But, when the need arose tonight, my hands reached for the classic Walden, which I have now read 3 or 4 times completely, and is very much like an old and well-known friend who manages to surprise you each time you meet — there is a comfort and depth there, and then little miracles under the skin. I read most of the Housewarming chapter, since it’s almost October here and I see all the pumpkin stalls and tents popping up– which is really the vector here towards fall, since Southern California’s weather remains warm and of course we have the bitter and bone-dry, parching Santa Anas ahead. The symbols do a lot to counteract the desert-on-the-shore reality behind the curtains.

Anyway, quite different than Pynchon’s text, Thoreau — while no lush auteur — manages to evoke with simple clarity the crisp taste and smell of autumn in New England for me. It is enough to carry me on to bed.