A strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me, but now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism.
I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else." [read more]
These opening lines from Francoise Sagan's "Bonjour tristesse" are an eloquent description of what afflicts me at the onset of yet another autumn and winter. After half a lifetime spent in tropical climes, I find myself ill equipped to handle long, dark nights and frosty mornings.
Not that we're quite there yet but already the morning sun takes longer to reach the house, and when it does it isn't quite warm enough to thaw out the old bones and lift the sagging spirit.
As I slowly shuffle, wellies on my feet and cup of tea in my hand, through the brown and golden leaves fallen from the now almost barren liquid amber trees, "I repeat over and over again softly in the darkness. Something rise in me that I call to by name, with closed eyes. Bonjour, tristesse!"
