Although maybe even Finnegans Wake can be said to open itself up to a trusting reader, one who, while not up to the task of pressuring each sentence or page to deliver unto them a specific or concrete meaning, is willing to surrender themself to the rhythms of the prose, and to whatever melody is in it, so that they might be carried or swept along (playfully, yes, though not without gravitas), until finally some subtle but definite emotion is imparted to them, and whatever details of plot that have been accumulating, and that the reader might anyway remain unaware of, begin to take shape in some shadowy region of their consciousness, as the author, James Joyce, would’ve hoped they would, even if what that reader now imagines isn’t what Joyce himself imagined, though it is close enough or vibrant enough to matter; for the prescience and omniscience that would’ve belonged to Joyce, as that work’s creator, would’ve been broad enough to fulfill his desire to predict how any attentive reader, or merely any reader who approached his work sincerely, or with an intelligent vulnerability, might’ve responded, imaginatively, to what he was doing with language, which isn’t to say that his predictions need to have been exact.