James Joyce

Irish writer, James Joyce set many of his works in the city of Dublin but nature was never far away. His descriptions of nature are as vivid as his urban scenes. Her is one of my favourites.

James Joyce 

(2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941)

James Joyce was born on this day in 1882. A fellow Dubliner, he is one of my favourite writers since studying him at school. I didn't tackle the hefty Ulysses until a few years ago when I doggedly ploughed through it. It is hard work but worth the effort. On the other hand, Dubliners and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man are short but don't be fooled. Though concise, their characters are vivid and complex. Joyce, as he does so well, presents us with real people,full of contradictions,confusions, and troubles that are all recognisably human. Though set in a Dublin before my time, he conjures up the unique  spirit of the place and of the timeless issues that face human beings.  Joyce takes the reader on a journey into a story but also into language. His characters are city dwellers but nature is never far away in his narrations. 

To celebrate Joyce's birthday, I offer you a slice of his beautiful writing.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Wintry churchyard, Cumbria

“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.”

 (extract from Dubliners)

Tennyson's Joy on Seeing Snowdrops

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!

Alfred Tennyson (1809 - 1892)

More to Winter than meets the Eye

"We are accustomed to consider Winter the grave of the year, but it is not so in reality. In the stripped trees, the mute birds, the disconsolate gardens, the frosty ground, there is only an apparent cessation of Nature's activities. Winter is pause in music, but during the pause the musicians are privately tuning their strings, to prepare for the coming outburst. When the curtain falls on one piece at the theatre, the people are busy behind the scenes making arrangements for that which is to follow. Winter is such pause, such fall of the curtain. Underground, beneath snow and frost, next spring and summer are secretly getting ready. The roses which young ladies will gather six months hence for hair or bosom, are already in hand. In Nature there is no such thing as paralysis. Each thing flows into the other, as movement into movement in graceful dances Nature's colours blend in imperceptible gradation all her notes are sequacious."

(Alexander Smith, 1829 -1867)

The Snow

The Snow

 

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

(Emily Dickinson)

Lewis Carroll

            Lewis Carroll 

           (27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898)

 On a snowy day such as this, Lewis Carroll must have had these thoughts and put pen to paper. Today is the anniversary of his death. His works include Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking-Glass, Jabberwocky, and The Hunting of the Snark.  The way he plays with words and uses imagination and fantasy forever appeals to the child within.I love the idea and sentiment of the quote below:

 “I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says "Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”

Is it Snowing where you are?

“Is it snowing where you are? All the world that I see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. It's late afternoon - the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and I am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you.”
 

(Jean Webster)