I’ve been arguing with Melville over the last few days. I dislike his allegations against November.
He calls November damp and drizzly. It rained here yesterday, so I suppose it is, a little. But my November is warmth and vibrancy: deep brown and golds on the ground, pugnacious orange and red hanging off the trees and rumbling in the fireplace. And if it is the month when everything is falling and storming, it’s still the month when things are also flying and laughing, made of breezes that like to kick things up.
He says that November can invade the soul, and he will start to feel grim about the mouth. I just keep smiling.
He says when it invades, he finds himself involuntarily pausing in front of coffin houses and falling in behind every funeral procession he meets. He says it takes a strong moral principle to keep from going out into the street and beginning to methodically knock people’s hats off their heads.
Mr. Melville, I have a hard time not knocking people’s hats off in November, too. It just seems like such good sport.