Hoy me gustaría que fueran sus ritmos, su pasión y sus presagios los que poblaran estas páginas. Es lo mínimo que puedo hacer para agradecerle tantas cosas. Por ello, lo que sigue, es atribuible a su gusto exquisito:
"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.
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".
Ella misma os deja el enlace a la versión audiovisual por si sois de aquellos a los que os sale una ligera urticaria ante la mera presencia de unas cuantas letras juntas...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6FGIaWaQxA
...así como el enlace a un artículo en el que se analiza el joyceano concepto de epifanía alrededor del original escrito y la versión fílmica de Huston.
http://fp.chasque.net/~relacion/0604/epifanias.html
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