lxx THIRD CENSUS OF FINNEGANS WAKE 
For anything I know, the "hagiographic triptych" is a stained-glass window
in a "real" village church at Howth, Chapelizod or Eu (q.q.v.). I do know
that the counties Wicklow, Dublin, Meath are contiguous, and their outlines
make a very fair triptych. So the triptych is part of a church (doubtless
erected by Masterbuilder Finnegan, q.v.; see also Lund) and part of landscape:
the three easternmost counties of the Irish Republic, gradually lit by dawn.

 Dawn (q.v.) is invoked and comes to Ireland. Dublin City and all the counties
of Ireland then pray the sun to come too—Sleeper Awake! The sun does
not come, not while the citizenry stands and waits, or runs in sudden panic
to hide in the woods. 
 "The playwright who wrote the folio of this world. . . wrote it badly 
 gave us light first and the sun two days later. . . ." In Book IV the playwright
lets there be light or dawn or Anna Livia. Now it is she, when nothing else
has worked, who makes a moving and beautiful plea to sun or husband to rise
from his bed and return with her to the top of Howth (619.25—624.11),
and then to come down with her into the Liffey valley (626.7). She is a dying
woman, a river going out to sea. In her extremity she calls. He does not
answer yes or no. 
 Anna Livia's swan (q.v.) song ends FW (6 19—628), is, I guess the
soul of the poet going upon "a long last reach of glittering stream" out
into the sea (q.v.) of death. 
 After the fashion of "The Dead" and Ulysses, the end of FW is elegantly
rigged so that it can be read in a number of ways. The ending I like best
is out-of-doors and like a fairytale: it is a dramatic monologue, spoken
by a woman who climbs up a hill, walks along a river, drowns in the sea,
and all the while she speaks to a giant male figure that walks, silent, beside
her. 
 Or else she walks out alone, monologue interior. Or she is in her bed—waking,
dreaming, dying—monologue dramatic or interior, while her husband lies
beside her—or does not. 
 "Rise up, man of the hooths, you have slept so long!" Dreadful enough to
think he says nothing. Intolerable to think he may not respond at all to
her splendid rhetoric as it increases in intensity and distress. But we have
seen long ago, in the first section of FW, that Tim Finnegan does not rise
up for an old wife. Every reader will have to answer for himself the question:
Is rhetoric relevant in the resurrection game? 
 Molly Bloom can say "yes" and Anna Livia "Finn, again! Take." But the sun—will
he rise? Like Ulysses, Book IV leaves the reader static, paralyzed, stuck
fast, mired in the mystery of the male will—"will" in its double sense
of lust and volition.