That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay.
That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.– Ray Bradbury, The October Country
I’ve always considered myself an autumn person. I think a lot of writers do. Bradbury probably knew that.
Smart guy, Ray Bradbury.
Anyway, I find myself coming back to this quote quite often. I’m an autumn person, and most of the characters I write about are autumn people too. All in different ways, but autumn people nonetheless.
I write, and they frenzy forth.
For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars.
They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth….Such are the autumn people.– Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes