Thursday, 19 October 2017

Buck Mulligan on Finnegans Wake

Augustus John, portrait of Gogarty, National Museum of Wales

I've already posted Oliver St John Gogarty's review of Finnegans Wake, which was published in the Observer on 7 May 1939. At the time, he described the book as 'the most colossal leg-pull in literature since McPherson’s Ossian.'

Two years later, he wrote a memoir, 'The Joyce I knew', published in the Saturday Review on 24 January 1941.  Here's how he now saw the Wake:

 What a great final image!
 



Monday, 25 September 2017

Looking for Blake and Joyce in Bognor: Blake's Cottage

After the Whaleway Train dropped us at Butlins, Lisa and I walked into the pretty village of Felpham (which I learn is pronounced 'Felfham') to look for Blake's cottage.


Here's Blake's own picture of his cottage, which shows him walking in the garden, where he is visited by one of his Daughters of Inspiration. This comes from Milton, the poem he wrote here, which begins with the famous verses 'And did those feet in ancient times...'

In Lambeth, on 14 September 1800, two days before he moved down to Sussex, Blake wrote a poem in which he imagined his life in the country:

Away to sweet Felpham, for Heaven is there;
The Ladder of Angels descends thro’ the air;
On the turret its spiral does softly descend,
Thro’ the village then winds, at my cot it does end.

You stand in the village and look up to Heaven;
The precious stones glitter on flights seventy-seven;
And my brother is there, and my friend and thine
Descend and ascend with the bread and the wine.

The bread of sweet thought and the wine of delight
Feed the village of Felpham by day and by night,
And at his own door the bless’d Hermit does stand,
Dispensing unceasing to all the wide land...


The cottage, at 1 Blake's Road, is easy to find. Here I am standing at the western end, which would be on the left side of Blake's picture.


Blake had lived his whole life in London, and this was the first time he'd seen the sea, which his wife was soon splashing about in. Here's his first description of his new home, in a letter of 23 September to Thomas Butts:

Our cottage is more beautiful than I thought it, and also more convenient, for though small it is well proportioned, and if I should ever build a palace it would only be my cottage enlarged....The sweet air and the voices of winds, trees, and birds, and the odours of the happy ground, make it a dwelling for immortals. Work will go on here with God-speed. A roller and two harrows lie before my window. I met a plough on my first going out at my gate the first morning after my arrival, and the ploughboy said to the ploughman, "Father, the gate is open."

On the same day, he wrote to John Flaxman:

Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates; her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants are most distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses. My wife and sister are both well, courting Neptune for an embrace.



The Big Blake Project has created a beautiful virtual tour of the cottage and garden, which is populated by the celestial beings Blake saw here, through the golden gates of heaven.

It was in this very garden that Blake saw a fairy funeral. He described it to a lady he met at a social gathering in Felpham:

I was walking alone in my garden, there was great stillness among the branches and flowers and and more than common sweetness in the air; I heard a low and pleasant sound, and I knew not whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf of a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession of creatures of the size and colour of green and grey grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose leaf, which they buried with songs and then disappeared. It was a fairy funeral.

Look out for fairies in the virtual tour!


Blake's poem Milton describes a vision he had of the spirit of Milton, falling from heaven like a comet and landing in his Felpham garden, and entering Blake through his left foot!

And all this Vegetable World appeared on my left Foot,
As a bright sandal formed immortal of precious stones & gold:
I stopped down & bound it on to walk forward thro' Eternity

This kind of stuff didn't go down well with Blake's local patron, William Hayley, who had invited him to come to Felpham to illustrate his books. Hayley was a minor poet, well known at the time as the friend and biographer of the poet and hymnodist William Cowper (If you haven't read Cowper I recommend 'The Castaway', which may be the most anguished poem in the English language).

Hayley lived a hundred yards north of Blake, in a 'Marine Villa' called Turret House. You can see the top of it in the background in Blake's picture of his cottage. It's long gone, but there's a plaque.


Here's one of Blake's engravings for the Cowper biography. This was his bread and butter work while he was in Felpham.


Hayley also got Blake work painting miniature portraits of local people. Blake, who would rather have been recording his epic visions of Milton, hated this sort of work. He expressed his impatience with Hayley in his notebooks:

When H–y finds out what you cannot do
That is the very thing he'll set you to


We had a drink in the garden of the Fox Pub, which is just down the road from the cottage.  Blake rented his cottage from Mr and Mrs Grinder, hosts of the Fox.

Photo by Fred Pipes

 The pub has Blake's verses written on the wall.


We were joined by Fred, who'd taken the bus rather than the Seafront Whaleway train. We drank Pullman's bitter.


While I had a second pint of Pullman's with Fred, Lisa went off to explore the church, where she found this Blakean stained glass window.


It includes Blake's picture of his cottage


Lisa also found the memorial to Hayley, which names him as the friend and biographer of Cowper rather than the patron of Blake, who was an obscure figure in his lifetime.

Looking from the pub up the road to Blake's cottage, we could imagine the event which brought his time in Felpham dramatically to an end. On 12 August 1803, the poet found a dragoon called John Scofield lounging in his garden. Blake physically ejected him, marching him down the lane to the Fox Inn, where the soldier was billeted.


According to Scofield, Blake said, 'Damn the king. His soldiers are all slaves.' Scofield, backed up by a fellow soldier, Private Cock, complained to a magistrate, and Blake found himself charged with sedition.


In January 1804, Blake was tried in the Guildhall in Chichester. He was acquitted after several Felpham locals, including Hayley, testifed that he was a peaceable man. In fact, Blake did hold seditious opinions, but Scofield was shown to be an unreliable witness.

I don't know if Joyce visited Blake's cottage when he was staying here in 1923.  But he did know the story of Blake's encounter with the soldier. In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus has a similar experience, when he meets two drunk British soldiers in Nighttown:

STEPHEN: (He taps his brow) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king.....
PRIVATE CARR (Pulls himself free and comes forward.) What's that you're saying about my king?.....
PRIVATE CARR (Tugging at his belt.) I'll wring the neck of any bugger says a word against my fucking king....
PRIVATE COMPTON Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He's a proboer.....
STEPHEN The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old Ireland's windingsheet.
PRIVATE CARR (Loosening his belt, shouts.) I'll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
 
There are two quotations from Blake in there!

Three British soldiers also reappear in Finnegans Wake, as hostile witnesses against HCE.

Slander, let it lie its flattest, has never been able to convict our good and great and no ordinary Southron Earwicker, that homogenius man, as a pious author called him, of
any graver impropriety than that, advanced by some woodwards or regarders, who did not dare deny, the shomers, that they had, chin Ted, chin Tam, chinchin Taffyd, that day consumed their soul of the corn, of having behaved with ongentilmensky immodus opposite a pair of dainty maidservants in the swoolth of the rushy hollow....
34.12


By the time of the trial, the Blakes had moved back to London.
 






Friday, 22 September 2017

Looking for Joyce and Blake in Bognor Regis: Joyce's Guesthouse


Inspiring things are happening in Bognor Regis and neighbouring Felpham, thanks to the Big Blake Project. Following a crowd funding campaign, the Blake Society has bought the poet's cottage in Felpham. The plan is to turn this cottage, where he wrote 'And did those feet' into a centre of imagination. They've also created a Big Blake Blake trail, which you can read about here, and a gorgeous virtual tour of the cottage and garden, populated by the visionary beings that Blake saw here. They say that they 'aspire to nothing less than a Blakean Renaissance, Beulah.'

It sounds like they are rebuilding Jerusalem, or Golgonooza, Blake's Eternal City of Art (inspired by a walk the poet took to Chichester). More power to their elbows!

Last weekend was Blakefest, a two day celebration of visionary art, with poetry readings, musical performances, exhibitions, and Blakean inspired face painting for children. On Saturday, there was a walk by the Irish poet Niall McDevitt called 'Bugger Bognor, my Republican Irish arse!' He described this as 'a Bognor to Felpham walk encountering the great Blakeans James Joyce and Dante Gabriel Rossetti until we meet the main man himself'.

I'd love to have gone to that, but I couldn't get to Bognor until the Sunday. I went down with Lisa and our friend Alan Fred Pipes, and we did our own Blakean trail.


We started at the former guesthouse in Clarence Road, where Joyce stayed in the summer of 1923, which I last saw in 2002. It was bright yellow then. To find out more about Joyce's time here, see my previous post (It was while staying here that he came across the name Earwicker).


In My Brother's Keeper, Stanislaus Joyce (who hated Blake) tells us that, in his youth, his brother's 'gods were Blake and Dante'. Here's an exchange they had in 1903, when, following their mother's death, James Joyce began 'to drink riotously':

I hated to see him glossy-eyed and slobbery–mouthed, and I usually told him so heatedly, either on the spot or the morning after.
–It makes me sick, said I, just to look at you....
–The road of excess, quoted my brother again, leads to the palace of wisdom.
–Why the hell do you quote that bloody lunatic to me? I retorted angrily alluding to Blake. In any case I know the name of the palace. It's called Bedlam.

That's one of Blake's Proverbs of Hell, which Joyce liked quoting. He was still quoting Blake's proverbs in 1938 when, close to finishing the Wake, he told Jaques Mercanton, 'The only thing that gives me the courage to finish is Blake's proverb: If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.'


That reminds me of a nice couplet by Anthony Burgess:
 

Poems are made by fools like Blake
But only Joyce can make a Wake.



THE NET OF RELIGION


Joyce identified with Blake as a fellow rebel against the Church, State and the nets of religion and nationality.

When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.   

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Blake had used this image in the Book of Urizen. Urizen is Blake's tyrant-god-king-priest figure, who weaves the nets that trap society. 

A Web dark & cold, throughout all
The tormented element stretch'd
From the sorrows of Urizens soul...
None could break the Web, no wings of fire.
So twisted the cords, & so knotted
The meshes: twisted like to the human brain.
And all call'd it, The Net of Religion.

The Book of Urizen.    
 

Here's Urizen with his net.

The nets are enforced by the Church and State - the priest and king.  Stanislaus Joyce tells us that his brother liked to quote these lines of Blake from 'Merlin's Prophecy':

The king and the priest must be tied in a tether,
Before two virgins can meet together.

In Ulysses, Stephen taps his brow and says, 'But in here it is I must kill the priest and king.'
Fred and Lisa

 

MRS BLAKE AND NORA BARNACLE


A 1912 lecture Joyce gave on Blake in Trieste shows another way in which he identified with him:

Like many other men of great genius, Blake was not attracted to cultured and refined women. Either he preferred to drawing-room graces and an easy and broad culture...the simple woman, of hazy and sensual mentality, or, in his unlimited egoism, he wanted the soul of his beloved to be entirely a slow and painful creation of his own, freeing and purifying daily under his very eyes, the demon (as he says) hidden in the cloud.  

Joyce, who saw himself as a man of great genius, is writing about his own unlimited egoism here. 'The simple woman, of hazy and sensual mentality' is how he saw Nora Barnacle. 

The irony is that Nora had such a strong personality that there was no way that Joyce could mould her. According to Ellmann, the only occasion when she spoke of his writing with any approval was in Bognor when, on returning a pair of split shoes, she told the shopkeeper,  'My husband is a writer and if you don't change them I'll have it published in the paper.'

Here's how Joyce imagine Blake in the act of creation, supported by a loving wife:

Los and Enitharmon
Elemental beings and spirits of dead great men often came to the poet’s room at night to speak with him about art and the imagination. Then Blake would leap out of bed, and, seizing his pencil, remain long hours in the cold London night drawing the limbs and lineaments of the visions, while his wife, curled up beside his easy chair, held his hand lovingly and kept quiet so as not to disturb the visionary ecstasy of the seer. When the vision had gone, about daybreak his wife would get back into bed, and Blake, radiant with joy and benevolence, would quickly begin to light the fire and get breakfast for the both of them. We are amazed that the symbolic beings Los and Urizen and Vala and Tiriel and Enitharmon and the shades of Milton and Homer came from their ideal world to a poor London room, and no other incense greeted their coming than the smell of East Indian tea and eggs fried in lard. Isn’t this perhaps the first time in the history of the world that the Eternal spoke through the mouth of the humble?

Nora was not like this. She used to say that it was a shame that Joyce didn't stick to singing instead of writing novels. Brenda Maddox tells us that Nora's reaction to her husband's growing fame was to say, 'We should put him in a cage and feed him peanuts through the bars.'

BLAKE ON TIME


In a 1902 paper on James Clarence Mangan, Joyce described poetry in Blakean language:

Poetry...makes no account of history, which is fabled by the daughters of memory, but sets store by every time less than the pulsation of an artery, the time in which intuitions start forth, holding it equal in its period and value to six thousand years.

He's quoting A Vision of the Last Judgement, where Blake contrasts fable or allegory with vision or imagination:

Fable or Allegory are a totally distinct & inferior kind of Poetry. Vision, or Imagination, is a Representation of what Eternally Exists, Really & Unchangeably. Fable or Allegory is Formd by the daughters of Memory. Imagination is Surrounded by the daughters of Inspiration.

Joyce is also using Blake's description of time, in Milton:
 
Every Time less than a pulsation of the artery
Is equal in its period and value to Six Thousand Years; 
For in this Period the Poet’s Work is done; and all the great
Events of Time start forth and are conceiv’d in such a Period,
Within a Moment, a Pulsation of the Artery.

By 1912, when he wrote his lecture on Blake, Joyce had turned away from idealism. He wrote, 'by minimizing space and time and denying the existence of memory and the senses, (Blake) tried to paint his work on the void of the divine bosom.'

In Ulysses, Stephen Dedalus, teaching a Roman history lesson, thinks about history:

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. 

The events of the past must have happened in some way in the real world, even if history/memory misreports them. Robert F Gleckner has a great reading of 'thud of Blake's wings of excess':

Blake flew too often and too far into the beyond, and that excess led not to wisdom but to a thud against the unyielding hardness of reality.

'Joyce's Blake: Paths of Influence' in Blake and the Moderns (ed Bertholf and Levitt) p 147

BLAKE ON SPACE


This is how Blake describes space, in Milton:

For every space larger than a red globule of Man's blood
Is visionary, and is created by the Hammer of Los;
And every space smaller than a globule of Man's blood opens
Into Eternity of which this vegetable Earth is but a shadow.


Here's Blake's Los, with his blacksmith's hammer, from the Book of Urizen. He's the embodiment of the creative poetic imagination. Joyce might have been thinking of him when he wrote in A Portrait, of Stephen's desire 'to forge in the smithy of (his) soul the uncreated conscience of (his) race.'

Stephen thinks of the Milton passage in the Library episode, where he sets Blake's idealism against the real physical world. 

Space, what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges into the past.

The creepycrawlers are the Dublin theosophists, like AE, who follow Blake into the void of idealism. In Ulysses, Joyce holds 'to the now the here' Dublin on a single June day in 1904.



From Joyce's guesthouse, we walked down to the seafront, where we found Blake's favourite word, Vision, displayed on the top of the pier.

In front of the Carlton Hotel, we spotted Lucia Joyce dancing along the balcony.  

 
A friendly wave from a seafront mystic...


Then we caught the Whaleway train to Bognor's Butlin's Holiday Camp, on our way to Blake's cottage in Felpham....

 





Tuesday, 5 September 2017

'Mr Joyce has a Cloacal Obsession'.




Mr. Joyce has a cloacal obsession. He would bring back into the general picture of life aspects which modern drainage and modern decorum have taken out of ordinary intercourse and conversation.  

H.G.Wells, review of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, The New Republic, 10 March 1917 

'Cloacal obsession!' said Joyce. 'Why it's Wells's countrymen who build water-closets wherever they go.'

Frank Budgen, James Joyce and the Making of Uysses, 1934

'Cloacal' comes from the Latin cloaca (sewer).  

H.G.Wells had a point though. Joyce did describe himself as the sewer of Literary Dublin in his 1904 poem, 'The Holy Office':

But all these men of whom I speak
Make me the sewer of their clique.
That they may dream their dreamy dreams
I carry off their filthy streams....
Thus I relieve their timid arses,
Perform my office of Katharsis.


(Katharsis is a Greek word for a purge, accelerating defecation)

He also named his first volume of poetry, Chamber Music, after the tinkling sound of urine in a chamber pot ('Chamber music. Could make a pun on that', thinks Bloom).

It's hard now to think of A Portrait as very cloacal, but there's a bedwetting scene on the opening page ('When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold'). It seems so innocent now, but it was daringly new in 1916.

Wells would also have been thinking of scenes like this:

...he found in himself no instinctive repugnance to bad odours whether they were the odours of the outdoor world, such as those of dung or tar, or the odours of his own person among which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments. He found in the end that the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like that of long-standing urine

Wells wrote about this cloacal obession a year before Joyce came up with the most famous bowel movement in literature – Leopold Bloom's in Ulysses:

...he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big to bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah....He read on, seating calm above his own rising smell.

I think Joyce was the first writer to allow a character to defecate since Swift in Gulliver's Travels in the 1720s.

There's a memorable bowel movement in Finnegans Wake too. It takes place on page 185 in chapter 7, the attack on Shem the Penman (James Joyce) by his respectable and prudish brother, Shaun the Post. 

The story begins with the 1912 destruction of Dubliners, by Joyce's publisher, George Roberts, of Maunsel and Company, and his printer, John Falconer. 

'when Robber and Mumsell, the pulpic dictators, on the nudgment of their legal advisers, Messrs Codex and Podex, and under his own benefiction of their pastor Father Flammeus Falconer, boycotted him of all muttonsuet candles and romeruled stationery for any purpose, he winged away on a wildgoup’s chase across the kathartic ocean and made synthetic ink and sensitive paper for his own end out of his wit’s waste'

Deprived of any outlet for his writing, Shem makes ink out of his own dung and urine, and uses it to write his masterpieces 'over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body'.

To spare the reader's blushes, Shaun tells us that he'll be explaining how Shem made this ink in Latin. The story will be 'cloaked up' (a play on cloaca):

Let manner and matter of this for these our sporting times be cloaked up in the language of blushfed porporates that an Anglican ordinal, not reading his own rude dunsky tunga, may ever behold the brand of scarlet on the brow of her of Babylon and feel not the pink one in his own damned cheek. 

Joyce is hitting back here at The Sporting Times, subtitled 'The Pink 'Un', which published a hilarious attack on Ulysses in 1922 (on April Fools Day).  The snooty reviewer, 'Aramis', said that the book 'appears to have been written by a perverted lunatic who has made a speciality of the literature of the latrine....The main contents of the book are enough to make a Hottentot sick'.

The pink colour of the cover suggested to Joyce that the paper itself was blushing. Here's a photo of the blushing paper from the 2004 Ulysses centenary exhibition at the University of Buffalo.



This kind of headline was good for publicity, and Sylvia Beach displayed the poster on the wall of Shakespeare and Sons.




Here's Shem's bowel movement, on page 185 of the Wake:

Primum opifex, altus prosator, ad terram viviparam et cuncti-potentem sine ullo pudore nec venia, suscepto pluviali atque discinctis perizomatis, natibus nudis uti nati fuissent, sese adpropinquans, flens et gemens, in manum suam evacuavit (highly prosy, crap in his hand, sorry!), postea, animale nigro exoneratus, classicum pulsans, stercus proprium, quod appellavit deiectiones suas, in vas olim honorabile tristitiae posuit, eodem sub invocatione fratrorum gemino-rum Medardi et Godardi laete ac melliflue minxit, psalmum qui incipit: Lingua mea calamus scribae velociter scribentis: magna voce cantitans (did a piss, says he was dejected, asks to be exonerated), demum ex stercore turpi cum divi Orionis iucunditate mixto, cocto, frigorique exposito, encaustum sibi fecit indelibile (faked O’Ryan’s, the indelible ink). 

Here's a translaton (combined from those given in Roland McHugh's Annotations, by Robert S Boyle in The James Joyce Quarterly, and on reddit by an anonymous Latin scholar):

First, the artist, the high first-sower, pulled himself towards the life-giving and all-powerful earth without any shame or pardon, and pulling up his raincoat and unbuttoning his trousers, his buttocks naked as they were born, crying and moaning, evacuated his bowels into his own hand, then, relieved of the black animal, he sounded the trumpet and placed his own dung, which he called "his dejections," into an urn once used as an honoured mark of sadness, and under the invocation of the twin brothers Medard and Godard pissed cheerfully and mellifluously therein, whilst singing with a great voice the psalm which begin, "My tongue is the pen of a scribe writing swiftly." Finally, from that foul dung mixed with the cheerfulness of the divine Orion, baked and then exposed to the cold, he made for himself an indelible ink.

First the artist, the high first sower

'Altus Prosator' is the opening line of a 7th century Hiberno-Latin poem attributed to Saint Columba. It means 'high first-sower', and is an invented title for God. But prosator can also mean prose writer, so McHugh translates it as 'the eminent writer'.  Shaun in his parenthesis translates it as 'highly prosy'. Robert S Boyle translates the phrase as 'the old Father', which brings in a nice echo of the final lines of A Portrait, which Stephen addresses to his namesake, Daedalus:

'Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.'

The twin brothers Medard and Godard were French saints. According to Roman Catholic Martyrology, they were born on the same day, made bishops on the same day, and they died on the same day. Medard was a saint responsible for weather and rain (and so invoked to help Shem piss?)

pulling up his raincoat

The Latin 'pluviale' was originally a gown worn as a rain covering. Later it was applied to an ecclesiastical chasuble, worn by a priest when celebrating Mass.

foul dung mixed with the cheerfulness of the divine Orion

Orion = Shem's urine. Orion was born after Zeus, Poseidon and Hermes urinated on a bull-hide and buried it in the earth to give King Hyrieus a son. Orion's name may be from ourios (urine). 'Orina' is also Latin for urine.
Shem's dung, which he creates while crying and moaning, represents his dejections/ suffering. His urine (the divine Orion) stands for his joys in creation. The artist needs both to create perhaps.
While pissing he joyfully sings the opening of Psalm 45, "My tongue is the pen of a scribe writing swiftly."
 

TRANSMUTATION

 

Joyce often described his role as an artist as someone who transmutes matter. From his Catholic background, he took the priest at Mass as his model. In A Portrait, Stephen Dedalus describes himself as 'a priest of the eternal imagination transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.'

In Finnegans Wake, Joyce uses the alchemist as well as the priest as the transmuter. The Latin description of mixing dung and urine in an urn, and baking and cooling it, is alchemical. Alchemists believed that the basic ingredient for creating the Philosopher's Stone could be dung. Read Agnieszka Rec's excellent blog post, 'Dung? Alchemy is full of it':

'The philosopher Morienus described the starting material of the Philosophers’ Stone as “of cheap price and found everywhere” and “trodden underfoot.”  Medieval alchemists took that description literally and used the manure found all over their streets.'
In the wonderful passage that follows the Latin, Shem, described as 'the first till last alshemist', produces the ink like a squid from his own unheavenly body:




'when the call comes, he shall produce nichthemerically from his unheavenly body a no uncertain quantity of obscene matter not protected by copriright in the United Stars of Ourania or bedeed and bedood and bedang and bedung to him, with this double dye, brought to blood heat, gallic acid on iron ore, through the bowels of his misery, flashly, aithly, nastily, appropriately, this Esuan Menschavik and the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history (thereby, he said, reflecting from his own individual person life unlivable, transaccidentated through the slow fires of consciousness into a dividual chaos, perilous, potent, common to allflesh, human only, mortal) but with each word that would not pass away the squidself which he had squirtscreened from the crystalline world waned chagreenold and doriangrayer in its dudhud.'

The 'quantity of obscene matter not protected by copriright in the United Stars of Ourania' is Ulysses, which was pirated in the USA by Samuel Roth's Two Worlds Monthly
Copriright has Greek copros = dung.

The 'continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history' is Finnegans Wake.

'with each word that would not pass away the squidself which he had squirtscreened from the crystalline world waned chagreenold and doriangrayer in its dudhud.'

This is the cost to Joyce of transforming his life into art. Green and grey are the colours of Joyce's glaucoma and cataracts. His words live, but his squidself wanes, like the increasingly revolting picture of Dorian Gray.

You can have fun working out what it all means using the notes given here in fweet.