yeah, it's the holidays! thus, more time for blogging... currently reading the new david sedaris book, and waiting for my copy of jeff walters' "citizen vince." since i've got no book to review at the moment, i'll introduce a new feature: there'll be regular posts that contain passages from literary works that i find worth your while.
here's the first one:
"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."
this is arguably one of the most beautiful passages in literature. it's the closing paragraph of james joyce's short story "the dead" out of dubliners, before he went all stream-of-consciousness. i was never too interested in any other work by joyce (though i did have a go at "portrait of the artist as a young man" once), but this is simply stellar writing. i read it while being stuck at the celebration of my grandfather's 90th birthday at the end of winter, 1999, and the memory never left.
here's the first one:
"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."
this is arguably one of the most beautiful passages in literature. it's the closing paragraph of james joyce's short story "the dead" out of dubliners, before he went all stream-of-consciousness. i was never too interested in any other work by joyce (though i did have a go at "portrait of the artist as a young man" once), but this is simply stellar writing. i read it while being stuck at the celebration of my grandfather's 90th birthday at the end of winter, 1999, and the memory never left.
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