The Shadow-gloom and Weight of the Sacred

Personally, I like to think of it as the beginningn of fall. Around our house, we've been looking forward to cooler weather for some time now. Because we don't have storm windows, it can be pretty difficult to keep the house cool when the temperature starts hitting 90 and 100 degrees. July and August were pretty miserable months, especially during the afternoon hours. But, it's been cooler around here the last week or so. We walk down the street to the park and play several times a week.

We were in the States last December when the massive snow storm hit OKC--we never had a snow storm like that in Vienna. There was plenty of snow, but it was always a gentle snow. No violent wind lashing your eyes with ice or snowflakes. Just a slow falling snow landing into a soft blanket on the ground...most of the time. It was snowing when we left Vienna. It was just a light snow from an overcast sky, but coupled with our rather solemn exit from the city we'd lived in for the last couple of years, I couldn't help but think of the ending of The Dead, the capstone story of James Joyce's marvelous collection of short fiction, Dubliners.

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.

The Dead is the longest story in Dubliners--over 15,000 words. In fact, many people prefer to categorize it as a novella. It's one of the most beautiful pieces of literature in the western canon. The ending is so much more meaningful and moving if you read the whole story.

Anyway, I think the cooler weather is moving in and I love the cooler weather. I love it when it gets dark early in the day. The winter months is when I really get some reading done. Of course, it may be different this winter, what with the Queen Bee and all. Who knows what the future holds?