A quote today: the famous passage that ends James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’, which, in turn, concludes his first prose work ‘Dubliners’. Within that collection of short stories, Joyce proves himself a master of the form. Although he went on to write ‘Ulysses’, one of the most important books of the 20th century, for me, he never again matches the heights of poignancy and lyricism contained in this deceptively quiet ending. It was the start of my enthusiasm for Joyce and led me to make my own pilgrimage to Dublin.
A virtuoso piece of writing!
‘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.‘
