A singer must die for the lie in his voice

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. James Joyce, "The Dead"

"The Dead" is one of my favourite short stories and likely the best thing Joyce ever wrote. I love this closing image: the defeated Gabriel Conroy, who has recently discovered that he never loved his wife or any one, peers out over the snow-covered streets of Dublin.

Winnipeg is covered in snow this evening, a fine white blanket of snow that covers us all, connects us all (well, we who are in Manitoba anyway)- those who wish they were better connected; those who don't wish to be connected; those trying not to be.

Watching snow softly fall from the warmth and comfort of your house, even October snow, is a fine, fine thing.