Sunday, 4 March 2018

Snow Men

You thought of it too as you saw Leo V. acting presidential with the Emergency Co-Ordinating Crew all dressed in their uniforms. (But the hipsterry tight suit) A military man in a dashing berry, the somewhat abashed Inspector of Police in his blue blouson with the little belt, the orange clad heli rescue chap. A great photo-op and then it came to me -
‘In Ireland there’s two inches of snow,
In Ireland there’s no place you can go,
We’re gritting the ground,
Stay indoors and you’re sound.... etc.
I soothe myself with these marvellous cadences:

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.
(from The Dead by James Joyce)

‘faintly falling’ and ‘falling faintly’ and this swooning crack; is it not a bit Paterish? It’s good but verging on the exquisite.

I’ll get my coat.

No comments: