Monday, January 16, 2012


I just looked out the window and saw a light blanket of white. "Snow is general all over Boston," I thought, remembering the final lines of James Joyce's The Dead.
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.
Heading back to the window to watch it fall. Snow! It's about time!


  1. Me, too! I agree - it's about time.

    I never read Joyce - thanks for the delightful introduction.

  2. I happened to be taking the dog out for "last call" at the same time your post is time-stamped, and we discovered that it was snowing at the same time.


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