The Sweet Sadness of Endings: November Montage

Fall always makes me feel melancholy, but not in a bad way. The pang of it lets me know I’m registering the passing of time and noticing and appreciating, for the most part, the experiences that come and go, especially the sweet moments with those people, creatures, and places I that I love. How to bear the existential crisis that comes with acknowledging every last person, creature and place will at some point cease to exist? I’m still working that out. I like this quote from the movie Don’t Look Down: “Your whole life you’ll always be saying goodbye. Don’t let that keep you from loving.” Love is the salve that eases that never-quite-healed wound that inflicts everyone the moment they are born; without it, the wound becomes infected with despair. With it, despair is muted and life, however ephemeral, feels significant, even holy.



"The Beautiful Has Fled" by Charles Sims

“The Beautiful Has Fled” by Charles Sims


My November

by Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise



Opening scene of the film “Melancholia”:


When I am dead, my dearest


When I am dead, my dearest,
         Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
         Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
         With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
         And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
         I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
         Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
         That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
         And haply may forget.

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