Snow
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 on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill 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, The Dead.
It seems the whole world is buried.
Not here, no. Last time I saw snow was January, in London. Got stuck there on a way from Madrid and spend two days in a hotel not far from Victoria and Albert museum, which of course meant to go there and spend time wondering around among remnants of the past, looking at Celtic crosses and listening to the Medieval music. One piece in particular was great, listen:
Rosa Bella.
( Collapse )
..and then just followed the cold and busy London streets, looking at people and things, frozen, but happy.
But here- here it just doesn't snow, ever. It is the land of an everlasting sun, colors of sand and brown, and eventual downpour.
James Joyce, The Dead.
It seems the whole world is buried.
Not here, no. Last time I saw snow was January, in London. Got stuck there on a way from Madrid and spend two days in a hotel not far from Victoria and Albert museum, which of course meant to go there and spend time wondering around among remnants of the past, looking at Celtic crosses and listening to the Medieval music. One piece in particular was great, listen:
Rosa Bella.
( Collapse )
..and then just followed the cold and busy London streets, looking at people and things, frozen, but happy.
But here- here it just doesn't snow, ever. It is the land of an everlasting sun, colors of sand and brown, and eventual downpour.
cheerful
