I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
And now, my poor old woman, why are you crying so bitterly? It is autumn. The leaves are falling from the trees like burning tears – the wind howls. Why must you mimic them?
Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetic descriptions extent of autumn – that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness – that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling.
She looked like autumn, when leaves turned and fruit ripened.
At no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.
October, baptise me with leaves! Swaddle me in cururoy and nurse me with split pea soup. October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins. O autumn! O teakettle! O grace!
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
The house was very quiet, and the fog – we are in November now – pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.
Aprils have never meant that much to me. Autumns seem that season of beginning, Spring.
That's the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet.
Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.
Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.