Last Friday’s newsletter began:

In Texas, it looks like fall before it feels like fall. To scramble a line from Sylvia Plath’s journal, the worst of the summer is gone, with “the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” Virginia Woolf said it well in a letter: “I feel entirely dehumanized by the sun now and wish for fog, snow, rain, humanity.” None of that is coming until at least Halloween down here, so we must settle for what C.S. Lewis in Surprised By Joy called “the idea of Autumn.”

And continued with Joy Williams on the truth-telling of fall:

“Fall is. It always comes round, with its lovely patience. If in the beginning it’s restless, at the end it’s resigned, complete in its waiting, complete in the utter correctness of what it has to tell us. Which is that we’re transitory. We’re transient, we’re temporary, we’re all only sometime.”

And a perfect passage from Patricia Lockwood’s memoir, Priestdaddy:

I have lived for the last eight years in seasonless places, where things do not die, but revolve in a constant tropic sun. I had forgotten how the fall sharpens pencils, gray and colored ones. I had forgotten that when you pay attention to the seasons, you are returned to school and all its feelings, the freedom of three o’clock and the nameless dread of Sunday night, when the sky looms over you like the deadline of some paper you haven’t even started. I want to drink cocoa out of a thermos; I want to go to a high school football game.

Read more in “The idea of Autumn.”