Winter mornings are made of steel; they have a metallic taste and sharp edges. On a Wednesday in January, at seven in the morning, it’s plain to see that the world was not made for Man, and definitely not for his comfort or pleasure.
– Olga Tokarczuk, Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead
“Small delights – a clear winter sunset through the natural iron grillwork of black trees, a street lamp shining through ice-encased branches, blue sky glittering, and sun on ice-crusted snow. Loveliness, loveliness.”
— Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in “The Unabridged Journals”
“In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees”
— Mary Oliver, from “White-Eyes”
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
― Travels with Charley: In Search of America
“The heart can get really cold if all you’ve known is winter.”
― Last Night I Sang to the Monster
“I love to watch the fine mist of the night come on,
The windows and the stars illumined, one by one,
The rivers of dark smoke pour upward lazily,
And the moon rise and turn them silver. I shall see
The springs, the summers, and the autumns slowly pass;
And when old Winter puts his blank face to the glass,
I shall close all my shutters, pull the curtains tight,
And build me stately palaces by candlelight.”
― Les Fleurs du Mal
Travel Between The Pages 