Certain books are for the summer time.
The Great Gatsby, for instance, with all its talk of the glorified beach life on Long Island feels uncomfortable when read anywhere save a porch in the sunlight or a towel on the shore. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, with its romantic scenes on Franny's fire escape make me envision the steamy heat that radiates from NYC sidewalks.
For me, Wuthering Heights is a summer book, possibly because I read it for the first time in the summer, and possibly because its setting is anything but warm. The contrast somehow works.
Also for me, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, because the summer of 2003 is when I spent most of the days in Pennsylvania and had only the Quidditch World Cup for company. I could have read it five times for all I know.
However, To Kill a Mockingbird is another of those books, but my time reading it has lapsed into Autumn (because I JUST CAN'T FINISH 1984). On the island, it still feels like summer, but today I woke up to the comforting sound of rain drops coming through my window. The house feels damp, and its the perfect day to read.
I am also relieved, for the very first time, that this blistering lonely summer is fading into cooler days.
But it made me wonder, I don't know that I have any Autumn books. This is usually a time when I pat myself on the back for a season well read, and focus my attention towards getting into the swing of school. But this year, I have no such preoccupation, and I dragged my feet with George Orwell to the point where I cannot really justify taking a break.
Decisions, decisions.
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