This particular time -- this moment of the seasons when spring is still stumbling, sleepy-eyed, out of winter's cave and becoming itself -- is the most dulled time of the year.
 |
| "Gloomy Hungarian Fate," Janos Tornyai, 1908 |
Winter is beautiful for the austere sharpness of its whites and blacks and grays and the elder spring is beautiful for its heavy lushness. But, in-between, there is a time of tan and muddy smoke -- of pendulum swings between chill and heat that stir up a pot of cold that spins with something stifling and humid.
I hate it, the way I hate fake, sepia-toned photography; the way I hate rusty scum on the edges of creeks that run the way sick people walk from bed to bathroom; the way I hate both wearing fogged glasses and listening recordings that sound like they were made with microphones dipped in Vaseline.
It's only ever a for a few weeks, but it feels like a short criminal sentence for the senses in a cell of dirty cotton.
I'm afraid (with reference to the post before this) that Tolkien has the same stultifying effect on me as this season apparently has on you. And ploughing through one of his books takes up more than a few weeks.
ReplyDeleteHaha -- yes, I have read your sentiments on Tolkien. His work does, indeed, take quite a committment... He is one of those authors: although I love his work, I can see quite clearly why someone would dislike it and I can't blame them. I probably love his work for the same things that make others hate it. I just think the old boy deserves more credit than he has gotten as a writer.
Delete