Snow coming obliquely through the gray light this morning has me thinking, as ever when the flakes come « general all over » like this, of the final lines of Joyce’s masterful short story The Dead: « 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. »
Beautiful snowflakes! As Layman Pang exclaimed, « They don’t fall in another place! »
They only fall here, and they fall everywhere, upon all. Selflessly, without a trace.
The universe is always falling right here. It’s one city out there. A veil of white covers the rear-view mirror on a motor bike outside my window and the tan cat rushes in speckled, wet paws leaving traces as she trots across the room.
I suppose the traces will dry.
Meanwhile, I’m tapping keys to make these traces, faintly scrolling through the universe.