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Joyce, James

James Joyce


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THE DEAD

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.

(final paragraph from short story The Dead)

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