The truth, however, is that the author’s requirements have not kept Dr. Boli from reading Finnegans Wake. The juvenile puns are the things that stand in the way. Dr. Boli is simply not mature enough to appreciate their subtle genius. In another two or three hundred years, he may have grown old and wise enough for Joyce. At the present, though, his memories of vaudeville comedians with wretched parodies of an Irish accent are still green enough that he cannot read Finnegans Wake without hearing a rim shot from the pit drummer in every line.
Every few years, Dr. Boli gets the notion stuck in his head that he must be mature enough now to read Finnegans Wake. He finds a copy at a library book sale—they are never hard to find—and opens it to the first page, which begins with the end of a sentence whose beginning—close your eyes for a bit if you don’t want the surprise twist spoiled—is at the end of the book. This is a structure that would strike a fourteen-year-old as awfully clever. Having thus opened the book, Dr. Boli slogs boldly onward, through the first dozen or two puns, until some particularly groan-inducing pun causes him to toss the book across the room, where the parlormaid finds it and deposits it in the recycling bin. A few years later, Dr. Boli finds another copy at another library book sale. This time he is all enthusiastic, determined that Joyce will not get the best of him—until he comes to the pun that made him toss the book the last time.
Hootch is for husbandman handling his hoe.
But no, this was the one that made us toss it two readings ago. We remember now: we marched boldly past it last time until the next sentence:
Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you’re going to be Mister Finnagain!
This time, however, we are more mature. We can grit our teeth and make it past this one. We read on:
Comeday morn and, O, you’re vine! Sendday’s eve and ah, you’re vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you’re going to be fined again!
Toss.