James Joyce

Dubliners

    Svetlana Videnovhar citeretsidste måned
    No one would think he’d make such a beau­ti­ful corpse.”
    Svetlana Videnovhar citeretsidste måned
    He had a beau­ti­ful death,
    Ljubicahar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little
    Ljubicahar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he had learned by heart or that,
    Ljubicahar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    sed these sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent.
    Ljubicahar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    He said that the happiest time of one’s life was undoubtedly one’s schoolboy days and that he would give anything to be young again.
    Ljubicahar citeretfor 2 måneder siden
    But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 3 måneder siden
    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
    b5825192143har citeretfor 3 måneder siden
    Per­haps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A pet­ti­coat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood up­right, its limp up­per fallen down: the fel­low of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emo­tions of an hour be­fore. From what had it pro­ceeded? From his aunt’s sup­per, from his own fool­ish speech, from the wine and dan­cing, the mer­ry­mak­ing when say­ing good­night in the hall, the pleas­ure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Pat­rick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that hag­gard look upon her face for a mo­ment when she was singing “Ar­rayed for the Bridal.” Soon, per­haps, he would be sit­ting in that same draw­ing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sit­ting be­side him, cry­ing and blow­ing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might con­sole her, and would find only lame and use­less ones. Yes, yes: that would hap­pen very soon.
    b5825192143har citeretfor 3 måneder siden
    The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched him­self cau­tiously along un­der the sheets and lay down be­side his wife. One by one, they were all be­com­ing shades. Bet­ter pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some pas­sion, than fade and wither dis­mally with age. He thought of how she who lay be­side him had locked in her heart for so many years that im­age of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

    Gen­er­ous tears filled Gab­riel’s eyes. He had never felt like that him­self to­wards any wo­man, but he knew that such a feel­ing must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the par­tial dark­ness he ima­gined he saw the form of a young man stand­ing un­der a drip­ping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had ap­proached that re­gion where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was con­scious of, but could not ap­pre­hend, their way­ward and flick­er­ing ex­ist­ence. His own iden­tity was fad­ing out into a grey im­palp­able world: the solid world it­self, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dis­solv­ing and dwind­ling.
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