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“Oh,” cried Marianne, “with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight.”
“It is not every one,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead leaves.”
from Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen
Those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere are once again approaching that season in which the passion for dead leaves comes so ineluctably upon us. Some of the more strong-willed amongst us will endeavor to resist. It is, however, the prevailing sentiment that such defiance is as forlorn as the hope that summer will endure, and we therefore abandon ourselves to our fate.
We are resigned to sensibility untrammeled by sense. When the leaves begin to turn, so too do our hearts, and we remain always, always weak to the fallen leaf.
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