On the days when the sun shone, it was only an instant. On the coldest days the snowdrifts were deep and the pine needles in the glades were ossified with ice. It snowed every day now, sometimes only brief flurries that powdered the snow crust, sometimes for real. The same day returned once again - the same waste of snow and rock very lonely and austere. Every morning the world flung itself over and the view had changed, appearing a shade lighter, but the country was of a deadly and a deceitful sameness. There had not been such a winter for years. Annotated text and full source material available here. This is an excerpt from Part I, “The Four Seasons,” at the end of a long, frigid winter. Each sentence, phrase or clause is borrowed it includes no original language. The Nature Book is a novel that collages nature descriptions from 300 other novels into a single, seamless text. To receive the Quarterly Journal, become a member or purchase at our bookstore. This piece appears in the Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly Journal: Catharsis, No.25
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