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A review by briandice
The Dead by James Joyce
5.0
snow was general all over Ireland
I am in DFW airport on a layover eating an execrable meal from a forgettable restaurant, punch drunk from too much air travel over the past 24 hours and emotionally frayed at having dropped my daughter off with her mother after spending a fabulous week with her in San Francisco. I'm chewing tasteless food while looking into the restaurant with the glassy-eyed, 1000 yard stare of the weary traveler.
A family of four takes the table directly in my line of sight; the mother loops the arm of a book bag around the back of her chair. The canvas tote is loaded with short sentences from some of Western literature's most famous books. I read them in order, recognizing "The Scarlet Letter", "Wuthering Heights", "A Tale of Two Cities", etc. - I feel smug pride whilst masticating mashed potatoes. But there is one quote that is unrecognizable: "snow was general all over Ireland". I guess it is Joyce, or perhaps Beckett; I type the sentence into Google and find that it is a Joyce novella, not from his Big Two - a story from [b:Dubliners|11012|Dubliners|James Joyce|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1334138184s/11012.jpg|260248], a collection I have read twice and liked neither time. I've been reading Proust for hours; I decide to give Marcel a break and try this Joyce story once more. Yes, the third time is the charm.
I don't want to spoil anything about the story by giving a plot synopsis (it is a fast read - 30 minutes, tops - and is available for free online); the resonance of the story, where Joyce finally spoke to me, occurs in the last 500 words. With a light touch, and a wonderful narrative twist, Joyce reminds the reader that we all live under the shadow of the dead. From the memory and legacy of our departed family to the meal we just ate, the ubiquity of death is what gives weight to life. Joyce uses a death in the story to bring clarity to one of the story's characters - and as readers we get to witness the unfurling of the blossom of knowledge, perhaps even some measure of wisdom, that occurs from grappling with The Dead.
Snow was general all over Ireland. Yes, snow, and by extension winter, are the symbols here for death - and their state of being generally all over is a reminder that we don't escape death, and that it is a necessity for life to exist. And so as I finished this novella at 36,000 feet somewhere over New Mexico, I went back and re-read the last pages a couple of times and realized that it isn't just that snow was generally all over Ireland, snow was General all over Ireland. Death marshals its forces, it leads in battle, it conquers. We may hate it but we all must come to terms with it sooner or later. Much as Gabriel was forced to do in this brilliant work.
I am in DFW airport on a layover eating an execrable meal from a forgettable restaurant, punch drunk from too much air travel over the past 24 hours and emotionally frayed at having dropped my daughter off with her mother after spending a fabulous week with her in San Francisco. I'm chewing tasteless food while looking into the restaurant with the glassy-eyed, 1000 yard stare of the weary traveler.
A family of four takes the table directly in my line of sight; the mother loops the arm of a book bag around the back of her chair. The canvas tote is loaded with short sentences from some of Western literature's most famous books. I read them in order, recognizing "The Scarlet Letter", "Wuthering Heights", "A Tale of Two Cities", etc. - I feel smug pride whilst masticating mashed potatoes. But there is one quote that is unrecognizable: "snow was general all over Ireland". I guess it is Joyce, or perhaps Beckett; I type the sentence into Google and find that it is a Joyce novella, not from his Big Two - a story from [b:Dubliners|11012|Dubliners|James Joyce|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1334138184s/11012.jpg|260248], a collection I have read twice and liked neither time. I've been reading Proust for hours; I decide to give Marcel a break and try this Joyce story once more. Yes, the third time is the charm.
I don't want to spoil anything about the story by giving a plot synopsis (it is a fast read - 30 minutes, tops - and is available for free online); the resonance of the story, where Joyce finally spoke to me, occurs in the last 500 words. With a light touch, and a wonderful narrative twist, Joyce reminds the reader that we all live under the shadow of the dead. From the memory and legacy of our departed family to the meal we just ate, the ubiquity of death is what gives weight to life. Joyce uses a death in the story to bring clarity to one of the story's characters - and as readers we get to witness the unfurling of the blossom of knowledge, perhaps even some measure of wisdom, that occurs from grappling with The Dead.
Snow was general all over Ireland. Yes, snow, and by extension winter, are the symbols here for death - and their state of being generally all over is a reminder that we don't escape death, and that it is a necessity for life to exist. And so as I finished this novella at 36,000 feet somewhere over New Mexico, I went back and re-read the last pages a couple of times and realized that it isn't just that snow was generally all over Ireland, snow was General all over Ireland. Death marshals its forces, it leads in battle, it conquers. We may hate it but we all must come to terms with it sooner or later. Much as Gabriel was forced to do in this brilliant work.