Reading Seasons

Fall arrived in our part of Pennsylvania this week. Trees are sporting red hats and golden cloaks. Frost is in the air. It’s the season for soup and sweaters, and time to switch from summer to fall books.

I don’t know about you, but I find that some books and authors read best at certain times of the year. L.M. Montgomery, for example, is especially fitting in the spring. Jane Austen’s novels, while delightful at any time, seem right for June and midsummer – probably due to all those weddings and dashing heroes. The languid days of August find me delving back into loved children’s books, including Heidi and Miss Happiness and Miss Flower. I also read several Nancy Drew books in one sitting. The works of P.G. Wodehouse have a quality of summer as well – valets and butlers valet and buttle majestically, lovesick young men avoid overbearing aunts, and a faint cry of “Pig-hoooey” echoes in the sun-drenched gardens of Blandings castle.

Now, however, it is fall, and I find myself thinking of different books. Books that should be read in the long evenings, and on weekend afternoons. Books that demand cups of tea and crumpets, or, at the least, buttered toast as accompaniments. How long has it been since I read a Lord Peter Wimsey novel? The Nine Tailors, or Strong Poison, for example. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is a classic fall/winter novel too, best when read near Christmas. It was late in the fall three years ago when I first discovered (quite late, I know) the glories of Tolkien. I read the Ring trilogy as fast as the library could supply it, with no yard or garden chores to distract me or make me feel guilty about spending time with Frodo, Gandalf, and Aragorn. Of course, by the time I got halfway through the first book, it would have taken a lot to make me feel guilty about reading Tolkien.

Fall and winter are also the perfect time for Dickens, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and anything by a Brontë. These are authors that need to be savored, and are best read when curled up in a deep armchair on a cool night. Once again Raskolnikov, Jane Eyre, the Cheeryble brothers and Mantalini reveal themselves. The very thickness of the books – the look and feel of the old bindings with their gold lettering – suit this season. “Here,” they seem to say, “You will find humor, tragedy, new perspective, and food for thought. Put away your summer salad books and read us.” And I do, cup of tea in hand.