Seasonal Reader

How to intuitively read.

It’s sweltering; the air is thick and heady. I glance up at the ceiling from my sprawled-out position on the unfairly soft and encompassing sofa. I watch the large metallic light shade gently sway in rhythm to the lone fan beside me, blowing forcibly, desperately, regurgitating warm air. It’s the hottest recorded day the earth has ever endured, and I mistakenly am reading a book which features, storms, floods and chilly fresh autumnal mornings. I’ve intuitively picked wrong; this book is not the right mood. Not matter how well written.

I believe it is the Scorpion trait in me, a creature of habit, that drives my obsession of reading a certain type of genre over and over until I have exhausted all avenues and until like a switch, I cannot possibly consume even an essence of that subject. Last year it was books set in Southeast Asia - Japan, Korea, Thailand - it didn’t matter which, I was obsessed with immersing a new world and culture, which I knew so little about. Authors from these countries, history, everyday life, legends. Anything that remotely touched this context I was here for. The year before was Greek Mythology. This year, so far, has been all about food. I cannot stop myself from buying, reading and gorging on books about food. Whether that be written by chefs, accounts of food which seeped in nostalgia, stories with recipe’s thrown into the mix, history of food, food that shapes culture and society. As I write this, my insatiable appetite has yet to wane. However, one cannot read one genre alone always, and so when I am not obsessing over the intricacies of how pasta came to be, I am searching for a book which matches my mood, or more accurately the mood of Mother Nature.

Thinking back, I began intuitively reading in an intrinsic link with the seasons, when I was a teenager. I remember fondly my always go to summer read, Pirates! by Celia Rees. It was the perfect read for summery afternoons in the garden, sun beating down coaxing out the freckles on my nose. A cold drink sweats, ice cubes bubble as they give way to the heat. Bikini clad, I may be sunning on a lounger in Essex but really, I’m aboard a pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean, one of only two women aboard yet none relenting in my approach to adventure and adversary. The pitiful book binding, fraying and cracked, can attest to the annual read of this book each and every summer. If the country was blessed with a heatwave, then this book became perfect symmetry to the hazy surroundings, so sweltering you could believe you were there. If it be an English washout, then this book served as a talisman to be transported across time and land, living vicariously through the pioneering heroines of the pages. It’s gritty, daring, totally engulfing in prose, descriptions and plot. I can feel the dirt and sea salt upon my brow every single time.

In contrast, last summer I purchased A Gentleman in Moscow and for many months it sat on by ‘tbr’ pile waiting patiently to be read. My eyes would scan the pile for the next book to read, always eyeing longingly this book, it’s grey, distinguished cover, the title alluding to a slower paced, aristocratic vibe, communicating with my body which instinctively knew it wasn’t yet time. This book required, quiet closed days, stormy skies, gusty winds, a typical English revered blustery, tight-lipped day. Summer turned to Autumn and Autumn to Winter and still, I didn’t feel ready to peruse the pages of this book. That was until Spring this year, and I suddenly felt it was time, eagerly plucking it out of the ‘to read’ pile. Still a crisp in the air but a feeling of hope, trees showing delicate signs of finer days with their littering of tiny pink and white blooms. To my delight this book not only matched the season perfectly, but it also had woven in the importance food and meals have on one’s life and moments in history. This was a double winner. Inspired by the protagonist’s sophisticated palate, I back engineered one particular meal described, whipping up the smoothest, richest tasting dinner, Pork Stew with Apricots, lavishly mopped up with a herby flatbread.

This is a book for literary lovers, you can sense the deep appreciation the writer has for the classical writers and poets, the legends, and the beauty and importance art, gentile and tradition, fighting and evolving in the backdrop of cultural rebellion and revolution. Spring is the ideal time of year for this kind of book, one that is clandestine, intriguing, yet intellectual and poetic.

Now, we are blessed in this country to have distinguishable seasons, which draws a great appreciation of the next. So while I can’t truly claim to a favourite, there is something about Autumn which speaks to my soul. It is a time of great nostalgia, it is the season of my birth, it is the season of mystery and magic, Halloween. It is Mother Nature entering her most bright and electrifying phase, abundant in colours of cinnamon, turmeric and terracotta. It is a time to in equal measure decorate and eat pumpkins and gourds, don for the first time in months roll neck jumpers and boots, and to appreciate the warm sun upon the face which has been flushed by the crisp new air as you stroll through dewy fields. It’s a time of great relief after the scorching hazy days of summer, the time of harvest, and of all the seasons feels the most paganistic and primal. Autumn is abundant, therefore autumn is for books which feel every crevice of one’s soul. So, what sort of book could possible match this Autumnal majesty? For me it’s not the obvious ghoulish or witchy tale (although that wouldn’t be sniffed at), no it’s actually the best time for the unassuming yet punchy tales, a book about everything yet nothing in particular. Stories that find the epic-ness in every day, ordinary, human life. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I Capture the Castle, Forgotten Garden, Betty - to name but a few. These nestle in every nook and cranny of my heart and are imprinted there always.

I began with Summer and so in the interest of cyclical symmetry I must end with Winter. What better season could there be to save for The Classics. How better to read Elizabeth Bennett’s fiery judgement as she mistakenly scorns time and again the intensions of Mr Darcy, knowing that every time she has misjudged and her love which has quietly blossomed in defiance will surely prevail. Or the anguish of Jane Eyre battling seemingly constant barrage of troubles in love and life, the miserly harshness of Scrooge matched with the long endured yet contented, sweet Bob Cratchit, the foolishness of Emma and the joys of learning from mistakes, or the enduring heartache of Anne Elliot, so close to her man, whom she loves wholeheartedly, and yet so far away. The backdrop of all these books, rainy countryside’s, blustery seaside’s, stormy castles and marshy farms - a sense of Great British broodiness. What better way to feel the sternness of the season than through the stiff language of the past, the intimacy of hands almost brushing, eyes locking with meaning but not words, and drama that only a society of delicate sensibilities and strict rules on etiquette, could produce. It may be cliché but for good reason. Where I live is the end of the river Thames estuary and while in the summer where the river meets the sea it will glisten as blue as any seaside town, it is in the Winter when it is in its glory - tide out, storms brewing, mudflats glisten with dark green seaweed and half bury boats which tip sourly waiting for the tide to return. I could stand upon the sea cliff, leaning into the harsh winds, scarf flowing wildly behind, entangled with my hair and imagine I am wrapped in a shawl, with nothing but a laced nightdress underneath and my angst channelled through deep longing stares towards the horizon. It is unrequited love turned love unrealised, it is hidden skeletons and unearthed pains, it is hardened hearts melting. It is mardy, it is Bronte, it is Winter.