five books that make me think of this time of year

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1.

THE BALLAD OF DR. RICHARDSON

Paul Pope, Horse Press, 1993/1998

Dr. Richardson is an Art history academic stymied by his oppressively stuffy work environment and the crippling, uninspiring path his life has taken. A chance encounter with an alluring and difficult former student sends him daring to, pardon the phrase, disturb the dumb universe. Radiators hiss; coffee brews; la femme is cherchezed.

Steeped in romance for the metropolitan and for metropolitan romance, BALLAD is a winter book, pure and clean. The snowflakes float like clouds of foam across oppressive onyx towers and breath exits the mouth in fat arabesques. I can feel the stickiness atop the bare hardwood floors with my toes as Noel pads across it barefoot; I remember silent purple-morning tugs-of-war fought over too-small duvets. The hot dust smell that greets the first cold snap of the year. Hot drinks as requisite. Finding last years gloves and last years jacket with last years love notes still in the pocket. Cigarettes and pine needles. The crunch of frozen grass under your feet. Café windows fogged up from the inside, sweating.

This is a chase story and a love story about two people finding warmth together in a very cold night and it is as earnest and fearless as can be. Open fire, you cynical bastards: tonight you'll fall asleep alone with your quips and stabbing nastiness while the good Doctor put it all out there and tonight sleeps curled up with something considerably warmer. Pope was twenty-four when he made this. It feels like it, in all the good and aching ways that means, and, I suspect, were you to ask him, in all the embarrassing kiddie ways, too.

Which is a shame: it's a lovely book about falling in love in the snow.