May draws to a close, and with it, the time for celebrating the 75th anniversary of Finnegans Wake.
Finnegans Wake raises the most compelling question of Joyce’s oeuvre: “why did he do this?” It took the man seventeen years to write, he kept working through ever-worsening eyesight, and at the end he said: “I’m afraid no one’s going to read this.”
His brother, Stanislaus, said: “no one will”, and both brothers have been almost right.
What is the equivalent of Finnegans Wake in painting? In music?
It the silliest project ever undertaken by a great writer?