We’re seeing a return of warmer temperatures and thawing ground as winter comes to an end in the Northern Hemisphere. As the days lengthen and crocuses (and people) start to poke their heads out, many people dealing with Seasonal Affective Disorder start to see a reduction in symptoms. From this warmer and sunnier vantage point, it’s nice to look back and appreciate some bleak winter weather. Some authors seem to have truly embraced the winter spirit, and it shows in their writing.
(Note: I am not trying to diagnose these authors with S.A.D., simply appreciating their wintry writing.)
S.A.D. Poetry
Poetry, with its focus on imagery and flexible word usage, is ideal for evoking atmosphere. These poets have embraced all the cold, dark, bleakness of wintry S.A.D. and turned it into beauty for the rest of us to enjoy.
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
Robert Frost ― “Desert Places”
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Christina Rossetti ― “In the Bleak Midwinter”
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
Anonymous Winter poem (around 1310, maybe in Leominster, Herefordshire)
S.A.D. Prose
Not surprisingly, authors at higher latitudes, where winter brings the longest nights, have a tendency to reflect this in their writing. Swedish, Russian, French, and Northern American authors often include winter almost as a character in their works, including themes of cold, isolation, and deprivation.
“Six months passed. White winter had set in the cruel stillness of cloudless frosts, with its thick crunching snow, rosy hoarfrost on the trees, pale emerald sky, wreaths of smoke curling above the chimneys, steam emerging from momentarily opened doors, with those fresh faces which look bitten by cold, and the hurried trot of shivering horses. A January day was drawing to its close; the evening cold pierced keenly through the motionless air, and a brilliant sunset was rapidly dying away.”
Ivan Turgenev ― Fathers and Sons
“It was bitter cold. The streets were covered with a thick, black, glassy layer of ice, like the bottom of beer bottles. It hurt her to breathe. The air was dense with gray sleet and it tickled and pricked her face like the gray frozen bristles of her fur cape. Her heart thumping, she walked through the deserted streets past the steaming doors of cheap teashops and restaurants. Faces as red as sausages and horses’ and dogs’ heads with beards of icicles emerged from the mist.”
Boris Pasternak ― Doctor Zhivago
Although it was only six o’clock, the night was already dark. The fog, made thicker by its proximity to the Seine, blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of lanterns and bars of light escaping from illuminated windows. The road was soaked with rain and glittered under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, heavy with icy particles, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of a symphony whose bass was played by swollen waves crashing into the piers of the bridges below. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.
Théophile Gautier ― Hashish, Wine, Opium
When the cold comes to New England it arrives in sheets of sleet and ice. In December, the wind wraps itself around bare trees and twists in between husbands and wives asleep in their beds. It shakes the shingles from the roofs and sifts through cracks in the plaster. The only green things left are the holly bushes and the old boxwood hedges in the village, and these are often painted white with snow. Chipmunks and weasels come to nest in basements and barns; owls find their way into attics. At night, the dark is blue and bluer still, as sapphire of night.
