Autumn...less bountiful, more befuddled
Autumn...less bountiful, more befuddled
Pumpkins. Grapes. Pumpkins. Cinnamon. Pumpkins. Pumpkins.
Writers love Autumn. I’m sure there are loads of reasons why. The gesture of new beginnings? The darkening nights? Woollen socks? Mulled wine (no, it’s not too early…)?
I like the fact I no longer need to make excuses to sit under a blanket with my laptop. That’s sort of the status quo once the leaves turn crunchy and bright. Either way, writers are agreed (and this is an actual fact) that the season of mist and mellow fruitfulness renders us close bosom-friends of the maturing manuscript.
I guess I’ve always assumed the general feeling of abundance puts our own creative juices to harvest.
Pumpkins. Grapes. Pumpkins. Cinnamon. Pumpkins. Pumpkins. Abundant land. Wholesome life.
And these aesthetics are just aching to be posted all over social media – it’s the only time of year you can post an image of a tree with no caption and get a few dozen likes and comments. It’s bountiful time, don’t you know?
But, as I sit beneath this autumn’s blanket of choice* writing my new novel, my thoughts turn to The Palace of the Sun, the god Apollo’s house (as they often do).
Here, in his throne, Apollo sits flanked by the cosmic order:
“Day, Month, and Year, the Century and the equally spaced Hours. Young Spring stood there circled with a crown of flowers, naked Summer wore a garland of ears of corn, Autumn was stained by the trodden grapes, and icy Winter had white, bristling hair.”
(Ovid, Met, 2)
Hmmm. Autumn is “stained by trodden grapes”, as opposed to wearing a nice garland or a crown. Where are the pumpkins, Ovid? Where is the wholesomeness? I’m not the only one who reads this Autumn as a bit, well, fatigued: Poussin’s gorgeous depiction of the same scene from Ovid shows Autumn as an older man slumbering in what looks like a drunken stupor.
For Ovid and Poussin, Autumn is less bountiful and more befuddled. There’s a feeling of exhalation, and, dare I say, relief in these versions of Autumn. I can relate to this, in a way. Summer is there for the taking, isn’t it? You’ve got to make the most of it, bathe in its long-lasting days, drink the Spritz, watch some theatre outside. It’s fun, but exhausting, and I’m ready for a break.
Perhaps, then, Autumn is the excuse your brain needs to breathe, to relax, and process the buzz of summer. This sounds like a good place to start writing (drunkenly or not).
There is a more sombre sense of relief that the ancients assigned to the season. One of the main October festivals in the Roman calendar wasn’t actually anything to do with the crops, but the army. The Armilustrium honoured war god Mars in a ritual “purification” of weapons before they were stored for winter. Campaign season was over and a sense of peace (at least temporarily) would have prevailed. If only that could be the case in our own war-stricken times.
So Autumn: a time of aesthetic abundance, yes, and wholesomeness. But also a time to feel peace and relief, whilst wishing others the same.
Thank you ever so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, you may like my essay about ‘thought daughters’ or why I think Renaissance Autumn should replace Brat Summer.
*blanket of choice:
