Write about winter in the summer. Describe norway as ibsen did, from a desk in italy; describe dublin as james joyce did, from a desk in paris. Willa cather wrote her prairie novels in new york city; mark twain wrote huckleberry finn in hartford, connecticut. Recently, scholars learned that walt whitman rarely left his room.
I know that when a supersexy older girl with hips and breasts and nice hair wants to take off your glasses and to paint you a smoky eye she's merely trying to enroll you in a beauty contest she's already won. It's a kind of slummy, condescending gesture, like when rich people ask poor people where they summer. To me, this smacks of a blatant, insensitive "let them eat cake" type of chauvinism.
The summer has seized you, as when, last month in amalfi, i saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and i could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or i even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,i remember i planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.
Just tell me, percy, do you still have the birthday gift i gave you last summer?" i nodded and pulled out my camp necklace. it had a bead for every summer i'd been at camp half-blood, but since last year i'd also kept a sand dollar on the cord. my father had given it to me for my fifteenth birthday. he'd told me i would know when to "spend it," but so far i hadn't figured out what he meant. all i knew that it didn't fit the vending machines in the school cafeteria.
I had never thought about it, but summer was dill by the fishpool smoking string, dill's eyes alive with complicated plans to make boo radley emerge; summer was the swiftness with which dill would reach up and kiss me when jem was not looking, the longings we sometimes felt each other feel. With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable..." - scout finch
The roman rule was, to teach a boy nothing that he could not learn standing. The old english rule was, "all summer in the field, and all winter in the study." and it seems as if a man should learn to plant, or to fish, or to hunt, that he might secure his subsistence at all events, and not be painful to his friends and fellow men.
This summer-sweet night is only one minute upon one minute upon another beautiful cacophony, sugar upon lips, dancing to exhaustion i thought of you, before this minute upon another minute upon another until, numb, my lips fell onto the mouth of another, and i was undone. ~from golden tongue: the poems of steven slaughter which is a fictional book in ballad: a gathering of faerie
When death comes, it's just like winter. We don't say, "there ought not to be winter." that the winter season, when the leaves fall and the snow comes, is some kind of defeat, something which we should hold out against. No. Winter is part of the natural course of events. No winter, no summer. No cold, no heat.