Autumn comes every year, yet somehow, after our long, hot, humid summers, the first few crisp-aired days are always a surprise.
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I was half listening to Romeo and Juliet recently, and, though I think it takes place in summer (don't hold me to that), it has an autumnal quality to it. But on second thought, all tragedies do. Except maybe Lear, which is all winter.
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Tragedy isn't really a contemporary genre. There can't be tragedy without free will, and we've been trying to eradicate that--or more to the point the responsibility it brings--for decades.
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When I understand why the already considerable pleasure of biting into a fresh lemon is tripled if it's done in front of someone who can be counted on to wince at the sight, I think I'll finally have a grip on human nature. Or mine anyway.
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