Chapter 5




Pages: 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125



[Which begins with a tribute to ALP, and her letter. The text of the letter is discussed: what it is about, the possible circumstances of its writing, who was the author. The chapter concludes that it is a copy of a much older historical tale, and by a process of elimination concludes that Shem performed the forgery.]


p. 104


In the name of Anna Livia Plurabelle, who brings forth the multitudinous population, a river of humanity, who is also known as Eve, it is her will that is done in heaven, and there are no boundaries to where she might lead us.

Her untitled Letter about HCE has gone under different names at different times.  [Here follows a list of names which allude to HCE, the other characters or events in FW, including: HCE as a resurrected Seabeast or Noah, Tristan and Isolde, Huckleberry Finn, a brewer, the rainbow, Letters, Dublin…


P. 105


… Lots of Fun at Finnegans Wake, how Buckley shot the Russian General, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, the Nile, the 29 Flower girls [for example]…


P. 106


… the Maggies, the final leaves, Guinness, Humpty Dumpty, Tree and Stone [etc]…


P. 107


…washer women, and finally a true Account of Earwicker – and the snake – by a woman of the world, that tells the story of Earwicker’s privates [3 bits of male genitalia?] and a pair of girls [ALP’s labia], and some accusations about the use of a condom (raincoat).]

            The protean text is a mixture of all scripture. There was a time when some naïve person may have written it all down – probably a writer who was a recidivist criminal, ambidextrous and snub nosed, who smoked a pipe [i.e. profound rainbowl?]. If it had been written down, someone reading it would have seen a mosaic of sexual stories about lust and weddings, in which HCE seeks his sugar and salt, that is, his young women [Vanessas], like a moth on the hunt from flower to flower. This sounds like a pure science but it is also about the richness of the literature of yore. 

We are so far from him [the writer] in this night of darkness, reared as we are by a 1000 and one rolls of paper and also thunder. We grope on until our zero hour of death, poor old infidels that we are, trying to preserve the moments of our days. Closer inspection of the writing would also reveal a multiplicity of personalities in the document and a prediction of a crime that could be made by anyone unwary who happened to come along at the wrong moment. In fact, in the minds of the Four Historians, our inspectors, the features of the sexmosaic coaelesce, their contrary elements eliminated, to reveal one stable somebody or similarity, via a process of dialectic conflict, who experiences a series of prearranged disappointments [i.e. Falls] along a long line of generations.

            Say, Mister Lightgiver, who in hell wrote the damned thing…


P. 108


… anyhow? Who is it, seated below the wall with the picture, using a quill or stylus, whether with a turgid or lucid mind, maybe chewing, interrupted by visits of fellow writers, between two girls or tossed by the three soldiers, a right down regular man of the soil or a bespectacled sharp witted fellow laden with the loot of learning?

            Now patience is a great thing, and we must never become impatient. A good plan used by worried business people, who may not have had the time to master Confucius’s ‘doctrine of the mean’, or the codes of propriety written by his son, is just to think of all the patience you need for a sinking fund, or how Robert Bruce learned to be patient by watching a spider, and think of the patience of HCE. If – after years of archaeological delving – someone has come up with the theory that our great ancestor had no surname, i.e. was three syllables less than his own surname, and that the ‘ear’ in the name of Finn ‘Earwicker’ was the trademark of a broadcaster, with ‘wicker’ being local jargon for some invention [possibly a primitive radio/penis – Mary ‘conceived’ via ear] then regarding this radio epistle to which we must ceaselessly return – where in hell is that bright person now to slip us the ‘good oil’?

            There are sceptics. To conclude that the absence of political fallout and requests for money signifies that the written description of the earlier epistle [i.e. Document No.2 is in part about No.1] cannot have been penned by someone of those times or parts is to leap to conclusions. It would be like inferring that the absence of inverted commas [such as in Ulysses] means that the author was incapable of appropriation of the spoken words of others.


P. 109


Luckily there is another angle to this quest. Has anyone ever looked at an ordinary stamped and addressed envelope? Admittedly it is an outer husk – its face, in its extreme plainness, is its fortune: it disguises whatever passion-pallid nudity or purple nakedness which may be under its flap. Yet to concentrate on the document within without considering what’s on the envelope wouldn’t make sense, or be good manners. It would just be like a fellow having been introduced to lady imagining her naked, without considering at all the clothes she was wearing, with all their local colour and perfume; without considering how they fill out some parts of her body and flatten others, and are able to be parted for better survey by the deft hand of the expert. No-one doubts the existence of the clothing, and that they are a part of the feminine fiction, especially the view of the rear. Who doubts that one could be separated from other, i.e. clothes from body, or that each can be considered simultaneously or, alternatively, separately?


P. 110


Let’s consider a few artefacts concerning the original letter. The river [ALP] wanted salt, so she went to the sea. This is how she met HCE [Brian O’Lynn]. Then the country wanted HCE [Mahon] for his sin and then dinner and got it [rain?]. We of Ireland, that clover-covered place, have often watched the sky overreach the land: it was once said by Mahaffy that Ireland [Chapelisod-Lucan] was the one place in this vale of tears (whose greenness only yellows when Phaeton parks his car – the sun – too close, and the tea-coloured Liffey is the dream of would-be Ophelia’s) where ‘the possible was the improbable and the improbable the inevitable’. If Mahaffy had hit the nail on the head, then we are in for sequence of Aristotlean ‘improbable possibilities’, although no-one will applaud him, for, utterly impossible as they are, they are probably as likely as others that took place, or as likely as those which never took place.

            Let us look at that original hen. It was midwinter and almost April when, amidst the birds singing life’s sad old song, a shivering, cold fowl was noticed behaving strangely on Kate’s midden – which became known as the ‘orangery’ [Protestant] when on one holiday it displayed orange peel, the remains of a meal by an unknown fugitive in the past. Who should have found this treasure other than Kevin, which was as much a cause for future sanctity as, say, when the Ardagh chalice was found by a beachcomber who was trying to steal Tipperary...



P. 111


… potatoes from the dead in site of the bloody patch of the massacre of most of the Jacobites.

The shivering fowl was Belinda of the Dorans [ALP], who was more than 50 years old, and what she was scratching at as the clock struck 12, looked for all the world looked like a goodsized sheet of a letter originating from Boston (Massachussets) from the last [dead HCE] to the first [new ALP], with words on it like ‘Dear Maggy, well & all at home’s health well, only the heat turned the milk on the van Houtens cocoa, and the general elections – with a lovely face of some born gentleman with a beautiful present of wedding cakes for dear, thank you Christy, and with a grand funeral of poor Father Michael, don’t forget unto life’s end, and Maggy, how are you Maggy & hopes soon to hear well & must now close, with fondest [love] to the twins with four cross kisses for holy Paul, holy, wholly Irish. P.S. (the locusts might eat all except this) affectionately – then a large tea stain.’ The tea stain (the over cautiousness of the author signing the page away) marked it as a genuine relic of ancient Irish pleasant poetry of that Lydia languishing class known as ‘hurry-me-over-the-hazy’ [written as a letter to one’s self].

            Why then, how does that tea stain do that?

            Well, almost any photographer worth his chemicals will tell you that if a negative of a horse happens to melt which drying, what you get is a distorted mass of horseness made up of bits and pieces of horse. This is what must happened to the letter (wipe it off with a sod of turf) when it was taken from Kate’s midden by the cold fowl, the hen. The heat in the middle of the orange-flavoured mound had obliterated parts of it and had caused some features nearer to you to appear larger, indeed grossly swollen, while…


P. 112


…the farther back we are looking at this letter in the midden, the more we need the loan of lens to see as much as the hen saw.

            You feel as though you are completely lost with all the various parts of the missive? Looking at it you say: it’s a pure and simple jungle of wood and words? You shout out: I haven’t the paltriest notion of what it all means. Cheer up, Charlie! The Four Historians may own the translation, but any gypsy scholar may pick a peck of kindness or kindling from the sack of the hen [i.e. ALP’s basket/the midden].

            Lead kindly fowl! They always did: what bird has done yesterday, man will do next year: be it moult, be it hatch or be it agreement in the nest. For bird sense is as sound as a bell – by instinct she feels she was born to lay and love eggs – trust her to propagate the species and guide her chicks through danger). She is also ladylike in everything she does, in fact, she’s quite a gentleman. Let’s think it through and foretell the future! I predict that before everything comes to an end, the Golden Age must return with its vengeance, and women with their eggs, their children, will become like lionesses, with their de-horned rams, their husbands lying peacefully by their side. The doomsayers are not justified who claim that letters [literature] have never been as good as ancient times, the time when Biddy Doran the hen found the letter.

And, she may be small, our mistress of Arthur. But, it is not relevant to the amorous, anonymous letter, signed by a woman with a tea or tear stain. Her presence in the letter is forthright, like a fist in your face in fact. We note that the paper itself has her watermark [teastain]: Our Lady of the Department Store. And [like the Sacred Heart?] she has a heart of Erin, iron and gold! And what a river of language as she speaks to her friends, with her thankyou’s and morning greetings. As a straw [before her mouth] will show, she is a windbag, and struts about showing the red of her vigorous hair and the fantastic set of curls she has.  But how many of her readers, the readers of the letter…


P. 113


…realise that she is not out to dazzle with a great accoutrement of post modern glossaries solely from Latin and Greek. Not on her life! There’s old Armenian for archeologists [and other ancient languages],  Zoastrian and Merovingian; she feels that one fact is plain, that a man out alone has no right to have a peep at anyone other person – especially if they have titties at the front and the rear is similarly shaped as the front.  [A 100 letter thunder word – for that sin - occurs that seems to say – in a pasture is a crooked chimera, and around the Magazine Wall it kinks and clanks and stares at you]. Mesdames, mademoiselles, monsieurs, s’il vous plait! All she wants, she writes, is to tell the cock’s truth about him. ‘He had to see life [i.e. peep] fully, as he was old and the sick’, she writes. ‘His only foible was dancing with two girls of dubious character [harlots/moll]. Especially as they were such peaches – honeys with cream-coloured underwear and whore-like makeup. Yours very truthfully, Anna Livia.’ Yet it is an old story, the story of Tristan and Isolde, of a man held down by tent pegs while his crazy friend was loose on the run; the story of what Adam would do but Badman wouldn’t; the battle of Genoa and Venice; and why Kate takes charge of the tip.

Let us now, weather permitting, drop this polite jiggery pokery and talk straight – mate to mate – for while the ear may sometimes be inclined to believe in something, the eye finds it hard to believe what it sees. So let us draw near to the tip to get a better view – for after all it has suffered for being underground – and let us see all that remains to be seen.

I am a worker, a tombstone ‘mason’, anxious to please everyone and jolly glad when Christmas comes once a year [Shaun]. You are a poor carpenter, not anxious to please anybody and terribly…


P. 114


…sorry when it is time to go home again [Shem]. We cannot see eye to eye, we cannot smile at each other, we’re nose to nose in confrontation [when interpreting the letter]. Yet, half the lines [of the letter text] run North-South, or up and down, while the others go West-East, or across the page, for though it is a tiny fragment compared to other ancient books, it has it cardinal geographic points just the same. Note the straight lines along which the traced words, run, march, halt, walk, stumble at doubtful points, and retrieve themselves, and the latter seem to have been drawn using an ink made of lampblack and a stylus that is alike to a blackthorn cudgel. The crosses at the end are pre-Christian of course, yet the use of a primitive pen [shillelagh] shows a distinct social advance from savagery to barbarism. It is believed that the intention may have been to do with structural symmetry or with simple orderliness: but by writing from one side to the other and turning back again to return, with letters going up and then coming down, with the tendency to rise offset by the tendency to fall, the whole making literature about HCE.

Another point, concerning the paper (anyone can imagine the scene, in a small, cold room, with a spluttering candle and a solitary chair, with a supper of eggs and a bottle of spirits, an orange and some bread on the table, like in the detective stories mother used to tell us as children) it has acquired many stains from the earth having spent so much time in the tip. The tea stain at the end is small and brown, and whether it in fact a thumb print, a watermark, or a very poor portrait, its importance in establishing the identity of the writer is clear, as the letter was not signed.


P. 115


The spelling is not too good, but it is readable. The end of the letter may have even have occurred with the throwing of missiles [with the death of the author], and thus the arabesque or scribble on the page. The writer had a cup of tea, a candle, a cigarette as he worded the letter – why sign anything when every word, pen stroke and paper space, is a perfect signature of its own? Just as a friend is known by his personal touch, his habits, his dress, his movements and appeals for charity, than by his footwear. And speaking of Tiberius [HCE] and the incestuous salacity of those lovers of old men [Issy] – a word of warning about the affair hinted at in the letter. Some reader might imagine that it was just a case of a young girl [or budding prostitute] in pink deliberately falling off her bicycle, right before the curate, who picks her up as gingerly as any palm bearer - at which gentleness the virgin was most hurt - and asks: ‘Where have you been Grace O’Malley and were you chased my child?’  ‘By who, Father?’ she asks, and so on. But we grisly old psychiatrists who have done our unsmiling bit on Alices when they were young and easily frightened, in the darkness of the procuring room, and what aural confession we extracted from them, know that ‘father’ is not always ‘undemonstrative’ or is just there settling the food bill, and that innocent looks of the sort she gets from Father Michael are really akin to a ‘pudendascope’ [i.e. he imagines her naked]. And finally, she is a chronic nymphomaniac with a trauma in her past, with an urge towards the male erection and sexual union with her kin and feels quite slippery when she says she likes a particular man’s face. And yet what need is there to say it; it is as human a story as any paper could carry…


P. 116


… whether as sweet as the song Solomon sang or as brusque as Ezra Pound, or the poetry of T.S. Eliot. And, getting back to the subject, we know from reading the pages about ‘I was a Russian General’ and ‘The Shooting by Buckley’ [later in FW] that Father Michael referred to in the letter was an allegory of the old regime, and Margaret (the Maggies) is the social revolution, and that the ‘cakes’ are party funds, and the ‘dear thank you’ signifies national gratitude. In short, the letter is an ancient message from a cell of slave rebels. We are not conquered yet, dear land! We can recall the volunteers and revolutionary songs about how far sweeter it will be in Dublin afore one year is over. We toured our coasts singing these songs, from ‘When we down swords’ to ‘My Old Howth Gun’, to ‘And Answer Made Brave Old Dwyer’. But, let’s steer a middle course [in the interpretation of these things]. Let us instead define a prostitute as one who stands before a door and winks, or is to be found in a brothel [pub] near the Magazine Wall, and the curate [Father Michael] as instead one who brings strong waters [i.e. barman]. Also remember that there were many nights between in the first Finn and the arrival of the later HCE [from the Middle East – see Bk I.1], and that even the notion of marrying girls [wedding Kates] is enough to make Mike punch the hell out of his twin Nick. And consider that ‘Maggy’s tea’ could be ‘your majesty’, if it was transcribed from oral words, and may refer to the ‘born gentleman’ of the letter. The letter must be ambiguous, for if the words and meanings of the letter, however basically English, were to be preached by the vicars in the churches, and priests in the hedgerows and the lawyers – if its vowels, words etc, were broadcast - where would their specialist practices be, or the human race itself - if the secret Pythagorean mathematics had been grunted over country stiles, behind dwelling houses, down blind lanes, or when all else fails, under some sacking on a cart?

So has it been. That’s what love is.


P. 117


We steal love where we can. Here is Isolde the fair, and Tristan brave. The cycle of love begins with their lightning glances, to the cries of their love-making, to the solemnity of their graves, where the waters flow on for evermore.  A mixture of fire and air, earth and water; the sons of god gaze on the daughters of men. The cycles of civilisation are like a birth, it begins with thunder like a smack on the backside, before we go on to a state of marriage, then finally death – they do say hell is a fine place. Such is our lot to lose and win again, like when he grew those green whiskers – she plucked them out but they grew again. So what are you going to do about it? O dear!

            If youth but knew! And if age but could! It’s the same old story: from Quinet to Michelet and from Giambattiste Vico. It is told in our utterances, in our universal signs, in our guttural noises, in deaf mute languages, in artificial languages, in remote languages such as Shelta, in all languages. Since the first ‘no-no’ Nannette walked amongst the palms with ‘High-ho’ Harry, a fire has warmed her kindling, and the bellows have blown on her peat, and the ‘teapot’ is kept wet for him. They have then talked together forever. This business has been the same for millions of millenniums; the mixture of races has been continuous, regardless of what might be regarded as recent sexually liberating factors such the invention of wine, and the colonial outposts of New York, or South America, where the brothels and rum spelt many a man’s end. And so, in the letter, the whole world story of their births, marriages and deaths and natural selections [of mates] has been handed down to us, as fresh as your old cup of tea. While I was hot in me sou’wester [?], and you were cold in your dirty hovel, Anna told the tale of her town. Haha!

Now, it may be akin to divination using tea leaves and smoke, and we in Ireland have our doubts about the sense of the whole lot, but regardless of the interpretation of any phrase…


P. 118


… or the meaning of any word, so far as it has been deciphered, the authenticity and authority of the document must [not?] be called into question. And let’s bring the case to a close and focus [bicker] on that point. On the face of it, the writing the letter [the affair] was finished in a certain timeframe, although no-one knows in how many days or years it took. And, whether it was before the flood or after it, someone wrote it, all the way to the final full stop. And one who thinks deeply will bear this in mind, that all this downright ‘there you are’ and ‘there it is’ attitude towards the letter, is really only a gleam in the eye. Why?

Because, suffering heart, if it comes to that every person, place and thing in the chaos connected with producing the letter was moving and changing all the time: the travelling writers, the type of inks, the manufacture of pen and paper, the misunderstandings of the document collaborators, and the change over time of pronunciation, scripts, meanings and alphabets. So help me god, it is not a riot of blots and blurs and wriggles of writing: it only looks as though it is. And we ought really be thankful that at this hour of the opening of the dung heap [and the birth of consciousness?] we have a scrap of paper with something written on it, after all that we lost and plundered of our history, even to the most hidden corners of the…


P. 119


… earth, considering all that the relic letter has gone through. By all means we should cling to it, as though with drowning hands, hoping that by the light of philosophy (and may she never forsake us!) that the sense of it will clear up one way or another in the next quarrel of the hour, and ten to one the quarrels will too as, between ourselves, there is a limit to all things and this [arguing] will never do.

            For the hen [the finder of the letter], with her flair for smelling a fox [i.e. HCE], marvels at the argument about the letter’s meaning - the indignant whipping and lashing of the hunt dogs, the bolted or jammed guns, the lost trail of the argument – as much as she marvels at the beauty of its writing embellished with the initial of Earwicker [i.e. HCE] and the baffling sigla of three uprights and a lintel [M]. The latter described as Hec [HCE] which, when moved counterclockwise, represents his sigla as the smaller E, the middle leg exhibiting an erection whenever beside ALP, his consort. The latter is represented by the delta [a triangle]. (Consider the hen as represented by the year 1132 and the other [HCE] as 432, and view HCE’s sigla as symbol of a village pub and ALP’s delta triangle as an upside down bridge, then an X for the Four Historians as though at a cross roads [between Shem and Shaun swapping sides?], then a pothook ‘[’ symbol for Shem, the most likely of them to be hung upon the gibbet, then a square like a horse’s field [for town or book or container]; a T for the Tristan love-match with Isolde, and finally, a fallen T [?] symbol for Issy – alike to an alley way or sexual passage to war and death). She, the hen, also marvels at its steady interior monologue, and the confusion some blame on the pen and others the ink because like the Irish celtic the Ps may be confused with the Qs…


P. 120


…and result in words like Pristopher Polombus and Katrick Kresbyterians. There are words cunningly hidden in its maze of literary drapery like a field-mouse in a nest of coloured ribbons and, with it’s ‘B’s sometimes showing up as the Greek ‘mp’, how will the common reader ever understand it? Look at this so-called ‘funferall’, impossibly engraved and retouched, as though a whale’s egg stuffed with pemmican, doomed to be read forever, or while we still have sufficient intelligence, by the ideal reader with perfect insomnia, and look at all those red editorial marks over the text pointing out errors and omissions. See those …[the text launches into a list of witty descriptions of the characters and themes of the hen’s letter i.e. FW and Book of Kells and physical presence of HCE]… those ‘W’s seated so determinedly that they remind us of a squatting defecator, while that frightful ‘F’ of the barbarian, which was also once used as an ‘S’ but now only in the lisp of a [?] homosexual… 


P. 121


  the ‘F’ used as an insertion in the manuscript [of FW]. Also note ‘S’ as being the symbol used as a warning to indicate the words of our ‘proto-parents’ which archaeologists of Dublin call a ‘leak in the thatch’ [condom?] or the man from Arran whispering through a hole in his hat, meaning that the words that follow maybe taken in any order desired… the serpentine ‘S’, long since banished from our religion, and to see one is as rare as seeing a fair lady riding on a cock horse, when the ‘S’ in its insolence seems to grow longer and swell under the pressure of our writer’s hand.  It is a gypsy mating of a grand grave-digging story [House by the Churchyard] with [Shakespearean] adultery….


P. 122


…Next those ‘R’s, those religious wars and the blessed skeletons of dead friends, wrested red-handedly [i.e. Protestants] and bloodily from us in exchange for a truce and booty, pray for Romulus murdered by his brother! and tossed rudely from the pinnacle of life down amongst those who are without god [or a head] and who haven’t, not since Roe’s Distillery burned, quaffed a glass of whiskey – but dance with the chance the life throws us, the game of cards, even if, blast ye!, I lose, and there’s a fine woman for you with red locks…And the three cross-like postscript marks that inspired the Tunc page of the Book of Kells (with the three figures in the marginal panels), and the slope of the scrawl which is a sure sign of moral blindness [wanking?]…


P. 123


… and why spell god with the capital G?… And lastly with Penelopean patience, the ‘Z’, the final inscription consisting of 732 strokes tailed with a lasso, a signature vaulting with interbranching feminine libido, but controlled by the uniform matter-of-factness of the writer’s male fist.

Someone called Duff-Muggli (whose invention of television may soon be viewed for a small payment) first called this partnership of characters ‘Ulyssean’, ‘tetrarchic’, ‘quadratic’ or ‘ducks and drakes’ [i.e. FW themes], after the observation that it was a little-known bestseller - a Punic admiralty report called ‘From MacPerson’s Ossian Round by the Tides of Jason’s Cruise’ - that had been republished as a travel guide of the ‘every-tale-a-treat-in-itself’ variety with something for everyone.

The identity of the person behind the fraud came to light in a devious way. The original document was written is what was called ‘Hanno O’Nonhanno’s unbreakable code, and showed no punctuation of any sort. Yet on holding the paper against a light, this new book of Morse Code showed…


P. 124


… that it was pierced by numerous stabs and foliated gashes by a pronged instrument. These paper wounds, four in type, were first understood to mean ‘Stop’, ‘Please stop’, ‘Do please stop’ and ‘O do please stop’ respectively [i.e. made on the point of death]. Following this main clue, from within walls topped with broken glass and split china, the ‘Yard’ investigators pointed out that the holes had been made by the fork of a Professor at his breakfast table, to introduce a notion of time on a plane surface by punching holes in space. Being so deeply religious by nature [the Vicar?] it was rightly suspected that such ire could not have been caused by Professor Prenderguest, even unwittingly, upon the values of a women [ALP] he venerated and being, too, her first boy’s [HCE] best friend. Then someone noticed that the fork jab was more recurrent where the script was clear and that these were the same spots that the hen, Dame Partlet, had pecked upon the midden when she found the letter. Thinkers in all Ireland - and a playful fowl and musical me but not you! - put two and two together, and the women all sighed from their rouged mouths with shame that it wasn’t the Professor. [This rules out everyone else except Shem?] So this was the outcome of letter-making exploits of Finn MacCool when he was in the old woman’s country [Ireland] with his soldiers! In acknowledgement of our fervour in seeking him out, he remains ‘yours most faithfully’. For the postscript, see his spoils [the basket, and Letter’s tea stain]. And all this was before the Norwegian Captain [a later story] had sipped his sup or HCE owned his pub. When the animals all lived in the peace of paradise around the home of Father Adam.

There was no need after that for the Four Historians, for quizzing weekenders…


P. 125


…who had come to the R.Q. [restful quiet?] about how HCE shot off with a snake-like hiss, how he’s muddled up now with Christmas and how everything the noon-drunkard built is in the hands of his son. Or how the Ossianic Society continues to tell how he had not a son of sons by him in his old age and ignorance. And how his son Diarmaid was the main person after that day, the name of the chap who did the writing for the Church, and who was the taker of his [HCE’s] dear mate after he passed away [?]. After that the women all went to look for the son: good-looking, fair women too. They wanted him for military service for that older person ALP, mother of Tommy Atkins - and many British soldiers. He might be growing a moustache [they said] with an adorable look of amusement, and he frequents low-class billiard halls. The forger of the letter wasn’t Hans the Curier [HAM], though if he laughed a little more and wasn’t so worried by a persecution complex it might have been him they wanted; and not Joseph the gossip [JAPHET]: to everyone’s relief that jabbering ape’s sole half-hypothesis amidst the shower of chestnuts from Bruno was dropped. No HCE’s place was taken by that odious and insufficiently hated forger (‘How are you today my black sir?) [the Cad] - Shem the Penman [SHEM]. [i.e. Christ takes the place of Yahweh.]