Photo Essay: Shades of Winter

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Happy Sunday.

I was planning to discuss my most recent Moby-Dick progress (Chapter 9: The Sermon, featuring Father Mapple’s stirring Jonah sermon) over this weekend – or some of my new books, or something unrelated to either – but right now I’m having a bit of trouble concentrating, what with nervously awaiting word on a job interview and all. Plus, SNOW is threatened for the upcoming week so this is the ideal time to post last week’s photos of frost-kissed plants in my garden, before they’re covered in sparkly, white evil. Which they probably won’t, since weather forecasts are notoriously wrong and I’ve put a hex on Mother Nature, just enough to stun her into weakness. No way that can backfire.

I’ll get back to Moby – or some of my new books, or something totally unrelated – early next week. Pinky swear. But for right now, a natural interlude.

Have a wonderful rest of your weekend, unless it’s already over where you are. In that case, I’m sorry, because Mondays are awful.

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“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

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“October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.”

– J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

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“But frost, like the crystallized dreams of autumn, began to coat the clearing with its sugar glaze.”

– Victoria Logue, Redemption

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“Winter then in its early and clear stages, was a purifying engine that ran unhindered over city and country, alerting the stars to sparkle violently and shower their silver light into the arms of bare upreaching trees. It was a mad and beautiful thing that scoured raw the souls of animals and man, driving them before it until they loved to run. And what it did to Northern forests can hardly be described, considering that it iced the branches of the sycamores on Chrystie Street and swept them back and forth until they rang like ranks of bells.”

– Mark Helprin, Winter’s Tale

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