'cause a little bit of summer is what the whole year is all about #6

Sunday, 2 August 2015

no one can possibly love the summer, the dear time of dreams, more passionately than I do, yet I have no desire to prolong it by running off south when the winter approaches and so cheat the year of half its lessons. it is delightful and instructive to potter among one’s plants, but it is imperative for body and soul that the pottering should cease for a few months, and that we should be made to realize that grim other side of life. a long hard winter lived through from beginning to end without shirking is one of the most salutary experiences in the world. there is no nonsense about it, you could not indulge in vapours and the finer sentiments in the midst of its deadly earnest if you tried. the thermometer goes down to twenty degrees of frost Reaumur, and down you go with it to the realities, to that elementary state where everything is big – health and sickness, delight and misery, ecstasy and despair. it makes you remember your poorer neighbours, and sends you into their homes to see that they too are fitted out with the armour of warmth and food necessary in the long fight, and in your own home it draws you nearer than ever to each other. out of doors it is too cold to walk, so you run, and are rewarded by the conviction that you cannot be more than fifteen, or you get into your furs, and dart away in a sleigh over the snow, and are sure never was music so charming as that of its bells, or you put on your skates, and are off to the lake to which you drove so often on June nights, when it lay rosy in the reflection of the northern glow, and all alive with myriads of wild duck and plovers, and which is now, but for the swish of your skates, so silent, and but for your warmth and jollity, so forlorn. nor would I willingly miss the pleasant firelight tea and the long evenings among my books. it is then that I am glad do not live in a cave, as I confess I have in my more godlike moments wished to do, it is then that I feel most capable of attending to the Man of Wrath’s exhortations with an open mind, it is then that I actually like to hear the shrieks of the wind, and then that I give my heartiest assent, as I warm my feet at the fire, to the poet’s proposition that all which we behold is full of blessings.

The Solitary Summer, Elizabeth von Arnim

she has a certain intrepid quality, which may be deadly, but which until it’s frightened out of her I rather admire... Kilifi Creek, a short story by Lionel Shriver
another shortstory... Diamonds, by Colin Barrett
it was a summer that, by the end of July, had bleached adults of their purpose - yet another short story, this time by Hilary Mantel

my summer
prinzenzeit - corsica
bt of corsica

a little series to remind us – people in the northern hemisphere that is, and the ones that love the sun as much as I do – that summer is short, and that we should make the most of it.
let's go out and have fun!

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