snow was general all over Eugene

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, on 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.



Yes, without a doubt, Joyce gives good snow. If there's anything I could change (and I'm presumptuous like that), I'd take out that phrase "His soul swooned slowly," with its alliterative nonsense and adolescent drama, not to mention physical impossibility, but the description of snow falling faintly and faintly falling, slowly, thickly, obliquely falling snow, oh yes. It wraps you up in its glory, that paragraph. When it snows I can't resist the temptation to say:

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Eugene.

Say it with me. You know you want to.

Having grown up in the Midwest, I know what a drag snow can be. But the thrill of waking up with the world white, a smoke grey sky and blue light, ahhhh, that's one of the greatest parts of being alive.

We only get snow here once or twice a year, and it's wet and doesn't stay long. But it sure is pretty. I don't have many good angles in my yard for snow pictures, but I did snap this shot of our grape vines and butterfly bush/tree. Trust me, though, snow is general all over my yard.