What is the best short story ever written?

For me the answer is James Joyce’s The Dead, the closing story in Dubliners, written in 1907.

You can read the complete story online and it is the closing paragraphs that make it so memorable as Gabriel contemplates love and death and the motif of falling snow is somehow in synchrony with his own melancholy thoughts.

John Huston’s 1987 film version of The Dead starred his daughter Anjelica and was released posthumously.

Huston wisely opted to keep most of the words from this moving sequence as they were written by Joyce.

I remember when I saw the movie in a London cinema, it is one of the few movies where practically everyone stayed to watch all the closing credits. It would have seemed disrespectful to make a quick exit and I think the audience wanted time to properly absorb the beauty and the sadness of the words.

These are the closing paragraphs from the story followed by the sequence from Huston’s film:

“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.

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”.