"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
~ James Joyce `
~ last paragraph of "The Dead" ~
~ last story in The Dubliners ~
Yes, I have posted this paragraph
previously, but that was 10 years ago!
So, tonight is the night to share it once again.
Along with these additional connections:
1. The perfect observation from a
facebook conversation:
"The end of Joyce's "The Dead" is probably the most beautiful poem pretending to be prose ever."
2. The prayer in
Jesus Land:
"Heavenly Father," I say, when it is my turn,
"deliver us all from evil, the living, the dead,
and everyone in between." (219)
~ Julia Scheeres ~
3. Willa Cather's winter reverie, similar to Joyce's:
"When you get so near the dead, they seem more real than the living. . . ." (164)
"Marie sat sewing or crocheting and tried to take a friendly interest in the game, but she was always thinking about the wide fields outside, where the snow was drifting over the fences; and about the orchard, where the snow was falling and packing, crust over crust. When she went out into the dark kitchen to fix her plants for the night, she used to stand by the window and look out at the white fields, or watch the currents of snow whirling over the orchard. She seemed to feel the weight of all the snow that lay down there. The branches had become so hard that they wounded your hand if you but tried to break a twig. And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of life was still safe, warm as the blood in one’s heart; and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!" (117)
~ Willa Cather ~
~ from O Pioneers! ~
~ more Cather on FN and KL ~
 |
My street tonight,
under the first full moon of 2024. |
