/.”                       Giordano Bruno 1584

Welcome comments from those interested in what they read

In the name of the former and of the latter and of their holocaust. Allmen.
Finnegans Wake by James Joyce 419.10


Free Child Care, Health Care, University, $20 minimum wage, 33 hour work week

Why is Denmark the Happiest Country in the World?

Free Child Care, Health Care, University, $20 minimum wage, 33 hour work week

proposal for a Fweet Addendum Wiki for Finnegans Wake to which all can contribute

sent to FWRead

I am beginning to shape in my mind the idea of a Fweet Addendum Wiki to which all can contribute.
Raphael has done an incredible body of work, and it is reasonable that he wants to be

​​sure that his work meets his standards of what a listing should be.
  But of course no one person, except Joyce himself, can fully understand the range of Joyce’s ​knowledge and his use of that knowledge in Finnegans Wake. And what he did and did not​ ​intend or mean in his own mind at the time of writing.
  But in this sense to create a work to which future readers can refer it really takes the contributions of all of us.
  So the idea of a Wiki which links every page to the Fweet page as a starter,
but then​ ​lets us build in the knowledge which we collectively possess or think we posses about the content of  Joyce’s   text.
But how to avoid SLOP

  That is part of Raphael’s concern, as it has been of McHugh and Clive Hart and others working at​ t​he overall picture.
  Clearly we don’t want mere fantasies or readers’ dreams and free associations posted as notes.That could be another Wiki for those who like such things.

   So how to control the content without being limited to the view of one editor, or even an established​ ​set of editors?
   I would like to propose that anyone seeking to make a contribution should have to have available​ ​textual evidence (by their criteria) for the readings they want to post.
Since there is clearly not room in notes for such a presentation of evidence, I would like to propose​ ​a​ second Wiki or depository for such presentations of evidence to accompany contributions. This would create an archive to which notes could be linked, and would make available to any reader the basis on w​​hich any note was made and which they could judge for themselves. This would end up hopefully as

​ ​a tremendous body of Finnegans Wake scholarship.
  So there is no intent to replace Fweet. But to build on it in a more universal? way.
  In the Wiki addendum there would be basicallly be PAGES and on each page
there would be
  1. a link to the Fweet notes for that page
  2. additional notes by line contributed by the Wiki users.
  3. Certain topic notes – brief background on people and subjects referred to ​by the line notes
  4. link to the supporting evidence and arguments in the archive for the note ​individually or by line or group (such as Australia ​or geology ​on a set of pages etc)

So the responsibility of each contributor would be to provide the notes and

​ ​the evidence and arguments (hopefully not to lengthy) for the archive, as well
as such minimal backgrond items as their notes would require.
One way to keep the supporting material short would be by included links
to articles or posts. So if someone feels the need to make a very long essay,
they could post it to a blog and provide a link for the archive.
  Now to the hard part –
    I am 83, half blind, and go to sleep every half hour.
   There is no way I can do the work – create the Wiki, make it feasible, check
​the links, etc of such a proposal – (or to design software to make the work perhaps

   So I have to appeal to others who think this may be a good idea to put it into​ ​p​ractice.
Karl Reisman

My apoligies for difficult formatting problems caused by the idiosyncrasies of WordPress

Speaks for itself and to the occasion



Obama’s Strategy

Obama has and has had a method and a vision in this madness.
Obama’s aim is – by performing his office in a literal way –
to make visible the chaos of conflicting powers and prejudices and corruptions and ignorances in which we live
and ask us as a people,
What are WE going to do about it??


Jeanette Winterson – Thoughts on the death of her father

This used to be up on Winterson’s website – but seems  to have dissappeared –    [Whether our lives should be seen through the prism of quantum theory, or of old fashioned Darwinism is a matter up for discussion.]

Jeanette Winterson    Thoughts on the death of her father

My father used to do magic tricks. His favourite was to flounce a red silk handkerchief over a tumbler of water and toss it at one of his friends. As they stepped back in dismay, expecting to be doused, the handkerchief
fluttered harmlessly at their feet, no trace of the airborne H2O.

How was it done? My father never performed this trick unless he was standing behind a desk or table where he had prudently pinned a servante.
A servante, out of sight, and in line with the magician’s testicles, is a
deep pocket designed to contain the debris of the last trick and the
essentials of the one to follow. While my father made great play
of arranging his handkerchief over the glass, he dropped the glass into
the servante. The shape of the already vanished tumbler was maintained by
a metal ring, like a large cock ring, sewn into the double thickness of
the handkerchief. To the observer, the ring is the rim of the glass, and
so, when the handkerchief is pirouetted into the air, the glass seems to
have disappeared.
He terrorised my mother by insisting on whipping the tablecloth off
the table when it had been set for dinner. As children we adored such
Mephistophelean disregard for order, the scandalised cups and
plates flung against gravity into a Madhatter’s party. Sometimes my
father said it was the table that had been spirited away, and that the
saucers, knives, forks and jugs re-settled in their proper place, had
only the tablecloth on which to depend.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps there is no table. Perhaps the firm
surface of order and stability is as much an illusion as a silk
handkerchief over a non-existent glass. Glass and table have long since
disappeared but the shape remains convincing. At least until we learn
how it is done.

If the Superstring theory is correct there is no table. There is no basic
building block, no firm stable first principle on which to pile the rest.
The cups and saucers are in the air, the cloth levitating under them, the
table itself is notional, we would feel uncomfortable eating our dinner
without it, in fact it is a vibration as unsolid as ourselves.

Where is my father? Meaningless question, he would say, but it has
meaning for me, who has buried what I thought of as him, his solid self.
The firm surface of my father on which we piled the rest. The statue of
Atlas holding up the world, but what holds up Atlas, as the old conundrum
My father was his own conjuring trick; the impression of something solid
when what was solid had vanished away. He had become bis clothes. He had
become his job. It was as though he had tunnelled into another life
without telling anyone, including himself. I imagine him, vigorous,
unconcerned, in a wilder place, cheating us here with a lacquered offering
of respectability, his painted funeral mask wheeled through the streets
while he had reassembled himself on the other side of the wall. Stuff of
science fiction? If there are parallel universes my authentic father could
have teen living on any one of them, leaving us with his distorted self.
Infinite grace. Infinite possibility. The mercy of the universe extended
in its own laws. According to quantum theory there are not only second
chances, but multiple chances. Space is not simply connected. History is
not unalterable. The universe itself is forked. If we knew how to
manipulate space-time as space-time manipulates itself the illusion of our
single linear lives would collapse. And if our lives here are not the
total our death here will not be final.
I play with these things to free myself from common sense, which tells
me, not least, that I experience the earth as flat and my father as dead.
He may be less dead now than he has been for thirty years. My
grandmother’s old-fashioned religious comfort of an afterlife may not be
as soft-headed as some believe. As an armchair atheist I stumble into God
as soon as I get up and walk. I do not know what God is, but I use it as
a notation of value.
God = highest value. Force and freedom of the thinking universe. The
model of the universe as mechanical has no basis in fact. In a quantum
universe, heaven and hell are simply parallel possibilities. In our Judeo-
Christian myth-world, Eve ate the apple. In a symmetrical myth-world next
door, Eve did not. Paradise lost. Paradise unlost. Objections to this are
logical but quantum mechanics is not interested in our logic. Every
quantum experiment conducted has shown, again and again, with dismaying
mischief, that particles can hold positions contradictory and simultaneous.

‘If we ask whether the position of the electron remains the same we
must say no. If we ask whether the electron’s position changes with
time, we must say no. If we ask whether the electron is at rest we
must say no. If we ask whether it is in motion we must say no.’
(Robert Oppenheimer)

Where is my father? The decay of him is buried. Impossible that he
should be alive and dead at the same time. Quantum theory states that for
every object there is a wave function that measures the probability of
finding that object at a certain point in space and time. Until the
measurement is made, the object (particle) exists as a sum of all possible
states. The difficulty here, between the logical common sense world and
the complex, maverick universe, is that at a sub-atomic level, matter does
not exist, with certainty, in definite places, rather it has a tendency to
exist. At the sub-atomic level, our seeming-solid material world dissolves
into wave-like patterns of probabilities, and these patterns do not
represent probabilities of things but probabilities of connection. Atlas 0
Ariadne 1.  The hard-hat bullnose building blocks of matter, manipulated
by classical physics, now have to be returned as an infinite web of
relationships. What is chosen and why is still unknown.
A wave function spreads indefinitely, though at its farthest it is
infinitesimally flimsy. Theoretically, it was always possible, though
unlikely, to find my father beyond the solar system, his clustered
energies elsewhere. More obviously, my father seemed to be here, as you
and I are here, but we too can be measured as wave functions, unlimited by
the boundaries of our bodies. What physicists identify as our wave
function may be what has traditionally been called the soul. My father,
at the moment of physical death, may simply have shifted to an
alternative point of his wave function. What my grandmother believes in
and I speculate upon, seems only to be a difference in terminology. She
hopes he is in heaven. I hope he has found the energy to continue along
his own possibility.
Sceptical? The laws of physics concern themselves with what is possible
not what is practical.
The property of matter and light is very strange. How can we accept
that everything can be, at the same time, an entity confined in volume (a
particle) and a wave spread out over huge regions of space? This is one of
the paradoxes of quantum theory, or as the Hindu mystics put it centuries
ago,’smaller than small, bigger than big’. We are and we are not our
If we accept Hawking’s idea that we should treat the entire universe
as a wave function, both specifically located and infinite, then that
function is the sum of all possible universes, dead, alive, multiple,
simultaneous, interdependent, co-existing. Moreover, ‘we’ and the sum
universe cannot be separated in the way of the old Cartesian dialectic of
‘I’ and ‘World’. Observer and observed are part of the same process. What
did Paracelsus say? ‘The galaxa goes through the belly.’
What is it that you contain? The dead, time, light patterns of
millennia, the expanding universe opening in your gut. No longer confined
by volume, my father is free to choose the extent of himself. Is that
him, among the stars and starfish of different skies?

This is how I explain it. My mother drinks. My grandmother reads the
Bible, my sisters numb themselves in excess family life. To each his own
epidural. It does ease the pain but the pain persists, the dull ache, low
down as though my back had been broken and not properly healed. Perhaps
it would be better to lie on his grave like a dog. To howl out the plain
fact that there is no comfort, no relief, that grief must be endured until
it has exhausted itself on me. My mind repeats its exercises like a lesson-
book. Over and over the same ground, memories, happiness, the said and
unsaid, the last hours, helplessness of the living, autonomy of the dead.

‘He is not dead,’ I say to myself, renouncing the word because it is
‘David is dead,’ says my grandmother, over and over, with the finality
of a bell.
We looked at each other, afraid to speak, afraid to load our feelings
into words in case the words cracked and split. I pinned my tongue to the
roof of my mouth. Hold in, hold in, one crack and the wall is breached. I
need now to be finite, self-contained, to stop this bacterial grief
dividing and multiplying till its weight is the weight of the world.
Bacteria: agents of putrefaction. My father’s decay lodged in me. Fed on,
what is vital is sapped. I decrease. It increases. Bowel to brain of me,
this pain. What words? What words can I trust to convey this fragile heart?

Stopper it up, heart and words, give the pain nothing to feed on.
Still now, my still heart. I will counterfeit death as my father
counterfeited life. On that continuum we meet.
Grandmother and I sat face to face over the sepulchral plastic of the
breakfast bar. Common and rare, to sit face to face like this. Common that
people do, rare that they understand each other. Each speaks a private
language and assumes it to be the lingua franca. Sometimes words dock and
there is a cheer at port and cargo to unload and such relief that the
voyage was worth it. ‘You understand me then?’

I wanted her to understand me. I wanted to find a word, even one, that
would have the same meaning for each of us. A word not bound and sealed in
dictionaries of our own.  ‘Though I speak with tongues of men and angels
but have not love . . .’
‘I love you.’
She nodded. ‘Can we get rid of all this, do you think?’
She meant the kitchen. The breakfast bar was easy to demolish and I
unscrewed all those handy flat-packed chipboard and formica cupboards and
put them in a pile in the yard. I went out and bought some coal and we lit
the range again, filthy, black, smoky, unhygienic, red eye laughing at us.
We carried in the scrubbed-elm table and the big dresser. Underneath the
acrylic floor covering were the polished stone tiles.
‘They’ll put you in a home,’ I said.
‘This is my home and it was David’s and it will be yours when I die.’
When I die. The words running forward into the future. For now, her
home, her way of life. Too much had been taken away already.
‘This is how I want it,’ she said. ‘So that I can remember.’ She heaved
herself under the sink and brought out the formaldehyde rabbit. ‘It was
David who bottled this.’ We put it back on the dresser shelf, its ears
bobbing against its lid.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures
all things. Love never ends.

Dear President Obama

Dear President  Obama,What is happening to you?

The pipeline, the TPP, blindness on Mexico, deportation, Net Neutrality, Secrecy and data collection:

You seem to be taking positions on all these that are morally indefensible.

Look how many issues there are – and there are more.

Now look at yourself in the mirror and say
What kind of President am I – or have I become?
What horrors am I not capable of unleashing
in the name of fantasized compromises and imaginary possible progress?.

Just like having left the poor and unemployed in the lurch while rescuing bankers,

Let us look at Nafta and Mexico – You seem to accept the Pena Nieto picture of a peaceful and progressive Mexico – with some violence problems.
Meanwhile the Pena government has sold out Mexico’s natural resources –   oil, beach and resort land, and much else which were protected from such vulturism by the Mexican constitutions of Carranza and Lazaro Cardenas.
They have eliminated pensions, taxed the traditional markets to new heights – – one of Mexico’s glories even before Spanish contact  –     and in general are continuing steps to try to eliminate the peasantry of half the country.  And the “progress”  you note is all by US companies not Mexican.
The result has been violence and disorder not peace and development, From Chiapas in the south, where terrorist police.attacks on what is left of the life of the Mayan people have resumed,
through Oaxaca and Guerero, to the total disorder in Michoacan, and  the Narcos all over the north.
Trade agreements such as Nafta and TPP are licences for corporations to gobble up and destroy the remaining civilizations of the earth.They are not progress.
And as a president with ideals you should be ashamed of taking part in such agreements which in the long run also hurt the freedom and quality of life of the American people as well as of the world in general.
Corporate governance  and depredation is not the future we want.


Karl Reisman

Orlando Mezzabotta Comments on Italian Fascism on page 286 of Finnegans Wake



orlando mezzabotta


I would like to point out a couple of allusions which may have

escaped previous interpretations. The passage is:

286.19: Problem ye ferst, construct ann aquilittoral

286.20: dryankle Probe loom! With his primal hand-

286.21: stoe in his sole salivarium. Concoct an equo-

286.22: angular trillitter. [1] On the name of the tizzer

286.23: and off the tongs and off the mythametical

286.24: tripods. Beatsoon.

But, before plunging into it, I’d like to call the attention to the

“HEPTAGRAMMATON” of the right marginal note, pointing

to “P.t.l.o.a.t.o.” (286.3) The most obvious explanation is the one

given by McHugh as “plates to lick one and turn over” (286.18).

But I detect two more allusions: the philosopher “Plato” and Italian

“Pilato” (Pilatus). And I think that this points to the fact that the

previous speech was made by Shem, who expressed his negative

position towards mathematics and algebra, leading only to chaos

(aosch) and ashes (286.2). Now it should be Shaun’s turn to turn a

new page, but it seems that the “idealistic philosopher” (Plato) is

not likely to do it, to waste his time on such menial affairs


stay clean, wash his hands “that count” (Pilatus like),


and prepare himself for the “Platonic” interpretation of ALP, the

female principle. And probably not giving much weight to Thomas

Aquinas who said:

“what is primary in our knowledge is the things of which we first

form concepts. Mathematical entities are idealizations made by

way of abstraction from our knowledge of sensible things. It is

knowledge of sensible things which is primary and thus prior to

the “order of learning” the philosophical sciences.”

[McInerny, Ralph and O’Callaghan, John, “Saint Thomas Aquinas”,

The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2013 Edition),

Edward N. Zalta (ed.), forthcoming URL =


So it’s Shem who continues the lesson (286.4-18) and invites his

brother to dismiss the cardinal “packnumbers” he was so fond of,

having first given the due attention to “Paco Hunter” of the

corresponding left margin note: “Vive Paco Hunter!”, in which we

find the already mentioned initials (VPH) of the luxurious Victoria

Palace Hotel, in Paris, where Joyce now and then used to live. But

since our Paco is in correspondence with

286.11 hucksler, Wellington’s Iron Bridge,

we are entitled to interpret “hucksler” as a whore (hustler), selling

her “wares/wears” in the street like a “huckster”, and “Wellington’s

Iron Bridge” recalls both Wellington (the Iron Duke) and the bridge

that leads to Bachelor’s Walk. Now, in our case, “bachelor” has at

least a double meaning. It may be a “chaste” young man; or an old

unmarried womanizer walking after whores, in Paris. Let’s get back

to Paco, a common Spanish name that derives from Latin “PAter

COmmunitatis” (the Father of the community). We are entitled to

see in him a Spanish Father who is a Hunter (very likely of girls),

like the Spanish Don Juan; but probably a hunter of heretics (the

rebellious sons) and of witches as well, like a Spanish Inquisitor.

(There is indeed an ironic touch. Paco is connected with Franciscan

friars, since it is the nickname of St. Francis. But inquisitors were

Dominicans, commonly known as adversaries of Franciscans. Thus

“Paco hunter” may indeed be a Dominican friar.) But “Paco

Hunter” recalls the well known “Pocahontas”, the “Virginia”

Indian princess “notable for her association with the colonial

settlement at Jamestown [WP]”. So we have a “virgin” princess

settled in the town of James (the Paris of Joyce). But this “maid”

seems to be somewhat impudent and shameless, since her name

hints at Italian “poca onta” (poca: little; onta: dishonour, shame).

In conclusion: an old and shameless Don Juan hunting a brazen girl

who could be his daughter and chasing away his insurgent sons. Or

a young “chaste” Dominican (Shaun type), a witch hunter, who

rejects the advances of a sinful and shameless hustler.

And now we can finally direct our attention to the specific passage

which introduces the “triangle” theme. I won’t touch here the

geometrical allusions, which are the most obvious and usually

treated at large; but I’ll try to point out, as best as I can, the

“political and historical side” of the sarcastic confrontation

between the twins, made explicit by Footnote 1:

“As Rhombulus and Rhebus went building rhomes one day.”

with its reference to Romulus and Remus. The reference to Rome is

manifest in the subtly hidden acrostic of the right marginal note:






which is a clear anagram of ITALIA (Italy). With a series of

allusions to the confrontation between Shaun, the “ingenuous

(candid)” brother and the libertine Shem; a confrontation that will

be “strong and continuous” (tenacious), laborious and highly

sophisticated (ingenious) in its argumentation. But most of all I’d

like to underline the many references to “fascism” and its “nazi”

connections. “aquilittoral” is not only the obvious “equilateral”,

and not only the “littoral zone” where “ankles” are alternatively

washed by the water (Italian acqua) and then left “dry”; or where

“Enkel” (German “grandchildren”) haven’t yet had the nerve to put

their feet in; but it hints specifically at Italian “aquila” (eagle) and

at “littoriali”, which were cultural, artistic and sports events for

University students, that took place during the fascist era.

You can see on the right and left side the “fasci littori” (bound

bundle of wooden rods, sometimes including an axe with its blade

emerging). Thus the fascist “aquila littoria” (Lictorian Eagle).

“Probe loom” hints, among other things (amongst them, a quite

amusing ironic “pro Bloom”, which could be a “polemic” anti-nazi

“pro Jews” as well), at “pro bellum” (in favour of war) or “para

bellum” (prepare for war) – the capital P of Probe linking it to the

German word for “proof”, so a “proven” and “looming” scrutinizer

(loom – Latin Lumen “light”). “primal hand-stoe in his sole

salivarium” is indeed intriguing. McHugh points to an oblique

“thumb in his mouth”, hinting at the “babish”, childish attitude; the

baby who puts the big finger (toe) of his hand there where “saliva”

is, namely the mouth. (In fact it is the thumb which, together with

the index, is used as a compass to trace one of the two circles of

page 293. It is he thumb at the mouth of the river, the Lambda

point, so brilliantly illustrated and explained by Clive Hart in his

“Structure and motif in Finnegans Wake.”

But “hand-toe” is the yoga position of “Utthita Hasta


which has an astounding resemblance with the nazi “goose step”.

And “sole salivarium” (nazi SS apart) has another fascist

reference. “sole” is Italian for “sun”; “saliva” in this case may be

connected to the verb “salire” (to ascend, to rise, to go up). “saliva”

is “he/she/it was rising”. So the fascist Roman image is that of a

rising sun, that same rising sun (sole che sorgi – “sorgere” : to rise)

which we find in the most famous “Inno a Roma” (Hymn to Rome

– 1919), verses by Fausto Salvatori, music by Giacomo Puccini,

amply used by the fascists for their propaganda, because of its

captivating and nationalistic aura.

Sole che sorgi libero e giocondo

Sul Colle nostro i tuoi cavalli doma

Tu non vedrai nessuna cosa al mondo

Maggior di Roma, maggior di Roma!

(Oh sun that rises free and full of joy

over this Hill of ourn, tame there your horses;

you will not see throughout the world a thing

which is greater than Rome, greater than Rome.)

In case you have historical curiosities you may hear a version of it:

But I think that “salivarium” hides Joyce’s spiteful “spit” towards

Fascism and Nazism with their goose steps (handtoe) and their

bombastic marches (soles, soil). But there are still more Roman and

fascist references, like those in

286.21: Concoct an equo-angular trillitter

The verb “concoct” is quite unusual, coming directly from Latin

(Roman) concoctus (cum + “coquere” : to cook). “equo” is Latin

“equus”, which can be both a horse and a donkey (up to you to

decide who is Shaun and who Shem; probably both, since the

white-black “zebra” as well belongs to the family Equidae). Thus we

have “equal” perspectives (angles) joined in a trilateral, zebraic

horse-donkey, doubly linked to the “trillitter” which hints at the

three letters of the fascist Latin DVX (Duce, Führer),

the littorian (litter) Mussolini. So the “zebraic” oppressed sons

(Italian “ebraico”: Hebrew) fronting the racist Father who controls

that his trilateral and triliteral Delta (ALP) be not trasformed by

his sons into a cooked-up “cocotte” (whore). That’s French for

“chicken”, diminutive of “coq” (cock). And if we note that “equus”

derives from the Mycenaean Greek “i-qo”, we may detect an

incestuous, thrilling and trilling tris-littered “concoction” of “hen”

(cocotte) and Equidaes. An image which recalls a blasphemous

Witch’s Cauldron, where the father and the son (the tizzer and

the tongs) of the Trinity are turned into firebrands (tizzer :

Italian “tizzo, tizzone”) and sworn criminal brotherhoods (Chinese

“tong”, literally “hall, gathering place”), with its songs sung in a

secret language (tongue). All this taking place around the mythic-
matical (mythametical) mother, whose secret is both hidden

(mimetic) and enlightened by the “tripods” of her sacred altar;

sacred secrets that must be revealed, at least according to the Italian

idiomatic form “scoprire gli altarini” (literally: to unveil, uncover

the small altars), in fact “to reveal one’s guilty secrets”.

Here we may give a look at the left marginal note:

The boss’s bess bass is the browd of Mullingar

where we may find the Boss (Father) whose wife (bride of

Mullingar, Chapelizod), his very pride (browd), is in fact a

malingering “broad”. And a fish (bass) boiled for “broth”; the best

one of the Mullingar brothel. And the best ale (Bass’s ale – with its

red triangle)

is in fact the ale of the “boozer”, morphed into a “dishwatery” broth.

Continuing with the text, in 286.24 “Beatsoon” is not only “be it

soon” and “so be it”, but also “beats” and Italian “bastone” (rod), the

fascist “manganello” (truncheon, billy club). Suggesting that the

ensuing fight will certainly be not without serious consequences.

Which may suggest an interesting link (I don’t know how much far-
fetched) with the “naven” ritual described by the anthropologist

Gregory Bateson (beatsoon), in his work “Naven: A Survey of the

Problems suggested by a Composite Picture of the Culture of a

New Guinea Tribe drawn from Three Points of View. (1936)”.

[Note, please, the three points, like those of a triangle.] Of course

this is not the place to expound on this topic; thus let it be sufficient

to know that that ritual develops what Bateson, in his book, called

“schismogenesis” (creation of division), and that “schismogenic

behavior consisted of a competitive relationship between

categorical equals (e.g., rivalry) and complementary

schismogenesis between categorical unequals (e.g., dominance

and submission). [WP] Which expresses clearly both the twins

and the father/twins relation. And this justifies the “fascist” touch

and its imagery, since fascism is deeply influenced by a rebellious

attitude towards the bourgeois establishment (the decadence of the

old regime) and, most of all, by the exalted excitement of the new

generation. It’s not a case that the official hymn of the Italian

National Fascist Party – and the unofficial national anthem of Italy

between 1924 and 1943 – was “Giovinezza” (Youth). For pity’s sake

and for the good name of Italian poetry I’ll spare you the verses.

286. 3                    P.t.l.o.a.t.o.                            HEPTAGRAMMATON.
286. 4                    So, bagdad, after those initials falls and that HYPOTHESES
286. 5                  primary taincture, as I know and you know         OF COM-
286. 6                  yourself, begath, and the arab in the ghetto      MONEST EX-
286. 7                  knows better, by nettus, nor anymeade or          PERIENCES
286. 8                  persan, comic cuts and series exerxeses always    BEFORE APO-
286. 9                  were to be capered in Casey’s frost book of,      THEOSIS OF
286.10                  page torn on dirty, to be hacked at Hickey’s,     THE LUSTRAL
286.11 Vive Paco          hucksler, Wellington’s Iron Bridge, and so, by    PRINCIPIUM.
286.12 Hunter!            long last, as it would shuffle out, must he to
286.13                  trump adieu atout atous to those cardinhands
286.14 The hoisted in     he a big deal missed, radmachrees and rosse-
286.15 red and the low-   cullinans and blagpikes in suitclover. Dear
286.16> ered in black.    hearts of my counting, would he revoke them,
286.17                  forewheel to packnumbers, and, the time being
286.18                  no help fort, plates to lick one and turn over.
286.19                    Problem ye ferst, construct ann aquilittoral    INGENIOUS
286.20                  dryankle Probe loom! With his primal hand-        LABOUR-
286.21 The boss’s bess    stoe in his sole salivarium. Concoct an equo-     TENACITY
286.22 bass is the browd angular trillitter.¶1¶ On the name of the tizzer    AS BETWEEN
286.23 of Mullingar.      and off the tongs and off the mythametical        INGENUOUS
286.24                  tripods. Beatsoon.                               \AND LIBERTINE.