The autumn leaves of red and gold

Have you thought that maybe this love for autumn has something to do with the fact that you only cry in movies at moments of redemption? It seems rather likely.

Ebert: Everything is connected.

I attended a different school each autumn. My father was the epitome of '50's organization man, accepting transfers and promotions every nine (9) months or so. This meant my mother organizing the total "life-transfer" of the entire four (4) child family while father began his new assignment in our soon-to-be home base. This way of life and the results are for another time, but the smells, sights and sounds of autumn always trigger in me a sense that I am about to embark on an incredible adventure. Not always as I hoped, seldom as billed, these adventures were chapters of what was to become my childhood and adolescence, for better or for worse. Crisp and cool air, shuffling through the fallen leaves, the wonderful aroma of their burning wafting throughout (totalty intoxicating), arguing the pro/con prospects of the Gophers, wondering whether this year's National league champ had any chance against the Yanks in the World Series, would Mary Katherine dance with me at Friday's Sock Dance, and should I take O'Hearn's 6:00 AM Mass serving assignment Sunday as he was in the doghouse with Monsignor Sheehy and, well, you know--. We are all the sum of our experiences, good or bad, and I am taken back to mine immediately, and most willingly, by the smell of burning leaves.

Ebert: Monsignor Sheehy for inexplicable reasons sounds ominous.

I believe there are two types of people in this world: those who, as kids, relish the coming of Autumn and those who dreaded it. And that this perspective colors one's attitudes toward life. I was one of the latter.

Fall was the harbinger of shorter days, colder temperatures, and an all-too-long New England winter. Not to mention the end of a season of personal freedom that Summer gloriously bestowed. I was an outstanding student only out of obeisance; I disliked going to school immensely and still chafe at institutional rules and regulations.

Now that I'm older, and Summer represents no more freedom than any other time of year, I welcome Fall for its quieter, more cozy feeling. But I wish I could enjoy Summers like I did as a kid again...

Autumn is also my favorite season.

Perhaps it is because I love the color brown. Despite the lack of seasonal change in Southern California (visually, at least) I find myself experiencing nostalgia of the autumns witnessed in paintings, photographs, films, and television programs.

Now? This exact minute: Here I am in Los Angeles, coming home from a screening of "The House of the Devil." I am a child of the 80's. Seeing as how the movie is based on and set in the 1980's, I cannot help but have my nostalgia flared. It is nearly midnight. The very windy conditions have rendered the air around me anew. It smells like the same neighborhood it's always been since my childhood (and it is, after all, the same neighborhood I've lived in since my wee days).

Reading this particular entry of yours brought me to a state of mind not unlike the smell of leaves. It's not that I know exactly that smell, having never burned said leaves myself. It's that I know what those burning leaves mean. And that, obviously and I suppose not so obviously, is its own scent.

Indeed, everything is connected.

Good night.

Tomorrow is another autumn day. Glorious.

Eva Cassidy was a wonderful singer. Thanks for posting the video. It's too bad she passed away so early in life, not living to see her music become so popular after her passing. Her rendition of Fields of Gold is priceless.

-M

Ebert: That performance is so simple and avocative.

Autumn does indeed feel like a rebirth while the offical "new year" feels like a hangover from the last year (literally and figuratively.) But by Autumn, the new year feels anew after months of trying it out for size. College Football begins, the air is crisp and clean, the leaves changing, the holidays...Thanksgiving, Christmas...people, friends, family...all seem closer, reconnected once more after a usual Spring/Summer hiatus. It is the season we feel young again because of a feeling of hope for the new year...in essence, we feel the new year has just started. It's a season of how we would like to feel, all the time. Starting over by going home. And we all do it ever fall and every year. Despite what Thomas Wolfe said.

I've grown up reading your prose and my favorite pieces have always been the ones that include moments or memories of your own life. But you have to know, that writing this good, while achingly beautiful, is very intimidating for young writers like myself. You set the bar impossibly high. Such a moving entry.

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The gray smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Reading this, between the awkward high school dances, the innocence of teenaged love and the welcoming setting of Illinois, I couldn't help but be reminded of the great movies of John Hughes. Both evoke similar feelings of home (wherever that is) and the tragic fact that everything inevitably changes. In addition, as a freshman at college, who not only covered sports in high-school but also just experienced Prufrock in class for the first time this fall, I can attest that everything is indeed connected. Now all I need is to start my own little fire.

Great post, Roger.

Ebert: And close your eyes and inhale.

Have you ever noticed that some of the most poetic people around today are singers/songwriters? I always am amazed that someone can take an everyday experience and turn it at an angle we have never seen before and make it fresh yet instantly recognizable? Look at Bruce Springsteen's "Magic" or Mary Gauthier's songs.

" It's a cheap hotel, the heat pipes hiss
The bathroom's down the hall, and it smells like piss
It's another night in a another town
And I'm another blues traveler headed down.

Falling out of love is a dangerous thing
With its slippery slopes and its weighted wings
With its birds of prey circling overhead
Casting vulture shadows on barren beds
Let me out, set me free
Let me out, set me free

The clock inside the church bell tower
Rings your name every hour
I see your face I touch your hair
Then the ringing fades and nobody's there

Falling out of love is a treacherous thing
With its crucible kiss and its ravaged ring
With its holy whispers and labyrinth lies
Sacrilegious hungry sighs
Let me out, set me free
Let me out, set me free

I walk the streets, I taste the dirt
I am flesh and blood, and my body hurts
I search your silence looking for a crack
For a passageway where I can pull you back

Falling out of love is a tedious thing
With its jailhouse smirk and its chain gang swing
It's time to serve and its sentence set
With its warm blood and cold sweat
Let me out, set me free
Let me out, set me free "

Ebert: Oh, yes. Listen to Steve Goodman's lyrics here, performed by his friend John Prine:

http://j.mp/56SV8

Lovely piece, Roger. Your personal reminiscences that you share with us are invaluable.

There is nothing in this world that's better than a walk in the countryside as the leaves are turning, and then coming home and relaxing into the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate and a thick book. It's only a half-day today at work, so I might just do that this afternoon...

I have been to the US many many times across different time zones. But the one regret I've had is not to have experienced Autumn (at least in the way I've seen it in the movies).

Ebert: Here you go:

http://j.mp/I1577

Smell is an incredibly powerful trigger of memory, perhaps only surpassed by taste. It's amazing that the things that we give the least attention to at the time are what we remember the most vividly - I recall marvelling at the view of Positano from a vantage point on the road along the Amalfi Coast, and yet what I remember is the kind elderly man manning his lone fruit stall there, who told jokes in fractured english about the words on the bottle of olive oil I bought (Viagra di Positano - he was greatly amused by the english meaning of viagra) and who gave me two free mandarins. I remember him so vividly, and yet now all I can remember of the view is what I captured in photographs.

Autumn is my favourite season as well - not too hot, not too cold. Of course, it is spring at the moment here in Australia, so I have some time to wait!

Ebert: And when you eat a mandarin...

Autumn has always been my favourite season as well. At first I used to explain it by the fact that winter is too cold, summer too hot, and spring too wet. But I think you're right when you say that autumn is also the true season of new beginnings, and not only scholastically, but also professionally since I'm now a teacher. And also romantically; I've met all my significant girlfriends in autumn. Coincidence? Everything is connected.

Ebert: Everything is connected.

Yup; and the entire universe is one big long lace keeping your shoes on.

Iggy Pop, "Les Feuilles Mortez" was awesome by the way - LOVE the clarinet! And man... did hearing that sound bring back memories of Venice!

*Sniffle* Sigh! I wish I were in Venice right now and with my pockets full of cash. I need to cheer myself up now.

I know!

Robot Chicken "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" spoof!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8B8lQ09fB4

Smile.

Ebert: Iggy Pop surprises you, eh?

Oh my Injun Summer....what memories those picture bring back. It wasn't fall until they were on the cover of the TRIBUNE Sunday magazine. I loved the images of sitting by the fire with my grandfather (neither of whom I ever knew) and watching the fall mist and smoke turn into the Indians dancing. Fall is my favorite season too. Especially here in New England where the swamp maples turn the most glorious colors and traveling in places like Vermont or New Hampshire is like being in a fairyland with the beautiful white church steeples peaking out of the multi colored trees in a valley take your breath away. Thanks for another memory laden reminder to read with my coffee!

Ebert: "Injun Summer" has now been deemed politically incorrect.

I love your nostagalia posts, Roger. They are an eloquent time machine.

This one has me thinking not so much about myself, but about my teen son. Imagining this time in his life, and the experiences that he's having. I hope they are good ones.

I like the pictures that you chose. (or, did you take them?) It is indeed "leaf season" and I'm running around madly taking pictures before the moment is gone. I'll post fall series on my site soon. Enjoying your pics for now.

Nicely done.

Ebert: Photos all found with web search. I wish yours had been online. Autumn is lovely in central Illinois.

Roger,

Thanks for this. It makes think of autumn at Illinois, focusing on the goldest leaves as I strolled past Foellinger on my way to the English Building. I especially enjoyed the reminiscences of your old dances and those missed opportunities. Oh, I’ve felt that pain! Was that the faintest shadow of a hint of a sidelong teasing look of regret that Jessica B. or Angela S. sent my way? Or had they forgotten I even existed? No…like Prufrock, I thought, “I do not think that they will sing to me.” When we discussed that poem in class, a lot of the students found it funny that Eliot wrote it when he was only in his twenties. It didn’t seem that funny to me.

However, I do find it funny that I happened upon this blog entry the night my mom showed me an old photo album of when she was in college in the Philippines. At first, I was weirded out by how much she looked like me, or how much I look like her. And like you, she made close friends. They called themselves the Jolly Gals (said like “gall”). One beautiful friend, who was a mestiza (half-German, half-Filipina), had a father who owned a hotdog factory, so when they had get-togethers she would bring hotdogs and spaghetti. I pictured my mom, young like me, with her friends eating hotdogs and spaghetti on paper plates under the trees, chatting, laughing. In the end, I even found myself getting watery-eyed! Why? I guess I felt elevated.

Anyway, I want to share an autumn poem by the Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, on whom I wrote my senior thesis. Have you read him? He doesn’t scan easily (not unlike cummings!), but when he’s on, he’s on. It’s called “Spring and Fall”:

Spring and Fall, to a young child

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Here's Tom O'Bedlam reading it: [url]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pybod5nNGM&feature=PlayList&p=926610EE03623875&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=2[/url]

Thanks again, Rafael Ibay

Ebert: Yes, yes. When the Quad was red and gold.

I think "Prufrock" must be a rite of passage for sensitive young men. How often have I heard young men sincerely quoting, "I grow old...I grow old." And feeling very much, I believe, as if they were. As indeed we all are.

It's "up *so* many," mon frere. I've always had some success with "since feeling is first."

Ebert: Yes, it certainly is.

Roger,
Isn't it amazing that the sense of 'new beginnings' in the Fall never leaves us, even many, many years out of school? New clothes, new notebooks, new classes, new hope. I think my biological clock is set to Fall as a beginning as well. I can now smell the leaves without the burning...just by thinking about it.

Oh, and don't forget, the great fresh apples!

As a Champaign person, never went to the Tiger's Den...we went to the Bunny Hutch...but we never had Oscar Adams overlooking the scene.

Time to TP (toilet paper).

Ebert: And bobbing for apples. Do they still do that?

Eloquent and beautiful, as always, mr. Ebert. It got me thinking of the elevating moment when Anton Ego first tastes the ratatouille in Ratatouille.

It's hard for films to capture the elusive way non-cinematic senses (ie. taste, smell, touch) can take us back to a distinct time and place, but when they get it right, it's invariably magic. Off the top of my head, I can't think of any other examples than the Rataouille one, though...anyone else?

Best regards from a fan in Norway (autumn is beautiful here too now, by the way).

Ebert: Not for you, so much, but...

http://j.mp/3fX49b

Could feel the nostalgia in that writing. Far more romantic than how I view the seasons. In high school, I was more into fine arts courses like Drawing and Painting, so Autumn appealed me because it is doubtless the most vividly colorful time of the year. There has always been something magical about walking in the streets as a breeze blows leaves about your feet...

Spring is a time for allergy pills and, if you hear the neighbor's lawnmower, you knew it was going to be a rough day.

Actually, with all the reds, yellows, and browns around, why wouldn't autumn be the most romantic time of the year?

Hey Roger. Good post. I was curious where that ending stanza of poetry comes from. It sounds so familiar yet I can't recall who wrote it or what it's called.

Ebert: Here you go:

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/8284-e-e-cummings-anyone-lived-in-a-pretty-how-town

This entry is a time machine. It fosters pangs of a certain kind of heart-wrench that you initially try to rebuff, maybe like that long ago paramour. I see a ghost of my former self, a much younger self, and I envy him, scorn him and want to protect him all at the same time.

In my last year of high school, the English teacher required everyone in the class to memorize and recite a poem in front of the class. It could have been anything; short or long, a poem or song. Because I had appeared in a school play (or maybe by that time, two), the teacher challenged me to memorize "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock". It occurs to me as I write this that I was the only student he'd singled out.

For a fortysomething year old "Prufrock" (set in the month of October) prompts autumn feelings of melancholy that a seventeen year old only thinks he knows.

Ebert: There's an effect to that poem that surpasses all understanding. I hope you still quote it. Great poetry, well remembered, sets you above the mob.

Read by the best voice on the web:

http://www.youtube.com/user/SpokenVerse#p/search/0/OTZLxZI44FM

I haven't learned to reminisce yet. Perhaps that's sad. I'm not really young any more. Do we reminisce about misery as well? Or is there another word for that?

Ebert: The agonizing bitterness of inward wit, or something like that.

Roger, have mercy! It's 7:45 am, I'm trying to gear up for the day, and instead I get leaf-smoke and Yves Montand--and that "Injun Summer" illustration that must have somehow made it to NJ, long ago--because it opened a little drawer in my head and reminded me of Autumn morning, and walking toward the playground at Our Lady of Good Counsel, big wet oak leaves plastered on the walkway, the sky still dark--and then later inside the classroom, the flourescents making a bright cocoon, the cloudy day like Eliot's yellow fog curling around the school once before it fell asleep.

So OK, thanks for starting my day in "worlds of wanwood leafmeal," as G.M. Hopkins put it.

Wow, burning leaves is still legal where you live? Didn't you see Al Gore's movie?

I guess this post is a pretty good defense of why you are an exception to the rule. Just like Mr. Gore is an exception to his rules that the rest of us should follow.

Sorry for posting politics in a very nicely written post but I hope all the posters consider the thoughts in this blog entry when we have zealous environmental laws. (I posted this because I miss that smell also.)

Ebert: Not legal at all, nor, I'm sure, should it be. A small act of civil disobedience.

Autumn took on much greater significance for me when I arrived at college. I was a late bloomer in pretty much all aspects, and missed out on a lot of the high school fun. As a kid, of course, summer was where it was at. No homework and nothing to do but play all day and maybe read a few books for fun.

But in college, every year was an opportunity for new beginnings. New romance, a new apartment - heck even new classes and the hopes that you stumble onto something you know is going to engage you for the rest of your life.

Every year since I graduated, I have become more and more obsessed with college football. It took me a long time to understand why. But in recent years I've been able to realize the connection. It's exactly what you write about here. Those were days filled with promise that in many ways actually delivered. And every autumn, the feeling returns - at least as a memory.

Thanks for posting, Roger. This one really spoke to me.

Thank you so much for the short story to start the day. I lived briefly in Chicago in the mid '90's, moving from Texas and the most wonderful part was experiencing a real fall. Crisp cool days with sunshine, leaves that actually changed colors then fell and were crunchy underfoot. The smell of woodsmoke in the air is among the most incredible smells ever. Brings back memories of a childhood spent briefly in England. Autumn is the best of the year, always the start of the great months of the year, October with my birthday, the State Fair, Halloween, then on to November and truly cooler days. Getting to wear sweaters and maybe, maybe a coat. After Texas summers, always grateful for a day below 70! Thanksgiving and family and days off from school. Then December and all the hope of having that picture perfect holiday. Seeing friends and family. I love Fall.

I loved this entry. I still go to the tobacco shop each September to get a cigar box for my pens and pencils because the smell reminds me of starting the new school year. When I was a kid the box was free. Now they charge $5. I'm a fool to pay it, but it's tradition.

One minor quibble. This is the greatest song ever written about Autumn. The last line kills me every time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl_e7UW-bz8 Autumn Leaves is nice and all, and I'd place Moonlight in Vermont (Ella and Louis rendition) right there next to it, but Autumn in New York is the best.

(I was typing and I think my comment disappeared. Sorry if it shows up twice.)

-Andi

Ebert: Whoa. I just used that very link in a reply to an earlier comment.

Ahh, burning leaves. The worst part about Cincinnati in the fall is that it rains too much to gather up the leaves and burn them, but the view from my dorm room has made up for it somewhat. Still, my family and most of my neighbors back in Michigan burn leaves and twigs and branches every fall. If it's illegal, nobody knows.

The first time I went to Urbana was maybe a year ago this week for a Halloween party. Lots of leaf burning in Indiana, right off the freeway. So much smoke that it looks like the houses are on fire. In Urbana, somebody'd set the median on fire. Strange, to say the very least, but nothing came out of it. Had a great time at a bonfire (in a suburban backyard), and have been coming and going ever since. I have high hopes that UIUC accepts me for grad school.

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is one of the reasons I fell in love with poetry. O'Bedlam's reading is, as usual, very good.

Fall of '57. I took my new girlfriend Jean - whom I had met at a camp that summer - to Morton's Arboretum just outside Chicago. I saw autumn colors there I had never seen before and haven't seen since. "Dream" was our song, and "Tammy" and "You send me".
Your story takes me back, so thanks.

Roger, a few years back you wrote a similar piece about the aroma of burning leaves in the past as opposed to the annoying roar of leaf blowers now. Could you post a link to that if it still exist ?

I to perform that same small act of civil disobedience once every Fall.

It's a wonderful smell-embery.

Ebert: It's not online, but since you insist:

Of all the gizmos forced upon us by the modern world, is any more melancholy than the leaf-blower? The device is manifestly useless. It blows leaves from one place to another, and then the wind blows them back again.

On my walk in Lincoln Park the other morning, I could hear the angry buzz from across North Pond. Rounding the little hill, I saw two workers for the Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum solemnly blowing leaves off the path. The museum is currently engaged in expanding its natural prairie landscape, and I suggest that acreage could be set aside where children can learn that, in nature, leaves fall to the ground and stay there.

Heading towards home, I found a woman raking her yard, and this cheered me considerably. The rake is an ancient tool that has a symbiotic relationship with the human body, and if you will learn its Zen (slide with the lower hand, turn with the upper) you will never get a blister and will soon fall into a comforting rhythm.

As a law-abiding citizen, she put her leaves into plastic bags to be picked up by the trucks. But grandparents can remember when leaves were burned in the street. Their aroma on a crisp autumn night made you feel happy and sad and lonely and in a hurry to get home to dinner.

We ordinary citizens are not allowed to burn leaves anymore, because they pollute the air. They pollute with moisture and organic vegetable matter, however, and that doesn’t seem as frightening as some of the stuff we breathe. Coal-fired power plants, waste incinerators and steel recycling furnaces pour tons of toxic mercury and other heavy metals into our air.

Why, just the other day President Bush was up in Michigan praising his $2 billion program to support the coal industry’s pollution, while affirming that carbon dioxide is not responsible for global warming, existing anti-pollution statutes need to be relaxed, and there’s no hurry to improve auto emission standards. Bush’s twinkly little eyes were shining as he hailed his new Clean Coal Program, which extends the use of dirty coal. Bush views the environment with the same interest the Romans took in the Sabine Women.

Meanwhile, leaf blowers assault us with noise and exhaust gases. There’s something so pathetic about a man using one—standing there twitching his nozzle back and forth like a midget elephant. The leaves, once gathered, disappear. Children can’t risk death by riding their bikes through them at high speed. They can’t do a bombing run with left-over Fourth of July firecrackers. Their parents don’t get to shout out the window that the fire is too close to the car.

I suggest a small act of civil disobedience. Gather a small pile of nice dry leaves. Ask the children to circle around. Light the leaves and allow them to savor the magic aroma. Put out the fire before the cops arrive. Tell them that when you were their age, that smell was always in the air in the haunted twilight around Halloween. Why should the fat cats get to dump tons of poison into the air while we humble home-dwellers can’t even burn a few leaves?

Too bad that Injun Summer cartoon is specifically banned in numerous public school systems around the country. It harkins back to a time when the the University of Illinois' Chief Illiniwek and Marist High School's Redskins paid proud tribute to our American heritage. Today, these institutions have abandoned those tributes in the interest of political correctness for political correctness' sake, leaving a sad void in our Autumn traditions.

For a fortysomething year old "Prufrock" (set in the month of October) prompts autumn feelings of melancholy that a seventeen year old only thinks he knows.

But that's the irony! Eliot was a callow college student when he wrote that wonderful poem, and if you read closely -- and examine the version in his college notebook, which has been published under the title Inventions of the March Hare -- Prufrock is Eliot, very thinly disguised.

Prufrock, like Eliot at the time, is not middle-aged, but in his 20s. The poem is not about a melancholy middle-aged man looking back on a failed life, but about a young man looking ahead with some degree of terror to a life at which he will have failed. Prufrock -- like Hamlet, to whom Prufrock refers in the poem -- demonstrates a kind of melancholy that only young men feel. Moreover, Prufrock's melancholy is the kind that only virginal young men feel. Doubtless, Roger, that is why the poem spoke so profoundly to you then (as it did to me).

Several years after writing this poem, Eliot confessed to his friend Conrad Aiken in a letter from London (quoted in the notebook):

"How much more self-conscious one is in a big city! Have you noticed it? Just at present this is an inconvenience, for I have been going through one of those nervous sexual attacks which I suffer from when alone in a city. Why I had almost none last fall I do not know -- this is the worst since Paris. I never have them in the country. [. . .] I am very dependent upon women (I mean female society); and feel the deprivation at Oxford -- one reason why I should not care to remain longer -- but there, with the exercise and routine, the deprivation takes the form of numbness only; while in the city it is more lively and acute. One walks about the street with one's desires, and one's refinement rises up like a wall whenever opportunity approaches. I should be better off, I sometimes think, if I have disposed of my virginity and shyness several years ago; and indeed I still think sometimes think it would be well to do so before marriage."

That's the man who had written Prufrock about four years earlier. One major difference between the two versions of the poem is that in the later version he changed the headnote. Both were from Dante, but the original was from Purgatorio while the later is from Inferno -- rather bleaker, of course.

Eliot would marry and be miserable (see Tom and Viv ), and then years later finally marry and be happy (and do little writing after that).

I actually met the second Mrs. Eliot (Valerie) in Sligo, Ireland, at the International Yeats School. When I first arrived, an acquaintance of mine, slightly in her cups, came up to me and after brief hellos said, "Have you met Mrs. Eliot yet?" I said I hadn't, that I didn't even know she was there. My acquaintance looked to her left, then to her right, then leaned in conspiratorially and said, "Well, she's very blonde, wears very colorful dresses, and you can tell she made an old man very happy."

I later confirmed the truth of these observations, and would add that she seemed rather tall and statuesque, even in what then must have been her seventies. Years later, I reported that conversation to Christopher Ricks, a good friend of hers and the editor of the Inventions of the March Hare volume. He laughed heartily and said, "And what you should know about Valerie is that she would have been quite pleased with that characterization."

At least Eliot finally found some happiness -- even if it cost us a few more good poems, who can begrudge him?

Ebert: I urge readers to start at this page of your blog:

http://j.mp/3k5Mos

And keep clicking "Next."

What a beautiful entry. This took me back to a cool fall morning when I was about thirteen, and I and another boy and two girls skipped church and ambled around the fairly rundown Atlanta neighborhood in the wind and swirling leaves. I suppose I should have attended church, but I'm certain that I remember that lovely walk more clearly than I would have remembered that day's sermon.

I love Autumn as well. To me September, October and November form a special trinity of rebirth (As any schoolkid will tell you, September is the real beginning of the new year.) and I have always felt this time to be magical. Yes, every September 1st marks the beginning of a long goodbye to that beautiful lover Summer, but it's a fond farewell full of happy memories. Autumn, for it's part, is a time to look back on the past and feel hope for the future. While Summer is a time of people, places and adventure, Autumn is a time of the mind, memory and imagination.

I remember meeting up with all my old schoolchums that I hadn't seen all summer, for whatever reason, and getting to spend time with them again. The rules of the games of Fall are different than those of endless Summer, more ephemeral. We knew, even as children, that we had a limited time to play. That soon our parents would call, that it would be time for homework, that school loomed the next day. Night fell early and all the monsters it brought with it, so we knew we had to be home not long after dark. But the little bit of night we got to play in was a secret joy. There was no night in summer, and every child yearns to prowl around in the dark.

I remember one Halloween, we had all watched "War of the Worlds" on TV at a friend's house and been completely taken by it. The scene with the tripod martian touching Ann Robinson eliciting the most squeamish gasps. Later, as some of us walked home past the trick or treating ghosts and goblins, we saw - not thought we saw - SAW a martian death machine peering over the edge of an old abandoned building. (One of those delapidated places which is rumoured to be haunted, naturally.) We ran away screaming... and laughing. We knew it wasn't real, yet believed it wholeheartedly in that peculiar way that the young are completely mad. I feel a little bit of pleasure and sadness knowing that we may have been the last generation of children to be that easily fooled by the old 1953 film.

Autumn has it's secrets and moods, and only a fool isn't curious about them. Maybe I'll tell the story about how me and a friend both had the same dream during one particular November and discovered how to make cemetery wine. That one's a doozy.

Ebert: This is the time to share that recipe.

I have always liked Autumn because of the rain it brings. Spring rain isn't as nice, because it just makes the melting snow even worse, and does a good job of getting in the way.

Summer rain isn't as nice, because its usually accompanied by lightning, thunder, hail, strong wind and scary nights, then a ridiculous amount of humidity the next day.

But Autumn rain. After the streets have been cleansed from the summer dirt and sand, and the trees start to lose their leaves, you can walk down the street in the gentle pour of a rain that lasts just over 2 days, and feel the soft, wet crunch of the leaves under your feet, and step in puddles that aren't quite big enough to be annoying, just small enough that you can step into it and not worry about getting your feet wet. You can walk down with your friends and put aside the umbrella to feel the rain wet your hair and roll down your neck, then go home and have a nice big bowl of macaroni and cheese.

That was an excellent entry, sir. You have such great stories, it makes me jealous.

Ebert: I was in a reverie there, until the macaroni and cheese snapped me out of it. Just before served, while still good and hot, stir in some frozen peas.

Just read this. Whoa, funny timing.

Summer may be my favorite season for living, but Autumn is my favorite season for languishing. It carries a sort of innate melancholy...no?

These stories are becoming more and more revealing. Don't stop. I'm starting to think that I may know...you.

Ebert: Languishing is one of those words that makes you want to do it.

I don't know many people personally who have an affection for Autumn like I do. Unfortunately, for the last few years it seems as if this season is becoming less like itself and more like Winter, bypassing the cool, breezy days and going straight for the harsh, freezing days. I love the colors and feelings and smells of Autumn. My love for this season is almost solely based on aesthetics, and when I think about how much I loathed starting school again and having to switch from my nice summer wear to the less comfortable Autumn clothing early in the school year, I still remember having always loved this season and all it entails and looking forward to it.

Ironically I have a cold right now, which is just another one of those "gifts" of the season. But at least the view outside my window makes up for that.

And I'm loving these inward looking blogs of yours.

Ebert: "Less comfortable Autumn clothing?"

What could possibly be more comfortable than:

http://j.mp/1V4bSN

I was struck a few weeks ago at the absolute vibrance of color East Tennessee had suddenly taken on after long days of cement gray rain. At least that was my initial impression upon walking to my truck early that Sunday morning. After a long look at my neighbor's yard, full of the overgrown knicknacks and bowed plants that intrinsically belong in a home owned by the elderly southern matriarch, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't just the contrast with our recent stormy weather that marked the difference; it was also that the water laden air that is staunch Southern staple had finally lifted. The light was no longer being refracted through the sea of haze and consequently marked the beginning of Fall. On my way to work this morning, I saw that the haze had merely rising a few feet into the air, burning brilliantly above the mountain trees as it caught the rays of the rising sun. Fall meant football and marching band and Halloween and the Erwin Apple Festival. It has been a brief ten years since my last marching show, 12 since the Roane County High School Yellow Jackets began their long road towards a bitter defeat at the hands of Memphis Melrose during the State Championship.

A friend of mine recently saw the Roane County Marching band, now grown to 140 members, perform at the South Doyle Marching Band Competition. He described their precision, their classic marching band style, their attention to detail, and I thought back to those cool Tuesday afternoons, crabwalking with a 20 pound bass drum across the marching field. Marching band was a means to an end for me; a source of new friends, new girls, and free admission to every football game of the year. I never suspected that it would fuel my appreciation for good music and great sport. I never expected that it would allow me to form deep, lasting friendships stretching across states and oceans. I have stronger memories associated with Autumn than I do with any one event or accomplishment.

I witnessed the birth of my first child over the summer and last Saturday subjected him to his first blustery fall afternoon at the Mayfield Farm's Corn Maze and Hayride. The experience was miserable for him, as three month old infants don't appreciate chilly, whipping winds and noisy tractors full of pumpkins and children. But my fiancée's nine year old daughter and I have a marvelous time feeding the goats and potbellied pigs and bouncing from hay bale to hay bale. My son will soon learn to love Autumn as I do; you can't live in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains and not. Someday soon, he may be in the marching band or on the football team. I hope to hear those sounds again.

Ebert: Talk about Kismet! Here's the Roane County Band in their Halloween costumes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JzmONXnlt7k

Really liked this rendition Of Forever Autumn-Justin Hayward(The Moody Blues). Seemed to capture the ambiance of Autumn most nicely.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jwfhJRapu4

Growing up, summer was favorite season simply because it meant no school. Once I started working, that changed. Now that I had to work and not just goof off all summer, I looked forward to fall for numerous reasons.

I would see my classmates for the first time in 3 months and catch up with them about their summers. During puberty, it meant seeing how the girls looked now.

New school year meant new books and school supplies as well as clothes and shoes. It always felt like a reboot in my life with different items.

Sports-wise fall is the best simply because there is so much going on. High school, college and pro football as well as the end of the major league baseball season and the start of the basketball and hockey season. Some days, especially on a weekend, you can sit in front of the television and watch sports all day long.

Fall also means the semi-fun activity of raking up the leaves from the yard. I mean semi-fun because it's easy to do when the leaves are dry and you have someone to help you, but not so much when they're wet and you soak your clothes through picking them up and putting them in bags.

Once in a while during the fall, I'll smell someone somewhere burning leaves and I'll just stand there for a minute or so breathing in the smell with my eyes closed.

Perhaps my all-time favorite Calvin and Hobbes strip (found, I believe, in Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat) is one that consists almost entirely of Calvin and Hobbes walking through the woods on an autumn day, listening to the sound of wind blowing through the trees and of leaves crushing under their feet. Of course, it was a "color Sunday," and a gorgeous one at that.
I suspect Bill Watterson would agree with your love of autumn. I know I do.

Ebert: http://j.mp/12JPcq

Mr. Ebert, three quick remarks about this entry, once again masterful:
French usually takes more words than English to describe things, but what you allude to here is one exception. All this September return to action (politically, culturally...) is encapsulated in French as “la rentrée”, an expression derived from “la rentrée scolaire”, which I will cumbersomely translate as “the back-to-school time of the year”.
Also, while I deeply respect your cinematic expertise, I must say that I wouldn’t trust your knowledge of French if my life depended on it. Where the heck is that Z in “feuilles mortez” coming from? (And how’s the “Tintin dans le texte” project coming along?).
About “red and gold”, one last thing: I moved to Calgary, Alberta last year after spending the first 40 years of my life in eastern Canada. The leaves here get gold all right (ashes and birches) but the dry climate prevents red (maples) from joining in. Be happy that you can enjoy that beautiful dance and balance of red and gold, because when one of the two is missing, it’s not really the same.

Ebert: The z came from when I didn't type s.

"At 8 a.m. of my first day, I walked into a class taught by Daniel Curley, which I am essentially still taking. He handed out mimeo'd copies of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which is now so beloved by me and was then, as far as I could tell, hardly even written in English."

How much better to ditch the coffee spoons and measure out one's life with the scent of smouldering autumn leaves...

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang....73

"So dawn goes down to day./ Nothing gold can stay." Roger, I am aware of the significance of T.S. Elliot, but how can you not mention Robert Frost in a blog about the pleasures and memories of autumn? This is borderline blasphemy!

Glad to be reminded of Vriner's. It was still there (or had maybe reopened) as an ice cream parlor when I was a student in the '90s, but seems to have become a bar since then:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/army_arch/183732562/

Ebert: I love Army Arch's Champaign photos. Many great details from the Virginia Theater.

No four canonical seasons here, just three--summer, rains, winter.

No en masse shedding of leaves.

This is the time when cieling fans have all but stopped rotating. It's blanket season with quilt season around the corner. Mosquitos, bye-bye.

It is the best of seasons, neither hot nor cold, except for those with bronchial problems(not me).

J Prufrock link given by you is not working.

Ebert: Try this:

http://www.youtube.com/user/SpokenVerse#p/search/0/OTZLxZI44FM

Ah, "the sobbing violins of autumn."

I've lived years in the Midwest, New England, deep South, northern and southern Pacific coast, and the desert (where I still am). Even where there's no change in the foliage, there's still that fall feeling and that certain change to the smell of the air, as vivid in the desert or the palms as among the flaming leaves of Vermont with its cider and cheddar cheese and maple syrup (all of which, wonderful).

Everywhere I've lived in this country, there has always been the sound of a sole cricket, just the one, the last one fiddling, in late August, even in the city. Maybe it follows me around.

I've been sleeping outside. Woke up to a snowstorm this morning.

Mr. Ebert;

I am not surprised that you are an "Autumn" person.

It is impossible to live in New England and not enjoy it.

Sadly it is almost over.

Here is a time lapse video, one hour to 30 seconds, that I recorded on Monday morning at dawn: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNSNb0EW5hE
There is nothing really exceptional about it except that it is the view outside my bedroom window.

It's raining today. Hard. The leaves are nearly all gone now.

Simple, touching, poignant.

Autumn is my favorite too. It's bittersweet because it's so obviously ephemeral. The leaves turn, but before you know it, they're gone and winter's here. Time is passing. But what beauty it gives us as it goes!

I remember driving down along the Mississippi with my parents as a kid expressly to look at the leaves along the river bluffs. And we would go and visit the Piasa bird outside Alton, IL - anyone remember that? I always think of it in the fall.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piasa_Bird

Now I live in New England. Nowhere is the autumn more beautiful and the winter more comparatively brutal. The leaves are just getting to their peak now and it's a pleasure to walk home from work. Before too long it won't be a pleasure to walk anywhere, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

As a small child, my mother took the five of us to live in Scotland with her father for a year. It marks the earliest of my memories- I was four when we returned to Canada. Her father was a lumber merchant and the old house was backed by the sawmill yard. To this day, the smell of diesel fuel or sawdust returns me instantly to that village in Scotland, and I yearn to be there, the place that remains my true home in my heart.

Autumn on the prairies is ugly. The leaves lack the gorgeous colours of the East; small and spiky, drab yellow and taupey brown, slippery with mold, they stick to your shoes, the walls, the roofs of cars. The grass is brown. The first snowfalls are hesitant, premature; the flakes melt into the ground, producing endless amounts of rank grey mud. Even the sky gets into the act, the wide blue becoming a low, grey curtain of cloud that spits rain intermittently for weeks on end. And on top of everything, vast vees of geese blacken the sky on their way south, leaving their filth bespattered over house and yard alike.

There's a reason all the great comedians in Canada come from the East, and all the great tragedians from the West. Lightheartedness doesn't come easily to the survivor of a prairie autumn.

Don't you hate Chicago's Autumn, which lasts from the end of September through the middle of October, and then BOOM! -- it's winter?

One thing that's great about DC is Autumn lasts through November with reasonably warm temperatures.

I just recently moved here, and I'm experiencing one of the best Autumns of my life.

And everyone knows the movies are better this time of year.

Speaking of beginnings, October 31st is the witch's new year. Suits me just fine, as it seems to be a more auspicious day than January 1.

Most evenings after I get home from work I have a nice cup of coffee and then take a walk. Last night was raining and I didn't mind. The rain makes the bark of the trees darker and more prettily in contrast with the gold and rust. Plus, is there anything more worth relishing than the sound of leaves crunching underfoot during a solitary tramp? Perhaps there is, but it's a good one at any rate.

Thanks for the thousandth time for writing these, Roger. Not only do we get to know you better, but each other as well. I look forward to some of your commenters' comments almost as much as your entries.

Ebert: For some reason this particular entry has inspired the most evocative and poetic posts ever. It has brought forth from the ranks of the readers poetic romantics.

"for nothing is easier for a teenager to imagine than rejection."

this sentence just makes me smile, wonderful stuff.

When I was about 12 I watched Sophie's Choice on HBO. (My parents had asked me not to watch it - I was too young - so, of course, I sought it out immediately).

Not too surprisingly, the movie upset me very much, but I loved the Emily Dickinson poem that Stingo recites at the end.

Ample make this bed
Make this bed with awe
In it wait til judgment break
Excellent and fair

Be its mattress straight
Be its pillow round
Let no sunrise' yellow noise
interrupt this ground.

I loved this poem and I tried to memorize it on the spot but all I could remember was "Ample make this bed, make this bed with awe, Excellent and fair." I thought these words were rich and wonderful and I wanted to say them as often as possible. I liked to go on long walks in the woods and recite them to myself, especially the words "excellent and fair."

One evening, after great exertion, I managed to climb onto the roof of an unoccupied house in the neighborhood and I stood there feeling a bit like Athena, or at least Wonder-Woman. I spent several minutes looking over the tops of the other houses. It was misty, cool and bluish-gray. The whole world was abundant and bursting with wonderfulness. So I told myself what I remembered of the poem and felt perfectly happy.

Loved this piece. I share your passion for the season. Something about the juxtaposition of reminiscing and new beginnings. almost tragic in a beautiful way.Made me think of a poem I wrote years ago.

Seasonal Musings

I yearn for Fall
I feel my body and soul returning to life as the season deepens
Sharp air hits the back of my throat
and sends shockwaves to the creative centres of my mind

I think in orange and yellows
My soul is the fiery red of a fallen maple leaf
My strength comes from Nature, relinquishing its own
My passion ignited by the dying flames of summer passed

In heaven, if such a place exists,
Fall is not a season but an eternal moment of being.
Perpetual Fall
without ever needing to
land
Leaves in stasis, as if floating in a mold
Crisp air engulfing all the senses-
it is everything and nothing all at once

In heaven, if such a place exists,
every tree is lit up in the magic tones of Fall:
vibrant reds mixed with deepening orange
like a never ending sunset that surrounds you
on every level

In heaven, if such a place exists,
death is not the end, falling is not a failure, and the promise of new life is made
as soon as one stops clinging to what is known and is
released

to land among all those that fell before.

What I miss most about autumn leaves is not the smell of their burning, but the huge pile of moldering leaves left by the street sweepers for a few days before the front-loader and the dump truck could come by to remove them. Leaf forts, hiding places, "ammunition" for leaf wars, hills for tunneling, we'd come home with twigs and pieces of broken leaves in the most unlikely places with warning not to let them clog up the drains after we bathed them away.

I guess Oak Park, IL has become too PC since then to allow it, but 40 years ago it was a great part of autumn. It was really fun on chilly days...the outer part of the pile would just be dried leaves, but down deep, you'd dig away and then heat would rise and condense into a steamy mist when you got to the part where the weight of the leaf pile itself caused the leaves in the bottom middle of the pile to begin composting, even before the front loaders and dump trucks could arrive.

Autumn always gives off the sense of being enfolded back into something - the wind pushing you forward, the leaves piling up all around, the comfortable, familiar weight of an old warm coat and fuzzy scarf wrapped about your frame... It feels like a return to the womb, the first stages of a literal rebirth that lasts through the winter and reaches its completion with the first flowers of spring. I've never been the most observant Jewish girl out there, but I've always felt connected to the belief that the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, which generally falls in September or October, marks the anniversary of the creation of the world.

Ebert: There's something encouragingly in media res-y about the notion of the world being created in Autumn.

One of the activities that I absolutely and unequivocally love is running. Ever since I started running I have had to keep doing it because...well, I had to. There is something different about a run in autumn. A smell. A feel. I can't completely describe it but the feeling is definitely evocative of other memories. John and I slogging through a 10 mile run together not saying anything, but not needing to. Walking with Kelly late at night after our first date trying to listen to her talk, but really struggling in my mind whether I was going to try to kiss her and how that should be accomplished. Going trick-or-treating with Billy and trying to fill as many bags as possible. Great memories and a great feeling that is like nothing else during the year.

I read this entry while sitting in my small one bedroom apartment in suburban Detroit. The window open and the cool autumn air flooding the room. The tree that stands right in front of my window, it's leaves brown, yellow and red. October is my favorite month it has been for ages now and your blog just put into words the thoughts that many have about the autumn. Your blogs of reminiscence are always stirring, I truly hope there's an autobiography sometime in your future. Before they were divorced my parents lived in a small rural town near the Ohio border in southeast Michigan, it was still standard there for the residents to burn their leaves. I have great memories of driving down the road to their house on the very end of the street, my girlfriend in the passenger seat, the windows halfway down the smell of burning leaves filling the car. I'm only 28 now but I still feel the same love of autumn now as I did when I was younger, maybe some things don't fade with age. Great entry once again MR. Ebert.

I am not typically an overly-nostalgic person, but the two weeks in autumn when I know the color is high in the West Virginia hills makes me more homesick (and heartsick, if I'm being honest) than anything else that happens all year.

I don't get home enough.

Autumn has always brought mixed emotions for me. Every time the new school year began I was enveloped by both a sense of excitement, and something resembling dread. I loved certain aspects of school. English class was always a favorite, especially my freshman and senior year, with Mrs. Abel and Mr. Kandar, respectively. I was always a big reader, and I learned to love to write by the time high school was over. Most of my other classes didn't hold quite the same interest for me, but I think that was much more due to my own tastes then any fault in the teachers. And I loved seeing my friends everyday, although most of my good ones I saw quite a bit during the summer.

But other aspects of school were just depressing for me. The romance department, for instance. I had an enormous crush on this girl who transferred from another school to my high school my freshman year. She was of Lebanese descent, but born in the U.S., and to this day still probably one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. She was in my history class, and because I was kind of a goof (and given courage by a couple I was friends with in the same class), I started to have random conversations with her. After a while, we became pretty good friends, and she also became good friends with one of my best friend's girlfriends. But our friendship eventually became strained, because she never saw me any other way, and I always saw her as so much more.

Before school, me and my friends always used to hang out in the library. Not because we were all bookworms, but because it was the only place to go that had chairs before first period started. Also, my mom worked in there, so we felt (possibly mistakenly) that we would be given a little more freedom then we would in the hallways. I'll never forget the day that my crush walked in the double-doors before school, in my mind to see me, only to walk out holding hands with a friend of mine. Not only was this painful to see, it was humiliating because my friends and mom were there to witness it.

Romance wasn't the only problem I had in school, though. For some reason I could never stand how rigid it was, how it seemed to teach me so much but never what I wanted to learn, that I had to wake up at the crack of dawn every morning. So because of these reasons, and probably a few others I don't fully understand, I used to act up quite a bit. The first time I received an internal suspension it was for throwing half a grinder across the cafeteria at another student (he started it). The second time was for posting signs around the school about the same student (again, this was in retaliation). The third time was for going to a class that wasn't mine and impersonating an exchange student from Alabama (not as clever in retrospect). And these were just the incidents from my freshman year.

I think part of it had to with a problem with authority. I know a couple ex-bosses, and at least one cop, who would verify that. But I think it was more than that. I think part of me just wanted people to think I was funny, to be remembered as something other than "a kid I went to school with." Those probably weren't the best ways to act out these desires, but at the time I couldn't really think of anything else. In retrospect it's strange to think of, because when I wasn't doing something incredibly stupid in front of a crowd of people, I spent my time trying to go unnoticed (I was, and am, incredibly self-conscious).

So when I see the leaves changing colors every fall, the feelings and memories I experience are very different and at times contradictory, sometimes bittersweet but often just bitter. Sometimes I feel nostalgic and wish I was back in a classroom, meeting people, reading whatever book was assigned and trying to impress a teacher with my witty interpretation of it, but at the same time, a stronger feeling usually overcomes it: you couldn't pay me to go back.

Ebert: "I'll never forget the day that my crush walked in the double-doors before school, in my mind to see me, only to walk out holding hands with a friend of mine. Not only was this painful to see, it was humiliating because my friends and mom were there to witness it."

And you haven't. And I felt a pang just reading it.

Silly me; I knew that "Injun Summer" piece was familiar:

An excerpt from Chief Seattle's speech (1854)

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

A few more moons, a few more winters, and not one of the descendants of the mighty hosts that once moved over this broad land or lived in happy homes, protected by the Great Spirit, will remain to mourn over the graves of a people once more powerful and hopeful than yours. But why should I mourn at the untimely fate of my people? Tribe follows tribe, and nation follows nation, like the waves of the sea. It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Your time of decay may be distant, but it will surely come, for even the White Man whose God walked and talked with him as friend to friend, cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We will see.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished. Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch. Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits. And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone. In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

There are various versions of this speech, but it is a remarkable set of images, poignant in any tongue.

Where I live, there is neither autumn nor real winter. Summer is depressed for a month or two, and then revived.
But I am eighteen, and "Prufrock" fills me with a species of unutterable dread every time I read and am hypnotised by it. When that happens it seems as if these increasingly brief years of new college courses, new people, new exigencies, are just detours -- the longer, 'scenic' route -- on the way to a time when, in retrospect, I'll find I've "measured out my life in coffee spoons".
But I'm not T. S. Eliot, and have so far had no moment of greatness to see flicker; I'm careful to try not to be trite.
Who knows if I'll raise my eyebrows at Prufrock -- or at least at the autumns when I decided that it affected me so -- in the years to come? I hope not; there are already too many things to be amused by.
I just thought I'd offer a teenager's concurrence: it isn't at all strange that Eliot wrote Prufrock when he was in his twenties.
I've read the Hopkins poem someone quoted up there; I love Hopkins.

You're right. Already I'm afraid that "I grow old...I grow old", and the terror lies in the loss of receptivity to these things -- autumns among them -- and (it's self-dramatising) of being stultified. Maybe there's salvation in one's books? Mrs. Dalloway, loving "Life, London, this moment of June", Forster commanding one to "Only connect!" -- I suppose the hope is that rallying cries will still thrill when one's older. I read most of your reviews; they still seem to thrill you.

But I sometimes think there's danger in giving in and being mesmerised too completely by Eliot. The truth is of course that I'm years and years away from such tragedy as he evokes, but am tempted nonetheless to believe him implicitly; it is great poetry, and it wants us to believe that anatomising our vague regrets and vaguer longings until we can at last see our tragicomedies clearly is itself an experience so keen that it is exalted, and that that fullness of experience might be worth having, even for decades of overloaded senses. But one turns to another poet to convince us that there is a blessing in not being Eliot or Woolf, for that way lie Lear and Madness:

"The oldest hath borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

Ebert: And bobbing for apples. Do they still do that?

I bobbed for apples about five years ago at my ex-girlfriend's inner-city house with about 50 art kids. I'm sure it's still around.

This was one of the most lyrical passages you've written. I remember a lot of the same things you do, even though my junior high/high school days were half-a-country and 30 years apart.

Ebert wrote: Iggy Pop surprises you, eh?

Totally! I'd never heard that track, before! I have however, heard this:

"Linus and Lucy" by Vince Guaraldi

http://uk.video.yahoo.com/watch/72121/1512964

And for me, that jazzy little tune is the soundtrack to Fall. To the arrival of October and all the adjectives that describe it. It's "the" coolest song ever written in the history of cartoons for children! The only thing even remotely close it to, would be "Everybody Wants to be a Cat." :)

And yes, absolutely; burn some leaves!

1. large metal bucket
2. bunch of leaves
3. fire extinguisher
4. matches
5. someone out front to watch for the cops.

There ya go. Thwart the man. :)

"First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys..."
-Ray Bradbury

This time of year is so far and away my favorite, they could hibernate me the rest of the year for the rest of my life and I would never fall too far from bliss. Having grown up in Los Angeles, I can't relate to the changing or burning of leaves... but just last night, and out of nowhere, we had a raging wind that tossed everything into everything else, blew my blinds up and down in crazy, spastic dancing... and I believe also blew my kitten Buster's mind (this being his first Fall)... Soon, he was charging around the house like mad, all feline id (and yes there is such thing, at least in this feline)... driven to joyful madness by the season he was born for (he is blessedly black)...

Even calling it "the fall" is simply perfect. The fall from grace? The fall into beauty? The fall of the leaves (probably)? No other season is so poetically named.

From the first moment I see Halloween candy up for sale at the local Ralph's, there's always a smile just behind my face, waiting to creep out at nearly any provocation... this is not the case during the long summer months, where everyone in Los Angeles is dazzled by the same hot sun they get for 80% of their lives... nobody ever got a melanoma from a pumpkin...

I am sitting here on Vancouver Island watching our autumn, which is a muted, watered-down version of the brilliance back east and thinking many of the same things. I went to university for the first time very late, 20 years later than most people, and that sense of happy anxiety mixed with buying school supplies is the most powerful feeling in the world for me. I still react with joy to the first cool weather and rain on our walks near the ocean.

Interesting fact for you, the ancient Celts treated Samhain (our modern Halloween), as the start of the new year, so your sense of beginnings at this season is quite old.

P.S. - a bit of bacon in mac and cheese is wonderful as well as peas.

Ebert: Now you're talkin',

R.
Thanks for the piece on leaves and blowers.
I will save it and read it every Fall.

J.

Roger,
Terrific as always. I have (and still am) experiencing many of those same feelings here in Iowa City.

Your Proust reference gave me a laugh. I studied a portion of In Search of Time Past/Remembrance of Things Past earlier and the semester, and the number of Proust's peers and contemporaries that failed to finish it is amazing. Did you complete it?

My birthday is in August, and when I was younger I always thought that I was born at the end of the year, since school always started in September.

I grew up on Cape Breton Island (10 points if you guess where that is...), where autumn was truly magical - unforgetable colours.
I now live in The Netherlands, where autumn is not much more than a misty bridge to a wet winter.
But every once in a while I find that smell - isn´t it neat how smells often trigger such intense memories? I smell autumn and I am 10 again; playing street hockey, football, cracking open the new schoolbooks and scriblers (every year, when I got my new pencils and scriblers, I promised I would be very neat and tidy and smart with my writing...). I stand there and inhale the memories.
Cape Breton has great autumns.....

I've always been a spring person; emerging from the cold, dead times to burgeoning green and skies ever bluer, light ever more golden. But now I'll have to rethink that. Between this post and my first autumn in eight years (fall in south Texas is the eyeblink between too hot and kinda chilly), I'm finding autumn to be an evocative season.

Thank you, Roger.

My favourite description of fall is by the band Type O Negative, calling it "October's Rust". They also have a song about love lost called "September Sun".

I'm Canadian, so most people are not fans of fall here since it usually means 5 feet of snow is not far away. And being in University, it also means a long time ahead of studying and exams. Spring means end of exams, end of snow and the cold, and end of incredibly short days.

But personally, I love fall and winter. It seems so much more peaceful and untouched. Everybody goes out walking by the river in the spring and summer. Only a select few go in autumn and even fewer in winter.

Summer is for lovers, autumn is nostalgia.

i am slightly younger than you but am of a vintage where one could & did buy firearms thru mail-order catalogues. a different era? you bet.autumn for myself whip-snaps my memory to a time when i would literally walk 100 feet from house & be off for an afternoon of hunting.i know that will upset most of your fan-base but i don't care.it didn't really matter if i bagged anything.it was the sense of complete freedom of being in the woods alone with my little 410-gauge shotgun.i felt safe & secure in that wonderful sanctuary & free of the tense-atmosphere in the house.to this day,the lovely musty smell of rotting leaves overwhelms the memory of walking with my head slightly down & to one side,my shot-gun cradled in the crook of my left arm,my hands shoved into the pockets of my flannel trousers to ward off the cold,the slant of the late afternoon sun casting tricky shadows off hard-wood trees.i have not done such as i describe for many years but it is still my fondest memory,the best time in my life & one that always brings me a warm smile.the sight of a field of flattened grass bordered with a mixture of evergreen & deciduous trees urges me to stop my vehicle and walk,just walk to the tree-line.but i never do.

Sartre also said that he measured the years from autumn to autumn to coincide with the beginning of the school year. You're in good company.

Hey, off-topic here, but you should see what they've done to your quote in the ads for Antichrist here in LA. It's only about 6 words, but they've managed to get in two exclamation points and a misplaced apostrophe. It's like reading Gene Shalit's teleprompter.

Ebert: What does it say exactly?

Ebert: There's something encouragingly in media res-y about the notion of the world being created in Autumn.

I think the origin of the tradition stems from the fact that autumn was, and still is, the harvest season. This is the time when the world literally yields up its crops and reverts back to its original state. When all is wiped away, leaving behind not some great nothingness, but rather a blank slate ready to be filled up over the course of the next year. As such, in Judaism, it's also the time when you make atonement for the sins of the past year, and vow to be a better person in the next.

I know a lot of spring and summer devotees who find autumn unbearably depressing, but I would imagine that all the fall fans posting here are simply more in tune with the natural cycles and turnings of the world than the sun slaves are. Others shiver and bar the doors against the impending threat of winter, but we all know that this season is just Mama Earth healing herself, and welcome it with open arms.

Ebert: Winter is a big whew!

I too enjoy autumn, and while there is nostalgia there I think there is more. One of the wonders of the middle west is that we get all four seasons, or six or eight as some years go. We stay and we live and we work through weather bitterly cold and blazing hot and all things in between. We complain at times, but we learn to appreciate the change because the extremes make the good days that much better. Autumn for me is the fulcrum upon which the seasons tip. The trees are not yet denuded and there are warm days and there are chilly nights and standing outside with the dogs and a pipe I know I am tough enough to face the cold and smart enough to enjoy the warmth. Autumn is a time to lift our chins in the air just turning crisp. I am in this middle west and would not have a "temperate climate", not even on the coldest day would I have it.

Ah, Autumn. I, as well, share your love for it. It seems like childhoods were much more simple back in your time. Your entire passage seems to be one long lyrical Normal Rockwell painting. While of course it is a romanticized piece, I truly do feel that American culture has lost something in the past decades (I'm only 17 so I don't feel as if I have had enough experience to say with any air of authority, but from what I've heard and read it's true). My autumns are all the same: it gets colder, I have more homework, the scenery is more colorful but otherwise still the same. There is no teen hangout spot, no local collegiate football activity, no rollicking fun in the leaves, only the promise that when our yearly festival comes I'll have to work at a stand and watch a dying generation browse through endless crafts of no such particular importance than the ever-present title "hand-made." Our winters no longer bear snow, our autumns are simply the last dying breath of an overbearing summer. I mentioned that I love Autumn. While I've given no examples of this, I generally like the weather more in Autumn and the crisp-biting air feels good to a kid with asthma. When nothing else is much good, you appreciate the little things.

I love you, Roger. What will we ever do without you, someday?

Autumn's got it, doesn't it? For me, the smell of wood smoke in the air makes me want to grab the nearest lady and whisk her away to a cabin in Tahoe. Hot chocolate, a crackling fire, heavy blankets on the couch...oh what a night!

One minor quibble. This is the greatest song ever written about Autumn. The last line kills me every time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cl_e7UW-bz8 Autumn Leaves is nice and all, and I'd place Moonlight in Vermont (Ella and Louis rendition) right there next to it, but Autumn in New York is the best.

-Andi

Ebert: Whoa. I just used that very link in a reply to an earlier comment.

Andi again: You sure? I went looking and couldn't find it. I don't care about whether you used the same link or video. I just want to see the point you were making.

Not only that. I was about to raise you a Carmen McRae version of Moonlight in Vermont over Autumn Leaves because it's on my iPod and I love it, but Youtube doesn't have it.

I only know about playing cards from the movies, but I think that's the right term. Probably not.

Ebert: It was hidden within a shortened URL: http://j.mp/I1577

Every Saturday night, we would throw a bonfire. I had kind of a magical childhood; every late-summer Saturday, my dad would invite everyone we knew over. I'm talking close to triple digits here--aunts, uncles, neighbors and their children from up and down the street in both directions, former tenants, old friends, new love interests, people whose names we barely remembered.

There was an inground pool. We stretched the cleaning rod out and laid it across the sidewalk on either side; that was our net. We played volleyball, inevitably arguing about who got to be in the shallow end and who got to tread water in the deep. By the end of the game, it didn't matter--the net had fallen too many times to be retrieved, and the ball was over the hedges into the next yard, and everybody was crammed shoulder to shoulder, and hardly anybody remembered what we'd been doing.

There was always food--even if it hadn't been planned as a 'food' event. Food *appeared*. Dip was present. Chips came out. Plastic utensils materialized (subsequently vanished). There was always that one lone container of store-bought potato salad, sitting in the middle of the table, unclaimed; like the person who'd bought it was ashamed at impeaching on the atmosphere. It didn't matter. It was gone by the time the second half of the line got around.

There were my dad's burgers--I kid you not--marinated for 24 hours and so thick adults could barely get their mouths around them without tearing pieces off (anyone under 15, forget it; have a hot-dog).

But it was when the party began to wane--the pool was getting warm, the drunks were getting sleepy, the sober were heading home--that we would follow the hedge-line down to the second backyard, where an innocuous-looking ring of stones formed our Saturday evenings. This was the bonfire pit; and it wasn't my Renaissance-man father's, and it wasn't his hundreds of friends', and it wasn't the parents' from up and down the street. It was ours. Mine, my brothers', and the four or five local friends who had lived in our father's house and eaten our father's food and been on our family vacations as much as we had. This bonfire pit was something we made, and we contained, and we made sure burned safely and burned greatly. It was *ours.*

When the summer began to wane--and the parties were getting shorter, and less exciting, and the dozens of strange children who intruded on our secret magic (those weird cousins who sneered at roasted marshmallows; those wide-eyed scrawny kids who ran when you lit the first match)--when this all faded away, the bonfires became the Thing, rather than the ritual post-script. It was ours--the night, the fire, the pit, the fire, the heat, the glow, the sound. It was ours.

In the beginning nights of Autumn, we burned leaves in our fire.

We roasted marshmallows, we burned sparklers, we snuck sloshes of gasoline from the shed, we shot bee-bee guns, we ran around in circles, we hooted and hollered like something out of Lord of the Flies. But mostly we burned leaves, and watched them burn.

It's strange. I can't recall ever smelling that smell, or taking note of it, or going out of my way to achieve it when I was little.

But my god if the tiniest waft from two blocks away isn't like a slap in the face--and suddenly I'm ten years old again, and hearing arguments forming as to why this or that log needs to be here or there to burn right; and I'm looking for that heat, and I'm tensing up to start running around in circles.

All from *that smell*. Because it was ours.

Ebert: It is the rare child who thinks his childhood is magical--at the time. Either it's hell, or he doesn't notice it.

Thanks for varying the political comment peices with ones like this.

in the midst of all the poetry I'd like to recall a master of prose: Alistair Cooke. He churned out witty, concise 15 minute radio essays for decades heard by anywhere within BBC radio's reach explaining te quirks of US life and politics.

I somehow feel he should have copyrighted the New England Autumn. Here he got the images to mach his prose, cfrom c 1.56 on: "In what they call the fall, the whole country goes to glory". He could take someone else's quote and make it his own by developing it like a riff. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LI-1buD1OE&feature=related

He did it in print too: http://books.google.com/books?id=NnY9i8p4LQcC&pg=PA250&lpg=PA250&dq=Alistair+Cooke+new+england+fall&source=bl&ots=_GRkUaQ1yQ&sig=uIhKTE_btrRGH38kp2IN13iH2d8&hl=en&ei=swLpSrO-HcvU8Aayv8GfDw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CAwQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=&f=false

"They (England's spring and New England's fall) are the unique earthly expression of two moods of the human spirit." Somehow I don't think he'd make it on cable today (which says much less about the qualities of modern infotainment than it does about his own). Sadly missed, but at 95 he was probably due a rest.

As for my song, forever autumn by Justin Hayward. The album it's from is something of a period 70s artifact, but the somg became part of British radio's DNA, and you can not listen to it for years before it takes you away somewhere else. I think someone had fun photoshopping Hayward (from my home town) into New England, but listen to it for the song instead! A ballad with a reason to live:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CO9Qx7Kp_I8&feature=related

And apologies if you get this twice. The computer ate it the first time and I'm not sure it made it out the other end.

I also feel that way about fall because of its ties to a new school year, new possibilities and I also find it to be the... kindest time of year, refreshingly cool for my headache-prone brain. Very beautiful with its leaves and trees. Hallowe'en, oddly enough, gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling because I remember watching scary movies with the family (and, later, friends) growing up.

I also enjoy spunky springtime -- even when it's raining, there's something calming and meditative about that -- and snowy, magical winter which never bores but opens up my imagination to all sorts of intriguing images I never see otherwise.

Summer is just too much for me. I think heaven would always skip it.

Ebert: What does it say exactly?

"Powerfully Made! It's Depths Are Frightening!"

That's the Landmark ad for the Nuart. Terrific theater. It's probably the Times at fault. They insist on the abominable "backyard" and at times its evil twin "frontyard". Another one I'm hearing--not seeing, at least not yet--is "re-look at", or "relook at", I guess, in place of the much friendlier "review."

That's one of the reasons I read your stuff. I remember someone describing Updike's prose as being "classic downwind sailing", something you could just feel right about and almost dismiss as you went directly at the meaning. Very pleasant to read. You do the same, really. Little word choices meant to eddy the reader, to make him pause and mull, and other bits of direct declarative sentences that speed him on to the conclusion. It's very persuasive stuff and is joyful in its attention to detail. You punctuate enough to make it clear, not so much as to make it clunky, use idiom for variety and humor--it's just very nice to read. A real voice.

Ebert: I just tweeted:

"Powerfully Made! It's Depths Are Frightening!" Me, quoted by the NuArt in LA, which added the apostrophe. Thats illiterate.

I love the fall. A friend of mine once wrote, "The world seems the most beautiful when it is fully conscious of its mortality." I find myself agreeing with her more and more each year. The colors, the smells...everything seems so much more alive in spite of the fact many things are coming to their end.

A pastiche of memories, unadorned and beautiful, that like lines in a poem recall a feeling so precise in so few words. I don’t think it could be written any other way because more than anything autumn is a feeling. Trees shed leaves and air gets cold just like any other year but some bit of novelty never disappears. We're a generation apart but I’m sure that autumn atmosphere is the same for you as it is for me, both then and now.

Not to mention all the great movies this time of year.

Hi Roger,

Inspired by your post here, I've just uploaded a new featured gallery on my Lick Creek Photography website. (Click on my name to go there...) If you have a few minutes, just click on the "slideshow" option to watch them.

The gallery features my best of "Fall 2009" shots. Pictures that I've taken over the last 3 weeks or so kicking around my hometown, our park, Lick Creek, etc. Enjoying fall with my camera.

I had a magical day on Sunday hiking up Lick Creek with my 10 year old son. Wouldn't trade that for anything. They're his fingers holding the large sticker-burr. I threw in a picture of me that he took while we were hiking for fun.

It's a rough draft folder in a sense. No cropping or editing. All pictures are full-frame, as I took them. Some could use some work, I imagine. I'm too tired tonight - but I wanted to put them up.

Enjoy! Let me know if there is one or two you particularly like. I'm always fascinated by which ones other people like.

Randy

Ebert: Awesome.

Readers: Choose the slideshow option.

Can I use some to replace the photos on my entry?

Ahh, the sweet smell of autumn leaves. Woops, I meant the cold smell of snow buffeting the insides of your nostrils as you shovel the white from your driveway, your hands still numb from the cold even after wearing your heaviest pair of mittens. Did I mention the cold?
That's Canada for you.
I miss the weather in New York, but I still can't help but love it here!

One of the most beautiful trees in India is the Peepal tree (also known as Bodhi tree)(Ficus Religiosa) which is virtually omnipresent at least in these Northern parts. It is the tree under which the Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment and is held sacred in Hinduism too.

What I love about this tree is that it's so well ventilated a tree and the wind can blow right through it and the rustling is most pleasant to hear.When you look up through it's foliage ,you can see the sky because the foliage is spaced and not dense. It is a tree with powerful lungs. Incidently it happens to be one of those few trees which breathe out oxygen even at night.

The leaves are of exquisite beauty, in terms of shape, colour and firm thick light green material.

The shadow it casts is similarly a shifting pattern of sunlight and light shade. The tree can really capture the breeze.

Here is a picture of the tree:

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2419/2427878265_8cee82c6eb.jpg?v=0

and of the leaf:

http://lh5.ggpht.com/_jUc6bDKKrOk/SNi5wRSrVjI/AAAAAAAAATk/Dv6v4yNsV7A/Peepal+Leaf+tender-P1020051.jpg

I can't resist quoting a stanza from the Panjabi poetess Amrita Pritam about the rustlin' sound of the dried leaves in the process of shedding in autumn:

Pippal de pattiya vey
Ki khar khar layee hai
Jhar gaye purane ne
Rut naviyan di ayee hai

My attempt at translation:

Hey you ol' Peepal tree!
What's all this rustlin' and rattlin'?
The old 'uns are shedded
It's the season of new ones!

Ebert: In a way this thread was intended for this comment.

@ Randy Masters -

Re: your "Fall 2009" photos...

Those are really, really beautiful. The light in some photos so perfect, they felt surreal and dream like. I though they were all wonderful but this one in particular spoke to me:

http://lickcreekphotography.smugmug.com/Flowers/Fall-2009-Hometown/10128838_CUhgo/1/696190558_JZamE/Medium

The tree with a golden canopy and spread below it a carpet of leaves akin to the pointillism of Seurat. It's the half-light that caught me. Right or wrong its feels like you're the precipice of approaching twilight - not quite yet, not yet the light seems to say. But almost, almost, almost there. And if I walk towards it, so crisp the edges of those leaves, that I can hear them breaking like tiny bones under foot as I enter that light beneath the golden umbrella. It's like stepping towards something you can see, just feel.

That, is a very trippy tree, dude.

Also, the inverted umbrellas hanging from the ceiling. That's like watching a pond of lily-pads floating over head after doing some serious drugs. :)

http://lickcreekphotography.smugmug.com/Photography/Stock/4399393_6xUNy/1/258365352_g8mXL/Large

And then this shot from Italy 08 - Italian pastries - food!!!

http://lickcreekphotography.smugmug.com/Travel/Italy-08/5153585_tuYhq/1/313276577_26RdV/Large

Note: third shelf down from the top, middle, white pastry "Argentima?" for 25.00 Euro? That can't be right? That's like $38 Canadian! Chuckle!

In the autumn of 1992 I was going to college at Berklee in Boston. One day when I should have been practicing I took a train to Walden pond. I walked through the woods alone for a few hours, taking in the beautiful scenery and the awesome silence. I sat on a rock and wrote a letter to the girl I loved, who is now my wife of 15 years. That was a good day. Thanks for the post Roger.

Ebert: You can still be all alone at Walden Pond? That makes me happy.

Off topic: "BRONSON"

Finally!

You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to see this film!

I've known about since 2008 when it premiered at the London Film Festival; I'm a huge fan of actor Tom Hardy and akin following your favorite soccer player from club to club, I keep tabs on his projects - which also include:

BBC The Virgin Queen "How do I look, pray?" - Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2gJ1tXS8FY

And the truly brilliant "Stuart, A Life Backwards." Based on the award-winning novel by Alexander Masters, Tom Hardy lost 28 pounds in order to play the role of the homeless alcoholic "sociopathic street raconteur".

Note: for Bronson, he bulked up and gained 42 pounds while doing 2,500 press-ups a day for five weeks.

Tom Hardy has had an interesting past. He may exude a certain tough street swagger but he's a public school boy who enjoyed a middle-class upbringing. He was also pegged as the next big thing at one point but when Star Trek: Nemesis bombed, he plummeted too.

"Hardy is candid about his own damage ("The drink is a symptom of a problem - an inability to accept life on its own terms") and about what, initially at least, seems to be the paradox of the entertainment industry: it is a business based on rejection and yet it attracts an awful lot of insecure individuals. "It's a brutal business but it's masochism, isn't it? If you have a capacity for damage and you live with damage, then you seek damage." - Guardian.uk

He battled with anger and violence and alcoholism and a crack addiction which in his darker moments, saw him face down on the cobblestones in an alley of his own self-made woes, but he's since been cleaned-up and been sober for years. He's even a dad now.

But make no mistake about it Roger, if you thought you saw something raw at work, you did. He's not pretending so much as taping into it; it's there, might as well use, eh? I admire him for that - for picking himself up. He was headed for prison or worse and saved himself. Despite the damage, he crawled out the pit and back into the light.

And so I'm always rooting for Tom, if for no other reason.

As an actor, well you saw him, eh? He's certainly no slouch! And because Bronson's been on DVD in the UK for ages (smile) how I've seen it.

"There is some human behavior beyond our ability to comprehend. I was reading a theory the other day that a few people just happen to be pure evil. I'm afraid I believe it. They lack any conscience, any sense of pity or empathy for their victims. But Bronson is his own victim. How do you figure that?" - from Roger's review of Bronson

I've read several interviews with Tom Hardy over the years, and for being more acquainted than myself with such things, with the darker aspects that can lurk in us and drive our pathologies, I think this "could" shed some insight... it's a distillation of many things:

Look at me, don't look at me. Touch me, don't touch me. Shattering low self-esteem wildly overcompensating for itself leads to pushing and pulling at everything and both at once. Imagine if that dynamic were a seamless one? If ego and self-loathing had merged and become one? And seduced by the pit to embrace your pain - that's why you do it. Because you've learned to love being that unbelievably damaged. Something broke in you long ago, and all that remains is the show of it and you're happy to perform.

Is it evil? Probably. Or else all good transcended by damage, embraced.

And how I figure that.

P.S. It's being compared to Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange" of course, but I think Bronson is far better film. You're handed the thing and to make of it what you will. It's not doing any of your thinking for you. Some might find it too difficult, too unrelentingly violent but I think it's a portrait of something that asks you to consider it.

I know Antichrist tried to do that, but this is the film which for me actually succeeds at it. :)

I did watch a comedy afterward, though. I remember. A Laurel and Hardy. Chuckle!

Ebert: You help so much for me to better understand this powerful actor.

However, for a while there during your comment, I didn't see any way for you to end up with *chuckle*

I see autumn in a similar light. For me, elementary school is really what comes to mind when fall sets in. The confined quarters and lack of a hierarchal social environment always made for an endearing setting. A week before school would begin, they would post a class list at the main entrance and I would anxiously scan it for the key names. Would she be in my class this year? Would I be seated within an earshot? Maybe my first kiss? I remember, in fifth grade, we had to bring in pictures of ourselves are toddlers or babies. It was called "Star Of The Week." My first love saw a picture of me sitting on a rocking chair, wearing yellow pajamas and no older than three. As I watched her look at my photos, awaiting a reaction, she turned to me and told me how cute I looked in the picture. To me, that's what fall brings.

My guess is Cape Breton (the aboriginal Land of Fog), is due west of, and named for, Brittany, France.

We have all been there in mainstream movies like "Margaret's Museum" and "New Waterford Girl".

Hi Roger.

Thanks. Absolutely, you have my permission to use any that you like from that gallery. I'll be interested to see which ones you pick!

Couldn't find another spot to tell you this (sorry) but your comments regarding "uppers" in your review of the Michael Jackson movie is incorrect. They DO actually work that way, based on my experience anyway. You can probably find more info online, but I have no reason to lie.

Great story, beautifully told. Do you think everyone has something to reminisce about? Your existence seems so idyllic.

Hey Roger,

Love the nostalgic entries, I checked out Randy Masters' slideshow... Awesome indeed. But in an unrelated topic, I am in the process of attempting to compile a top 10 list for this decade in cinema and was wondering if you were doing the same. When doing so do you revisit certain films or trust your initial instinct? I think I remember you remarking in your "Magnolia" great film essay that you may be prompted to contemplate "There Will Be Blood" once more... have you done so?

Of course 2009 is not yet over and perhaps there are some remaining films on the horizon sight unseen that may find themselves in contention, yet surely the bulk is settled. Also, finally, have you completely jettisoned the conventional ranking system?

Ebert: I suppose I'll have to do a top ten of the decade. Damn.

The Top 20 of 2008 was a fiasco. Nobody was satisfied with it. There is a powerful universal force ayttracting Top Ten lists, one a little like gravity.

Not that I'm telling those of you in the know anything you don't already, well, know, but if you go to a free music site like Grooveshark and type in "Autumn Leaves," you get an instant playlist of about 50 versions of that national anthem of The October Country. Suitable for groovin, sharks.

I can completely relate to this Roger. I have reserved all of my most cherised traditions for the autumn. In late September, I go to the apple orchard with my family to pick the finest specimens for the apple pie to come within the next few days. Each year on Columbus Day weekend I drive up to Woodstock, Vermont (not a long drive from Boston) to observe the change in leaves. Fall is the pictoresque warm-up for the holiday season to follow, and what a beautiful warm up it is.

Hmm....reminiscing about the passage of the seasons....when we moved to Wyoming, we were told by residents that many people viewed the place as a windy, wintry, barren wasteland.

We were reassured that Wyoming, in fact, did have four seasons, just like everywhere else, it was just that they had different names for them there:

Almost winter, winter, still winter, and the 4th of July.

The end of the World Series has always signified to me that the last remnant of summer is gone and the season is now unabashedly autumn. That's now happening in November.

Randy, your gallery is wonderful to behold. Thank you for sharing it. Your tree color is a little ahead of ours. My state tourism department runs a fall color map showing different regions and reports of where the color is in that region. For small state Kentucky enjoys a wide variety of geographic zones.

Ten years ago I attended a professional conference at Lake Barkley in western area. This was where I spent much of my childhood. After living in the Cincy metro area for twenty plus years I noticed the striking differences. Aside from an occasional cedar, all the trees in the woods in the park are hardwoods. These were the woods we roamed in childhood. That visit nourished my soul. I can remember performing rituals with my friend in a spot we called mermaid cove. Just a little nature worship and appreciation at the ripe age of ten.

Fall color, smells, curling up under a blanket with a book. Freshman year of college we were assigned The Return of the Native during a typically gray and rainy early November. Thomas Hardy became the back-up dad for quite a while.

This:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IDUxk9sSXI

will always be my favorite singer of that song. My father died in the summer before my senior year of high school. I inherited his collection of tapes (not vinyls, not CD's - that's a very particular place in time). I listened to his entire Nat King Cole collection over and over that autumn, not just mourning my father but reveling in the time that I was spending with my first girlfriend. Bittersweet. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year, but a few Nat King Cole renditions (including "Autumn Leaves," "Stardust," and "September Song") are required to make it perfect.

Hi Kathy B. Thanks!

I know the Lake Barkley area. I was born just outside of Paducah - what's the saying: halfway between Possum Trot and Monkey's Eyebrow - as was my Dad. Mom was born in London, KY. They met and married in Louiseville. I was headed for being a Kentuckian all the way. But, we moved to Central Illinois when I was 4, so that's home. I do have a fondness for Kentucky though.

Hi Marie Haws.

Thank you for appreciating my photos!

The one with the lamps (inverted umbrellas) catches people's eyes. Here's the story of that picture: I was sitting in the hotel lounge (bar) of the New Otani hotel in downtown Los Angeles during a convention week. I was waiting for a taxi to take me out to Santa Monica Beach after work. My eye lingered on the lamps overhead and I spent a few minutes trying to compose an interesting photo while I waited. It's my thing. I see things in everyday environments that interest me.

Italy was full of photo ops and tourists. (Milan). I wonder how many people took that picture of the pastries though...

"Published" here for the first time are the lines I wrote decades ago. . .
"Smoke of autumn leaves.
The heart grieves."

Take care, Dear Ebert. Cassandra

May I humbly share some lines of poetry about the Grand Old Indian Tree by Daisaku Ikeda, translated from Japanese (not by me, of course)

The Bodhi tree that towers tall
Is a symbol of wisdom,
The sacred tree beneath whose boughs
Shakyamuni attained enlightenment.

Since the remote past
The Indian people have called this tree
The “king of the forest.”
Some Buddhist scriptures state
That the Bodhi tree emits a mystic music
When breezes pass through its branches
And that by simply hearing this sound
One can attain spiritual awakening.

The Daishonin wrote:
“One is the mother of ten thousand”
Ten thousand, like any great number,
Begins with one.

The shade of the Bodhi tree offers protection
From the harsh rays of the sun.
But its thousands of branches,
tens of thousands of leaves,
all stem from a single trunk.
A single person of wisdom
Firmly rooted in society
Has a value and significance
Equivalent to a thousand
Or even ten thousand people...Daisaku Ikeda

Ah, Autumn. That loveliest of lovely seasons. With the smell of burning leaves and the crisp air and the sounds of high school football games in the distance. With soup being the entree of choice and hay rides making the perfect substitute for a night on the couch wrapped in a scratchy blanket. And a pretty young girl snuggled up next to you with a cup of warm apple cider. Mmmmm....

What a wonderfully rainy autumn day this has turned out to be! First Grace Wang's wonderful post about autumn accompanied by her beautiful photos, and then discovering that Ebert had posted about autumn a few days ago, too! I can smell someone burning leaves as I type this...

Ebert: Hayrack rides!

Leaving the house this morning and walking along Springfield Avenue, I was showered with leaves. The sky was bright blue (before the storms hitting this afternoon), and the leaves crunched under my feet. I dare anyone to be sad in such a moment.

And it's just as good at night, with Orion high in the sky and the north wind clearing out the heat and sweat of the summer.

Said better by Van Morrison:

Well it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low

You know the night's magic
Seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight
Seems to shine in your blush...

Can I just have one a' more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with a' you, my love?

Ebert: Springfield, Green, University, and Florida/Kirby. The four streets you need to know in Urbana-Champaign. The only four through streets to get past the University of Illinois.

You make me so so homesick. I was there... I'm sure that at least one day while you were pulling Beamer off the field by his belt, I was sitting in the stand with my parents eating hot beef sandwiches my mother would make and wrap up in waxed paper to take to football. We'd walk down Kirby past Hessel Park and Uncle John's and finally through Stadium Terrace and up the cement ramps to look down on all the other families and the football and the bands-- and I would feel like the luckiest girl in the world up there. Those days were magical.

Ebert: To this day, the sound of the Marching Illini gives me goose pimples.

And please, please, please, don't get me started on...

http://j.mp/4tvnhS

My favorite fall song. Used to go listen to Dave van Ronk sing it every year at Cafe Lena, Saratoga Springs, NY. Dave and Lena long gone now. Lyrics by Tom Rush, aren't they?

The Urge for Going

Woke up today, and saw the snow, perched upon the ground.
It hovered in a frozen sky, and gobbled summer down
So -- when the leaves have fallen down, and all the trees are sleeping in a frozen row
I get the urge for going, but I never seem to go

Yes I get the urge for going
When meadow grass has all turned brown
And summertime comes falling down, and winter closes in

I had a girl last summer, with summer-colored skin
And not another soul in town my darling's heart could win
But when the leaves came falling,
And bully winds did rub our noses in the falling snow
She got the urge for going, and I had to let her go

'cuz she got the urge for going
When meadow grass had all turned brown
And summertime was falling down and winter closed on in

The warriors of winter
Give a cold triumphant shout
All that dies must stay here now,
And all that lives must all get out
I see the geese in chevron flight
Flurrying and flapping, on their way through the freezing sky
They've got the urge for going, and they've got the wings to fly.

Yes, they get the urge for going
When the meadow grass has all turned brown
And summertime comes falling down and winter closes in.

I'll ply the fire with kindling, pull the blankets to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and keep my wandering in
I'd like to call back Summer, and ask her to stay... just another month or so.
But she got the urge for going
So I guess she had to go

And I get the urge for going
When meadow grass has all turned brown
And all my empires fallen down
And winter closes in.

"...behavior beyond our ability to comprehend."

Not beyond mine.

I know that blew some cobwebs loose for expatriated midwesterners around the world. I can almost taste the smokiness in my mouth, better than the finest of pipe tobaccos. And the twin fragrance of autumnal detritus, the smell of leaf flesh in mild decay after a crisp rain.

Since I am reminiscing about autumn, I have always wondered about an Ebert moment that never happened. I was working on a Robert Altman film "The Company", filmed almost entirely in the building on the NE corner of Lake and Wabash. The building had been vacated, and was in terrible disrepair. So I'm sure the producers were able to rent space quite inexpensively. (Yet we had Charlie Trotter's as our caterer for a few weeks - go figure). Ourselves and the Joffrey Ballet chased around the hallways like children. Sometimes I recall it as melancholic working long hours in our hidden palace of urban decay. But mostly I recall the warmth, the building started each day with a chill (there was no working heating at the time) but the film lights quickly provided some heat, and the bodies of the dancers and our crew enjoying our enforced closeness. Aside - I've never witnessed such metabolism. The dancers would visit the craft service table and rip through it faster that an angry teamster. Consuming copious amounts of snack food which would cripple a doughy Polish/Irish hybrid like myself, but which fueled the precision instruments which were their impressive bodies. They burned more calories standing still than most people do at a jog.

The atmosphere was loose, as was Mr. Altman's style. But he was both in control yet inclusive, a difficult balance. At the end of each day he invited the entire crew, dancers, PA's, producers, everyone-to watch the days rushes. I think it was the first film he had shot on video and was thrilled to be able to do so. Pizza from Giordanos and wine were often served. It felt like an afterschool pizza party after theater class. That sort of thing just doesn't happen in Hollywood.

On warmer days, Mr. Altman would sometimes sit in the front of the building on a folding chair during breaks, cracking pistachios, just watching the ebb and flow of Wabash street. It was a great image, a film legend camped in front of our building like it was his porch. Just another old man among many watching life pass by on a folding chair in front of a portal all the way down south to Calumet City on that day.

One late autumn day, a warm one - the hawk had a day off, probably visiting friends in the UP that day. I was walking into the building and I saw Roger walking by, our eyes met and I gave him a big smile of recognition but didn't speak. I have always wondered what would have been if Roger walked by on his lunchtime stroll to Marshall Fields for some Frango Mint icecream pie and a coffee in the Walnut room, and stumbled upon Robert Altman casually cracking nuts on Wabash Ave. To be a fly on the wall on such an autumn day.

Ebert: I hope I smiled back.

That building still held the old demonstration theater of the College of Surgeons, right?

Autumn is, at least where I live, a rare visitor, a flirtatious gal who you'd like to know but is always fleeting, never sticking around as summer does its best to hang around a few more weeks. Living along the Florida Gulf coast, you get to see the leaves changing colors and the scenes of the chill in the air only on the television, such things not being a part of life in this portion of the world. Instead, it's t-shirts and shorts for the parents as they guide their ghouls and ghoulettes down the sidewalks for Halloween, and the leaves still bright green for at least another month.

It would be nice to see autumn in all her glory, spread out giving the world a display of riotous colors, but it's mostly pines where I live, green needles that barely mask the gnarly branches. And on some years the always lurking storms that might still decide to move through and remind you that Mother Nature still holds sway along the coastline.

"Chicago is an October sort of city even in spring." - Nelson Algren

Ebert: Can you imagine the cajones it would take a man to be the lover of Simone de Beauvoir? Nelson always referred to her as "madame." With a certain dryness.

another great article, although the first paragraph makes you sound like a bit of a psychopath... but in a good way!

Hello Roger,

We've never met, but I've been reviewing movies on radio since 1971 and have followed your career very closely. I am so glad you are blogging! You are an inspiration to me.

I met a Belgian boy when he was 19 and I was 15. Autumn Leaves was our favorite song when we were in love. Hearing Yves Montand's rendition was just beautiful.

Thank you for the evocation of autumn. It has always been my favorite season and the REAL BEGINNING of the year. Oddly enough, I grew up in south Florida. Autumn was hardly noticed except by ladies wearing their fur coats in the Fontainebleau Hotel and perhaps to synagogue for the Jewish New Year.

I'm retired now at age 70. My husband and I still watch many of the older movies that I missed and also those that I remember with much adoration. All the best from an elderly admirer!

Ellen Kimball
Portland, OR
@Radio_Lady: Is there anyone on the planet who doesn't know my radio and TV story? Photos here, too. http://bit.ly/15mOuh

Ebert: What a career.

Dear Roger,
I loved the comment about revising AP and UPI stories for the Big 10 brief. Fall was the best time of year when I was working at my first job as a reporter. I would rework high school football stories from a local paper for an even more local paper while sitting nestled in a spare desk in the back of an antique store named The Golden Goose; the smell of freshly fallen leaves mingled with old books...heavenly!
Thanks for the post,
Jim

No problem, Roger, with your four picks for "Autumn Leaves" renditions-terrific versions. However, for those of us who spent the late forties and early fifties on West 52nd Street, a taste of the interpretations by Stan Getz and Chet Baker/Paul Desmond and Cannonball/Miles would offer a nice counterpoint.

Btw, had occasion a few (2-3?) years ago to watch THAT Roger play the number and openly tell us how much it contributed to his well-being.

Ebert wrote: You help so much for me to better understand this powerful actor.

You're welcome! I'd have shared that stuff about Tom Hardy sooner, but I knew you hadn't seen "Bronson" yet, and I didn't want anything to potentially get in the way of it, you know?

Had Tom possessed fewer strengths of character, his weaker ones would have got the better of him...

"By his own admission, Tom Hardy's favourite subject is himself. "I make no bones about it," he says. "Actors, like all artists, are deeply self-interested. But I'm also aware of how unimportant I am. In the majority of actors, there are battles between massive egos and low self-esteem..."

"Hardy is certainly a man of grand statements and unusual frankness. He explains that he's never felt comfortable in his own skin and that his good looks have felt more of a hindrance than a help. "If anything, it was an impediment being a pretty boy. When I was a kid, people thought I was a girl but I wanted to be strong, to be a man. My vulnerabilities were permanently on show when I was young. I had no skin as a kid. Now I'm covered in tattoos."

"I always had a sense of shame about being privileged," he admits. "It's taken me a long time to realize that it's OK to be from East Sheen, that it's OK to be a public school boy. It's not where you're from, it's where you're at."

"I went entirely off the rails and I'm lucky I didn't have some terrible accident or end up in prison or dead - because that's where I was going. Now I know my beast and I know how to manage it. It's like living with a 400lb orangutan that wants to kill me. It's much more powerful than me, doesn't speak the same language and it runs around the darkness of my soul." - Tom Hardy, Guardian UK

A privileged pretty boy, that's how he was made to feel. Hardy's response? The yearning to be admired for something else, but then look at the profession he chose and the road he subsequently traveled down? Ironic smile. He's an interesting story, is Tom.

For imagine Bronson had found a way to rescue himself from his monster and be the hero of his own story? And he's the actor who wound-up playing the man he would have been, had he failed? And thus why he was able to play him so well, eh?

"Partly, this increased acceptance of himself has come from becoming a father. Hardy has a one-year-old son Louis with girlfriend Rachael Speed, an assistant director he met on the set of BBC1's The Virgin Queen. "It's no longer about just you. You have to get on with things. I may be working away a lot but I'm working damned hard to make sure my boy is getting everything he needs." And partly, it's because Hardy has, for someone of 31, lived quite a life." - Guardian

So I couldn't share with you, it would have ruined everything! But now that you do know, it can add another layer to the performance and make it even richer. :)

However, for a while there during your comment, I didn't see any way for you to end up with *chuckle*

Brimstone and treacle, Roger! A spoonful of sugar and all that. My *chuckle* is often code for "all is well" if not perfect. Life may have it's darker moments, but I can still laugh at it and folly too, still take the "pea out" of a thing and poke it, mock it, including myself. It is, quite simply and as best I can represent it with a word, a conspiratorial nudge and knowing glance between myself and the reader.

It's the one thing the spam filter can't thwart. My subtext.

There is a powerful universal force attracting Top Ten lists, one a little like gravity.

I think it's a "winkie thing", myself. I really do! As it's all about the pecking order; where a thing stands and how it rates. (insert chuckle.)

UP, The Hurt Locker, Inglorious Basterds, would be on my list.

@ Randy Master -

"Italy was full of photo ops and tourists. (Milan). I wonder how many people took that picture of the pastries though.."

I've done that! I've got photographs of ice cream and cappuccino and chocolate shops and cheese and wine and stuff. If it's good enough to eat, it's good enough to take a photo! :)

And speaking gelato... "our customers call us "the real deal". It's like reaching across the ocean to a gelateria on the streets of Florence and scooping up all the fresh, creamy, yumminess...!"

http://www.caffegelatochicago.com/

Umm... I want a Panini Prosciutto: Prosciutto, Fresh Mozzarella, topped with Bruschetta Mix - $5.50, and to drink a Lemon San Pellegrino - $2.00 and for desert um, Tiramisù Classico for $5.50.

What are looking at? You can click on a .pdf file and see their menu!

Grin.

Ebert: He reminds me of Oliver Reed, with whom I hoisted a few:

http://j.mp/40l9QN

Away to lower Himalayas for a week. Brrr....it's gonna be cold.

Ebert: Yeah, and it's worse at the top.

Chicago's Spring and Fall are awesome. The Summers and Winters rough, making the Spring and Fall even more appealing. Indeed, in Spring it's as if nature is resurrecting herself, while in the Fall we're resurrecting ourselves.

Ever dressed up for Halloween, Mr. Ebert?(I'm a ghost this year!)

Ebert: Yes, but I have no memory of what I wore.

The midwest in fall. I've seen how you sparkle/when fall nips the air/I know you in autumn/and I must be there. Thanks for the memories.

Love the autumn, not so much the winter though. It was the perfect weekend for leaves on Morristown, TN this weekend out on Cherokee Lake. Great drive from Indiana and back as well. It was a great year for the trees as we got so much rain the past month and the temperatures have been moderate.

Roger,

This piece reminded me so much of one of your former colleague Mike Royko's best columns. I can't remember its title at the moment, but it is a fond connection to make. Sometimes when I read your non-film-related blogs, I think that in a way you are carrying on that great man's legacy.

But, I really just wanted to take this opportunity to say that I look forward to every blog post you make, and to say that I think you are one of my favorite American writers in any medium.

Thanks, I guess.

Ebert: You're welcome, I guess.

I am sandwiched between Roger's beautiful words and Randy Masters' beautiful photos and I am very warm and comfortable, thank you very much. Our weather in the West has been weird all year and usually my large Japanese Maple tree would have glorious colors by now but this year the leaves have done nothing but turn brown, shrivel, and fallen to the ground. The bees left the flowers earlier this year than in past years. Climate change is here and everywhere. Happy Autumn to all who frequent Roger's blogs and talk of times that meant a lot to them, memories are so precious. Thanks to all of you for the smiles and the wistfulness.

Interesting that autumn, the season when nature turns brown and dies, is the season for new beginnings.
For us military brats, autumn was often not just new classes, but new schools and homes, sometimes on the other side of the world. One of the main reasons to insert yourself into the staff of the school paper was to learn quickly about your new home, and also to check out the like-minded reporter girls. School papers were like secret clubs.

As a ninth grader, I'd rather have been creamed by a speeding linebacker than turned down for a slow dance. Did you ever fail to pull the belt, Roger? (That's solely in reference to the football game, btw).

It's the smells you remember. I wonder why that is.

When I was a hopeful dance-attender, there was a particular perfume that all girls my age seemed to wear: "Dream," on-sale at The Gap. It wasn't expensive or even particularly alluring - just a checkout line impulse item, bought alongside armfuls of boot-cut jeans. But whenever I catch that smell, I'm instantly transported back to those darkened gymnasiums, overwhelmed by the electric, exotic sensation of holding a girl close and knowing that she wanted me to. It is the smell of summer crushes, furtive glances, sweating hands, youth, wonder, and possibility.

You write: "Halfway across the floor toward her, you saw her taken into the arms of a rival, and made a studious course correction as if you'd only been walking across the room to get to the other side."

Wonderful line. Thanks for the entry.

Well, the summer months are for getting away. And winter is for staying put. What's in between? The time of getting back together again. That's fall.

I love fall most, not for the settling down into a predictable rhythm but for the searching for that rhythm. Those breathless few weeks early in the season present a certain crispness in the air, and a clarity of the soul.

If I should die, may it be in what we call spring, May, at the true end of things, after learning a final lesson.

The smell of burning leaves brings remembrances of childhood.

alas you go into that good night. The memories are always better than the actual experience anyhow.

"Halfway across the floor toward her, you saw her taken into the arms of a rival, and made a studious course correction as if you'd only been walking across the room to get to the other side."

-guilty.

Hi Roger.

Thank you again for using my pictures to illustrate your excellent article. I'm honored. I've been on Cloud 9 since you put them up!

As an extra bonus this weekend, I scored 3 unexpected tickets to the Illinois - Michigan game tomorrow. I wasn't expecting to go to any games this year.

I will be taking my two sons with me, not only to enjoy a fall day (albeit slightly rainy?) on campus, to fill their heads with dreams. This is a University! So, study hard to get there one day. That's the message. I know that the 16 year-old wants to go like we did one day last year. He wants to see all of the "cute college girls" again. It will be the first trip for the 10 year old.

An adventure is afoot! I can't wait.

Randy

Ebert: If you can, show them the Great Hall of the University Library. Very close to Memorial Stadium. Blew my mind as a kid.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/army_arch/537413237/

One Halloween back in the fifties, my mother made a costume for me. Although we never missed a science fiction or horror film when they came to town, mom decided there was too much emphasis on horror and mayhem and witchery when it came to Halloween. That was the year I went trick or treating as a tree. And not a spectacular elm or spooky post oak, mind you, but just a generic tree, a trunk some branches a few roots trailing down by my tennis shoes. The least she could have done was tell me it was a Triffid and give me one of those lash like zappers that every good Triffid used to make a "sap" out of humans. Nope, I was just a tree. With very little movement to my outstretched arms so that if another kidwished they could grab the goodies out of my plastic jack o lantern and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I was robbed blind by Caspar the less than friendly ghost and Wendy the (not so) Good Witch.
Worse was being chased home by pack of terriers, a boxer, and a chow all of them trying to mark their territory on my trunk.
I love Autumn but sometimes October and not April can be the cruelest month of the year.
Be blessed folks.
K.

I get this same feeling of nostalgia for autumn, but unfortunately it's almost entirely based on other people's experiences. Fall doesn't really happen in Saskatchewan. For instance, a month ago it was 30 degrees (celsius) outside, and now there's almost a foot of snow right outside my door.

Ebert: Must be chilly at the beach.

Every fall I have the urge to buy crayons & #2 pencils.

The poem posted by Patrick F. was one of my favorites as a child. Here is another. The author is Rose Fyleman.

October
The summer is over,
The trees are all bare,
There is mist in the garden and frost in the air.
The meadows are empty
And gathered the sheaves-
But isn't it lovely kicking up leaves!

John from the garden
Has taken the chairs;
It's dark in the evening
And cold on the stairs.
Winter is coming and everyone grieves-
But isn't it lovely kicking up leaves!

Thanks for your comment, it meant a lot. For some reason, the easiest things for me to write about have always been either painful personal experiences or anything that makes me angry. Not that your entry pissed me off, but you know what I mean.

On a sidenote, I went ahead and picked up the PG-13 version DVD of "Sugar." I haven't had a chance to watch it yet, but I'm definitely looking forward to it. I didn't think of it when I bought it, but I realized afterwards that it's the perfect time of year to see it - two of the players quoted on the box are currently playing in the World Series.

On another sidenote (last one), I just read your review of "Harmony and Me" and it sounds intriguing. I've been a little skeptical of the mumblecore movement - I enjoyed "Humpday," but if I had to choose, I'd much rather spend time with the characters in "I Love You, Man" - but recently I saw a film that made me think maybe there was more to it than self-absorbed navel-gazing. "Nights and Weekends," directed by Joe Swanson, was genuinely moving. It was a very simple story - basically just the ups and downs between one couple - but I was surprised by how much it affected it me. Do you have an opinion on the mumblecore films? I can't think of more than a small handful that you've reviewed, but most of them seemed to be positive.

Re: Nelson Algren/Autumn/Richard Brautigan/Halloween

My all time cult favorite Brautigan writes:

Trout Fishing in America Shorty appeared last autumn in San Francisco, staggering around in a chrome-plated wheelchair. He
was a legless, screaming middle age wino. He descended upon North Beach like a chapter from the Old Testament. He was the reason
birds migrate in the autumn. They have to. He was the cold turning of the earth; the bad wind that blows off the sugar.

He would stop children in the street and say to them,"I ain't got no legs. The trout chopped my legs off in Fort Lauderdale. You got your legs. The trout didn't chop your legs off. Wheel me into that store over there." The kids, embarrassed and frightened, would wheel him in. It would always be a store that sold good wine. And then he'd have the kids wheel him out and he'd start drinking right there on the street just like he was Winston Churchill.

After awhile, the children would run and hide when they saw him coming. "I pushed him last week." "I pushed him yesterday." They would hide behind garbage cans as he staggered by. The kids would hold their breath until he was gone.

...A friend and I got to talking about Trout Fishing in America Shorty one afternoon. We decided the best thing to do was pack him in a big shipping crate with a couple of cases of sweet wine and send him to Nelson Algren.

Nelson Algren is always talking about Railroad Shorty, the hero of the "Neon Wilderness"...The destoyer of Dove Linkham in "A Walk on the Wildside." We thought Algren would be the perfect caretaker for Shorty. Maybe a museum might be started. He could be the first piece in an important collection.

We would nail him up in the crate and send him with a big label on it.

Contents!
Trout Fishing in America Shorty
Occupation
Wine
Address:c/o Nelson Algren. Chicago. And there would be stickers all over:

GLASS/HANDLE WITH CARE/GLASS/DON'T SPILL/THIS SIDE UP/HANDLE THIS WINO LIKE HE WAS AN ANGEL

And Trout Fishing in America Shorty wondering what it was all about, would travel on, shouting, "Where in the hell am I? Who turned out the lights? Can't see to open this bottle. F**k this motel. I have to take a leak. Where's my key?"

Fortunately for Algren, Shorty never got shipped to Chicago.

Wondered if he ever remarked on his close call?

Do we reminisce about misery as well? Or is there another word for that?
Ebert: The agonizing bitterness of inward wit, or something like that.

Would that be "agonbite of inwit", from James Joyce's Ulysses? I've never really been clear on the meaning of that phrase.

Ebert: Here you go:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agenbite_of_inwit

Your commentaries on film will be consulted, I believe, for as long as people watch movies. Your essays on life will last even longer. Two or three months ago you wrote "I am at the end of my life." Reading that made me sad (not least because I'm almost the same age as you). And so, every Friday morning I come to the computer anxious to see that there are new Roger Ebert reviews and perhaps a new essay. You continue to enrich my life, so hang in there.

Roger, I get a rush of excitement each time I see that you have written another entry. This is my first time commenting on your insightful and thought-provoking journal...needless to say, I have been a very, very shy lurker. And yet this post has prompted something within me, prompted me to take a step forward, prompted me to finally make a comment. Perhaps it's the idea of nostalgia or the inevitability of change that always moves me...especially as I sit looking out my window at the changing color of the fall leaves. Wonderful entry...thank you for sharing it with us.

Ebert: Don't be a stranger with your posts.

Fall for me is like no other season. I always enjoyed going back to school, the cooler days, and (when I was a child as this is long since disallowed) raking up leaves with my friends and burning them in the street. There is no other smell. I also enjoyed all the other things of fall, but I think burning leaves might be my single favorite memory, maybe because I haven't smelled the smell of burning leaves for a very long time now. Thanks very much! Great essay!

Hi Roger. Last month you wrote me a short poem about farting and molten shit. I showed it to my mom and now she's going to print it and put it on the fridge for my grandma to see.

Happy Halloween!

Ebert: Readers: It's the perfect Halloween gift for every grandmother:

A gaseous young man named Coltin
Contained copious bacterial flagellin.
At the gastro-internist
He farted in earnest,
And was shot full of cheap penicillin.

Autumn has almost always been my favourite season; the dead leaves and grey skies seem to suit my mood. I'm not sure if that's a good thing. But the sound of rain, traffic on wet roads, the crunch of those leaves underfoot and the glow of the sun through the skeletal branches against a dim sky are all pleasing to me on a sensory level. I guess it's at this time that I feel most at home, which is why if I ever left England, it would likely be for a place of similar climes.
I also wonder, when kids are not playing with their phones, do they still collect conkers?

This reminds me!

Roger, I love your writing and have been a fan for years. Years and years and years ago, you wrote a column in a similar vein. It began with you listening to a man using a leaf blower and lamenting its use. You went on to extoll the rake and finally talking about gathering a small pile of leaves to burn in a small act of revolution against the laws against it. Sprinkled in between were notes about the smell of leaves burning being the signal for mom's call to come in, etc.

An amazing piece of writing that I cannot find anywhere. I thank you for this piece (and BEG you to reprint the piece I'm writing about--circa 1999?). If anyone out there recognizes this, please contribute.

Ebert: It's going up on the site in a few days.

Sorry to post two comments, but this White Stripes song, "We're Going To Be Friends" comes to mind:
tinyurl.com/2m776b

“I know it's not PC. I know I'm wrong. I know. I know. But damn it all, I miss him.” – Roger on Twitter

Immediately curious, as you don’t say “who” you miss, I clicked on the provided link and watched the clip showing the last dance of Chief Illiniwek Illinois at the start of a basketball game. I then headed over to Wiki to get up to speed as to all the particulars involved regarding the issue.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chief_Illiniwek

You can’t treat someone badly back in the day and then appropriate what you liked about them later on, and in a totally “cherry picked” sort of way – as Chief Illiniwek was generally portrayed by a white student dressed in Sioux regalia, performing a mock-war dance.

That said, it was pretty cool! I can see why folks liked the Chief. It’s a shame they weren’t able to arrive at some of sort of compromise. Toss out the stuff that offends, keep the stuff that doesn’t.

“The Peoria Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma are the closest living descendants of the Illiniwek Confederacy, having been relocated to Oklahoma in the 19th century.” – wiki

So those are the guys who got initially screwed, yes? Their ancestors? And the mascot Chief Illinwek is dressed in Sioux regalia?

“In 2005, a new Chief, John P. Froman, when asked his position by the NCAA, indicated that "the Chief was not representative of our tribe and culture, mainly because the costume is Sioux." In 2006, in response to a widely published column by journalist George Will in support of the symbol's use, he wrote a letter reiterating the Peoria Tribe's opposition to the symbol and decrying that the "University of Illinois has ignored the tribe’s request for nearly five years."

Well then, there ya go! You guys should have changed the costume from Sioux to Peoria, but only if they didn’t mind having it used in connection with sporting events. And maybe if the University had simply asked “nicely” and for their help to design the new mascot, while establishing a scholarship for Native American Peoria students (you can’t turn back time, but you can behave better now, etc ) and for acting in good faith, maybe the other side would have met you half-way, and you’d still have this cool mascot to help energize the fans and support the teams and stuff like that.

Not that you asked for my opinion, but you did post it up on Twitter, so…. Smile.

Along with this: a Sneak peek at "Transformers 3" - Roger

OMG! That was both funny and really frightening at the same time. Chuckle!

You also Twittered this: “It's a small world after all. Move the slider…” – Roger

I did! I did move the slider and holy cow! Okay; that’s what I’m doing inside my head, every time I ask myself “why?” Every time I look beneath the surface of something. That’s why everything connects for me. I CAN SEE THAT IT DOES! Right down to the atomic level!

And awesome! As now I can refer the slider thingy! And you’ll totally get where I’m coming from, and what the f*ck I’m talking about! Laugh!

“What are you talking about? How do you arrive at that?” – Roger
“I used the slider, dude.” – Marie

I’m really glad I clicked on that Twitter button on this page, now.

Ebert wrote: “He reminds me of Oliver Reed, with whom I hoisted a few.”

Oh hey! Reed! Yes, you’re right! I can totally see that. Actor Tom Hardy does have that sort of quality about him, too. I’d never read your interview with Reed and so enjoyed the trip back in time. And yeah, Richard Harris “always pushing” – chuckle.

I wasn’t there but I caught the tail end of that world, such as you could find it in classical animation. I don’t miss the lingering political incorrectness or any of that crap. But I do miss being around people who weren’t afraid to call you out, and tell it like it is. I like diplomacy, but it can also be hypocrisy in disguise, you know? People who just say what they think can come across as rude and boorish but at least you know where you stand. And so which is better, eh..?

He doesn’t openly offend, his manners are impeccable, but he’s a duplicitous two-faced weasel.
He’s rough around the edges, coarse, and doesn’t tippy toe; but God dammit, you know where that man stands.

A perfect man of course, combines the best of both. Aka: James Stewart. He was totally genuine. I can still remember him reciting some of his poems on the Tonight Show. One in particular was about this crazy Irish Setter they had. I wonder if that’s online…? Miss Marple puts on her hat…

SCORE! Johnny Carson 1981 - Jimmy Stewart - Beau Poem:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUNJjIwlHk8

Reaching now for Kleenex as Stewart has made me cry; blowing nose etc.

There’s a universal truth at work in Stewart’s poem. Everything that lives has feelings, too. And everything sighs, and needs a comforting hand at times. He wasn’t my dog moreover, but I miss him too now.

Ebert wrote: “Yes, but I have no memory of what I wore.”

You don’t remember a single Halloween costume?!

Well, we’ll have to pick one for you! And you won’t be able to say “I never wore that!” because how would you know? Grin.

I think you went as Frankenstein, one year! Because you saw Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein when you were 8 years old – so that would have given you the idea, later on, even though at the time the movie freaked you out and stuff.

@ DCGeek wrote on October 30, 2009 10:30 AM

“It's the smells you remember. I wonder why that is.”

Of all the five senses: sight, touch, taste, sound – “scent” allows you to identify a thing without putting yourself at risk. It’s why animals sniff the air. It’s why so much information is contained on a tree or lamp post. I knew something was wrong, I could smell it. That’s where that comes from. Things smell good or bad for a reason. If it smells bad, you probably shouldn’t eat or drink it etc.

I’ve heard of cases wherein dogs have been able to “smell” certain cancers growing in people, too.

And now I’m flashing back to a film called “Perfume: The Story of a Murderer” by Tom Tykwer and about an olfactory genius, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille (Ben Whishaw) and his homicidal quest for the perfect scent.

It filled me with shocked wonder and awe and I wept for the birth of him and the world into which he’d entered. I empathized to the point where my heart was breaking and while disgusted by his behavior, loved every single frame of it. I used to collect rare, antique perfume bottles. And play with the alchemy of creating scents. I understood the character – without “being” him.

What a thing if they could capture the scent of “October” and pour it into a bottle, eh? Now there’s a project! Faintly decomposing flora and fauna, a dash of ammonia, earth, tree bark, chestnuts, old books and leather… extract the scents and chill it. A perfume you can’t wear, just smell as it needs to be cold or the scent changes to rot. October is the smell of death approaching, when it still smells pleasant. Chuckle!

I have to say, I wasn't much impressed with "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" the first two times I read it (in high school and college), but perhaps that's because I didn't have a Spoken Voice version to listen to. Or maybe I understand it more now than I did back then (though I still have many nooks and crannies to explore). Back in college, I preferred "The Waste Land" because it was the first poem (and still the only poem) I've read that I had to analyze in order to understand its meaning. And when I finally figured out what the poem was about (more an idea than a concept I can explain), it was such an "a-ha" moment, and opened my eyes to all the beauty contained within Eliot's words, that...well, I can't describe the feeling. Hopefully, someday, I will be able to.

I was in marching band in high school (college, too), and autumn was when we would go to band competitions to perform. Looking back at those times now, they were some of my happiest childhood memories. The rush when we yelled, "Hut!" when coming to attention (never mind the rush of performing), and knowing when we finished how well or how badly we had performed, individually and collectively. While performing, wearing gloves with the finger-holes cut out of them (for playing clarinet). After the performance, watching the other bands from cold bleacher seats or from the cold ground, hand warmers in our gloves and foot warmers in our shoes, with blankets wrapped around us (in some cases the blankets were shared).

And then other memories with the band. Playing our school fight song at games, and how much I wished we had our own fight song, instead of "When the Saints Go Marching In." Going to the Big E, the smell of fried dough in the air. Friday night football games and sundaes at Friendly's afterwards. And at Friendly's, those IQ peg games, where you tried to leave only one peg left. One of my friends taught me the trick to that game there. And one time, we went to Denny's, instead, probably because Friendly's was crowded.

Winter, on the other hand, reminds me of heartbreak. My first crush. My first rejection (I still have the letter). I had a breakup in autumn, too, but there was always the homecoming dance in October, and every year that I went (all but one dateless), I always danced the last song with the girl I liked best at the time. Not to mention that New England is gorgeous in fall (Seattle's not too bad, either--just arrived here last week).

Well, to prevent this comment from being as long as your post, I'll only add two more things. One is that the direct translation of "Les Feuilles Mortes" is "Leaves Die," whereas in "Autumn Leaves," the line is "leaves start to fall," which proves that, once again, the French language conveys subtleties that are lost in translation. Still, both versions are such melancholic songs! Melancholic, but beautiful.

And finally, a selection from my unpublished poem "The Seasons" (imagine said selection is centered).

fall

the world dies
as leaves fall from trees
like tears and the sun
becomes a little less bright,
a little less warm.
the days become shorter
and nights become longer.
the animals gather food,
the humans gather leaves;
everything is peaceful,
everything is calm.
a cool breeze blows and shakes
the remaining leaves off from their great height,
spreading them far and wide
to where some animals sleep,
awaiting the approaching winter.

Hi Roger, I've only recently discovered this trove of Ebert treasure and am completely charmed. I feel as though I've wandered into a Master Class and casually invited to stay. And it's such a joy to discover the perfect jumble of clips to cap off your heart-felt sharing. A suggestion: I've never forgotten your written review of "Stormy Monday" for its evocative text. It would be great to see it repeated here. It would fit in very nicely in the trove for those who likely missed it in its first incarnation. Many thanks for your contribution to literacy (and sheer joy) on the net.

Ebert: That's one of my own favorites.

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/19880506/REVIEWS/805060305/1023

Re--There is a powerful universal force attracting Top Ten lists, one a little like gravity.
--I think it's a "winkie thing", myself. I really do! As it's all about the pecking order; where a thing stands and how it rates. (insert chuckle.)

Charlize Theron was a bit mannish in "Monster."

Oh, it's Hallowe'en and I'm alone. Catt's off with the grandkids and I have to watch the horses. But I do not fear the ghosties. I fear not seeing them. Maybe I'll drive into town later and see if there's a parade or something. I do miss the kiddies in their costumes and enthusiasm.

Outside my big picture window just now -- somewhat smudged by horse noses -- is that big snow covered mountain whose name I still haven't asked anybody, and between me and the crest of it, brown earth dotted by juniper, pinon pine and cactus rolling along into a crescendo a couple dozen miles away and upward.

There are birds of different sizes hopping and twittering all around the open front door, pecking up the sunflower seeds scattered from those horses' big generous traps out of my hands. If there's anywhere in the world one can sit quietly while a wild bird lights on one's knee for a bit, there's no better spot.

They're all beautiful and I know the names of only three of them... wrens, I think, and ravens. Oh yes, and a few straggling hummingbirds, plus the hawks, which keep their distance. The other birds, some with crests on their heads, are smattered with patterns of blues and reds and yellows. Just this moment one flew into the house and out again. They do that often. The air breezing through the open door is chilly.

There's sufficient deciduous foliage here to go walking among the red and yellow turned leaves; they're out of my immediate sight through the big window, but as I grew up doing that, this sight and the ice on the ground will do. The cider here is also good. I let it ferment a few days so it's a little effervescent. I won't be making pumpkin liquor, Marie, but remember tomorrow, if you have a place to do it, bury a hollowed-out pumpkin filled with cider and sugar, let it freeze until January, and see if it works. It's worth the small trouble.

Yesterday the chimney sweeps came by. The Franklin stove was choked with smoke and dust from too much soft pine wood last year. We could have had a chimney fire, the sweep said -- he was just like a chimney sweep, face and hands smeared coal-black. Yes, I said, I was thinking of actually doing that to clean the thing out. He laughed.

I drive out the driveway to meet my neighbor driving in. We stop. "Why aren't you freezing," he calls out, all bundled up in one of those L.L. Bean type winter coats. "I'm a Yankee," I call back. "But you're from California," he replies, wondering about me in my t-shirt and him in his pillow-ish get-up. Wrong, lately of Southern Arizona, but I call back "once a Yankee, always a Yankee." True. I even wear sandals in the snow out here, unless I'll be out for hours.

On the way home from an errand, a magical little event, maybe as only can happen in "the Land of Enchantment," which it is. A little man standing at the side of the road by his beat up old truck full of firewood, while a customer loads up half of it. I want the other half.

The little old man not only doesn't speak english, he hardly speaks Spanish. It's a combination of his tribal language and probably what spanish his ancestors learned from the Catholics who came to convert or conquer them, depending on how valuable their land was deemed to be.

Besides this, he is entirely illiterate, perhaps the first honestly illiterate individual I've ever met in my life. He wanted $80 for half-a-truckload of cedar firewood, the customer told me, who'd already bargained with him in pidgin-spanish. "Ochenta?" I said, gesturing to the old man. "Si, Ochenta," he said.

The other customer asks him his name -- "Que is su nomee," he fumbles, mixing Godfather Italian with Spanish," then writes him a check. The old man shows the check to me and points to the number. "Ochenta?" he asks. "Si, Ochenta," I say. Then I hand him four twenties.

Confused by the four bills, he stammers "que es eso?" I count... "veinte, cuarenta, seis... "Ah, si," he says, a little embarrassed, shuffling the bills quickly into his pocket. He's note familiar with the figure "20." We unload the rest of his truck bed into mine, while he narrates in a language I understand only vaguely. Happy, he's ready to go home with an empty truck and full pocket, me happy me with a load of hard cedar, clean burning, fragrant. We pretend to understand each other a little more. Thinking he's saying thanks for the business, I reply "Igual, senor!" He squints a moment, and says "Igual" back.

A medium-size gray bird has just hopped into the house, and kitty is quite fascinated with that. The birds know all about her, and they tease her. Once in awhile they lose the game.

Ebert: This should be the Longest Thread. One great post after another. But all the same...

Tom! Pull on your boots! You'll catch your death of cold.

Off the top of your head, what movies capture beautifully the feeling of autumn, or the change from summer into autumn? Especially the red-gold autumn of leafy dreamworld suburban American?

Ebert: It's more off the top of Amazon's head:

http://www.amazon.com/Movies-in-AUTUMN/lm/2378ZIUVBIY2R

Just wanted to make a correction to my last comment. I said "Nights and Weekends" was directed by Joe Swanson. It's actually Joe Swanberg, and it was co-directed by Greta Gerwig.

Great post,though. This has been mentioned before, often by you, but I'm enjoying reading the readers' posts as much as your original entries. Between Randy Masters' photos, Marie Haws' enthusiastic musings, and Tom Dark's extremely evocative post near the end (it really made me feel like I was there), and the many others, one could easily lose a day just browsing in here. Or, like I'm about to do, be late for work. Anyway, thanks for writing, and keep it coming.

Tom! Pull on your boots! You'll catch your death of cold.

---What are "boots"? You must be one o' them there city folks.

Dear Roger,

Neither you nor most of you readers will be impressed when I brag that the big sugar maples in my yard and my neighbours' were still goldenthis morning. My ancient elm is still green and, for a while at least, witholding its leaves from the gale that is blowing through here. The birches are still a bright yellow.

What's so impressive about that? When I was growing up in Crafron, Pennsylvania it was just about Halloween that the trees got into serious leaf shedding. But I live in Western Québec now, and when I first came here in 1974, virtually all of the trees were nude by the second week of October. And it was around then that people stopped burning leaves. And still the climate grew warmer and now Western Québec will remain at least partly green on Remembrance Day.

When I was a boy there would be one or two weekends each fall when you could climb a nearby hill and look down upon the community enshrouded in the bittersweet smoke from the small piles of burning leaves in front of everyone's house. It was an incense that we offered up to the gods of Joy in gratitude, es, for the beauty of the fall but also for summers of then-recent memory that used to be so free. But then our burnt offerings ceased and, from what I understand, childrens' summer vacations are nothing at all like those we had in Crafton fifty years ago.

But the fall remains as beautiful as ever.

@ Keith Carrizosa - "Charlize Theron was a bit mannish in "Monster."

I think Top 10 lists are kinda like sports statistics, myself. And that it relates to measuring a thing by comparing it to another.

Otherwise, such lists would appear as a circle. :)

Marie Haws wrote, "Of all the five senses: sight, touch, taste, sound – “scent” allows you to identify a thing without putting yourself at risk."

Interesting idea, but surely vision and hearing both work at long enough distances to be similarly useful. Hearing has the additional virtue of being passive. We hear even when asleep, and our brains sometimes construct -- in the brief moment between the stimulus and our reaching consciousness -- complex dreams to explain a noise which our ears heard.

All this talk of autumn makes me think of Emily Dickinson, who surely suffered from seasonal affective disorder (among other things), and Marie's observation specifically makes me think of my favorite of her poems (#340 in R. W. Franklin's 1996 numbering and beginning "I felt a Funeral -- in my Brain"). In it, she describes a situation that must be what she felt like when she believed she had gone mad (temporarily). Towards the end of the poem, she describes being reduced to nothing but an ear:

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space ⎯ began to toll

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here ⎯

To see herself as the same "Race" as "Silence" is a stunning conception. Silence has no defense against sound; the entire universe is crashing in on her -- BONG! BONG! -- and she cannot protect herself because she (her "Being") is nothing but "an Ear." She has no hands to cover herself with. Chilling. But, finally,

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down ⎯
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing ⎯ then ⎯

Reason, which she sees as identical to the soul (Emersonian that she is), mercifully ends, and with the end of reason come new worlds of perception. I always ask my students to read those lines aloud. They start by saying it "And finished knowing then." Then, I ask again, and someone changes to "And finished knowing . . . then." Finally, they get to "And finished knowing . . . THEN . . ." The "THEN" is crucial. Something comes after the "knowing," but what it is cannot be transmitted through language, and so the poem falls into silence. However, because of the dash, the silence is actually part of the poem, rather than just lying beyond it. No wonder Hart Crane addressed Dickinson in a poem as " O sweet, dead, Silencer."

As for smell, I think the connection to memory is quite literal. As I understand anatomy, the nerve bundle that allows for the sense of smell is directly connected to the brain, indeed can be seen as the only part of the brain that is directly exposed to the outside world. No wonder that scent is the sense most evocative of memory. Now and forever, Roger and his burning leaves will be right up there with Proust and his madeleine, or in my own life the smells of chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack, of marinated lamb cooking on a skewer over charcoal, and the smells of books: the oddly clean chemical smell of newly printed books, the smell of the glue used in cheap paperbacks, the musty smell of old books, the warm, organic smell of leather-bound books.

Tonight is October 31st and I think we all know what that means!

"Each year, the Great Pumpkin rises out of the pumpkin patch he feels is the most sincere.." - Linus Van Pelt

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiSIQzwIPzQ

And I believe in the Great Pumpkin, too! And I just wanted to post that, because I heard a rumor that you-know-who is using technology now to check up on people. :)

Ebert: My special Halloween gift to readers:

http://j.mp/UznvX

The voice of Yves Montand brings joy into my heart this evening Roger. I too love the seasons of change and the memories of days long forgotten; the college mixer, the football games and the wonderful expanse of time and space that is one's youth.

Judy Shuster

It is almost November. Last November we suddenly lost a friend who probably blew his own hole in the ozone with his passing -- Danny Miller, chair of the then Literature and Language Dept at NKU.

Please be patient, I have a tie in to Roger's blog.

This is Danny, or a picture and some info

http://english.nku.edu/people/dannymiller/voices.php

On another Ebert blog entry, I forget which one, I noticed Lynne Jordan and scratched my head. Where do I know this name. I had saved a link from one of the tributes to Danny last year. In it a friend had talked about a party where everyone had to bring something. Danny brought this

http://www.lynnejordan.com/

and I copied and saved it to my bookmark list. It is cued to the song I Will Survive

At any rate, I wish to thank Lynne Jordan for her music and wanted to share a little of Danny with you all. The last time I spent any time with him it was autumn, perhaps 2006. Halloween is such a good time to summon Appalachian spirits.

Ebert: Lynne is so good. Often appears at Green Dolphin Street here in Chicago.

Ebert: Readers:

Ebertfest passes go on sale November 1.

http://www.ebertfest.com/tickets_passes.html

What a beautiful fall day to be on the Illinois campus with my two boys today. (Pictures soon...) The Quad is one of my favorite places on earth, and to be there with my boys - awesome!

And what a great day to be in Memorial Stadium! A victory over Michigan at home - it doesn't get much better than that. (Sorry Dave Van Dyke) A little victory dance...Oskee Wow Wow.

Ebert: It is better to defeat Michigan than to defeat anybody else.

I'm in for EbertFest! My pass is bought...now I can go to sleep and get my extra hour tonight as I turn back the clock...zzzzzzz

What a day!

Since early adulthood, my mental health has settled into a precarious rythym with the seasons. For whatever reason, the chemicals in my brain work in inverse to most Seasonal Anxiety Disorder sufferers; Spring and Summer mean anxiety and depression, the coloring of the leaves a return to calm, upbeat clearheadedness. There is something still and peaceful about the shorter days and seemingly longer months that autumn and winter entail. Until late April or early May, I am myself again.

Ebert: For me, it's a slog from Thanksgiving to Easter.

@Marie Haws
I know nothing of Iggy Pops’ music, but I remember a few interesting facts about him. We were talking about The Doors the other day. Everyone remembers the Morrison era Doors, but few people remember that The Doors released two albums after his death—Ray Manzarek, a good singer, did the vocals. Yet they needed someone to spice things up. Iggy Pop seemed like the man for the job, but things fell apart in negotiations.

There’s a movie that Mr Ebert hated and I loved called “Dead Man.” Quite a cast with Johnny Depp in the lead role, although I think he plays the part more like he’s the supporting actor for Gary Farmer. Depp doesn’t seem to have an ego problem—one of the things I like about him. Anyway, Iggy played an interesting bit part in it for about five minutes. Lots of dialogue on his part. He would have made a fine actor.

Autumn is my favorite season. My wife hates it, because she knows that Winter is coming. She doesn't like the dark days, or the cold. I am forever in love with the colors and aromas of Autumn. I haven't forgotten the feeling of burying my face in oak leaf piles and drinking in the heady fragrance. Autumn is the time that the apples are ready to be picked. I live near an orchard and I eagerly anticipate this time of year. Well, I'm waxing.
I listened to a lot of recordings by Yves Montand on ***ster. They were amazing - what a talent!
Lastly, and un-related-ly, thanks for the nice salute to Lou Jacobi. I have recently happened upon "Roseland" a few times on cable. It's an interesting movie, and his performance certainly added to its interest. Of course, I'll never forget him/her(?) in Woody Allen's "Everything You Ever...."
Enjoy this beautiful time of year.
Robert

A very evocative piece Mr Ebert.
"...for nothing is easier for a teenager to imagine than rejection."
beautiful, just beautiful...

Mr. Ebert,

Bill Watterson once wrote that he was astounded at what people would share with him. He was a stranger to almost everyone due to his private nature and his unwillingness to market his most famous product to his syndicate. I find it amazing how open you are with every aspect of your life you choose to share. Where Watterson was introverted personally but put his intimate thoughts into his work you seem to live in public without hesitation. Thank you for sharing. You're a tremendous writer, not just a movie critic, but a truly great writer.

Autumn is certainly my favorite time of year. I always hated school because of my love for the out of doors. As I grew into a young man the Pittsburgh Steelers always took the field in September and watching and listening to games with my grandfather and then my friends became what's become a life-long love of sport and the way it can bring people together. I learned all the good stuff associated with sports and none of the bad todays parents seem to embrace (fights, harassing coaches and other players). I had good parents, the best really. Fall reminds me of that time. I still remember the autumn day I listened to a song called "alive" by Pearl Jam and I can still smell the leaves burning through the open window in my room. It's amazing what triggers those memories.

Thank you.

Hey Roger, What a gift to read this morning about Urbana High, the Tiger's Den, and your incipient romances. You do know that there were kids who didn't even go to the Den for fear of rejection!
On another note, Steve S. contacted me through your blog and we have been reminiscing over many e-mails. What a treat.

Ebert: It look a lot of nerve. Some nights it would get too much for me and I'd dash around the block to the Princess.

See you at the reunion?

The leaves won't turn for another couple of months where I live, but when they do I'm going to build that small bonfire, and smell, and remember. And I'm going to take my young son with me, and tell him to take his sons and daughters to do the same.

Ebert: It is better to defeat Michigan than to defeat anybody else.

Michigan Law School was three of the coldest years of my life. I was always sick.

Larry Kasdan was winning awards in the Theater Department and I never heard of him.

I think it's better to defeat Notre Dame than to defeat any other university. But that's me.

Thanks for putting Michigan at the top of the list.

For me, this is the song of autumn:

http://popup.lala.com/popup/504684659309372152

In South Korea, Our elementary school year begins in spring. After spring semester(including mid-exam and final-exam) and 2 month of vacation, autumn semester(also including mid-exam and final-exam) begins in late August. And then it is followed by 2-month of vacation and spring semester begins again. Therefore, there was the sense of new beginning to us twice a year. While homeworks given to us at the beginning of vacation were submitted and evaluated, teachers handed out new textbooks for semester. Most of us were happy to begin school life again, and I turned into someone infamous for eccentricity again. Due to my peculiar speech pattern, one of my nicknames was 'textbook guy'. And people still ask me whether I was not born in Korea(of course, I was).

As the time went by, the meaning of spring had been growing stronger to us, while that of fall growing weaker to us. From middle school, summer days were no longer fun, and our study continued even it was summer vacation in theory. We were relieved a little during cold winter days and rewarded with the beginning of new school year. And then we went into study mode again. I read from newspapers that it is harsher time for students now. Parents, rich or poor, want their children to enroll in few famous universities(kind of Korean Ivy League), and tremendous of money and time are spent for entrance examination. The chance is low, but they do not care. That process begins even if they are only elementary school kids, and they continue to study in other places even when the school is over. What do they learn? Well, it is sort of brainwashing. Solving questions in exams and that is all. No thought required. They are very competitive and I respect that, but their money and time and energy are directed to wrong way.

Okay, I think I digressed from main topic, and I have to talk about autumn days now. Korean Thanksgiving Holiday comes around September or October(same to any Asian countries using lunar calendar). While colliding with solar calender, it is disappointing sometimes. Whenever we realize, like this year, 3-day holiday will be overlapped with weekend, we are very disgruntled. However, it is always good to see family members again, so people return to their hometown like any other years.

And then there is always traffic jam along major highways due to grand migration. Fortunately, my trip is light one. I just take one-hour bus trip, but it is still nightmare. First, once my business in campus is over, I pack my luggages quickly as I planned. Second, I call taxi, but taxies are rare to be called in that time. Third, even though I manage to get to bus station by taxi, there are so many people in bus terminal. Fourth, this will never happen in US, I am usually on foot in bus to Jeonju, crammed with other people just like sardines in the can. Fifth, it is supposed to be one-hour trip, but never during Thanksgiving holidays. This year, while I was ruminating on my situation(on foot, again) in bus trapped on highway, "Planes, Trains & Automobiles" came to my mind. I watched the movie again at my home, and wrote the review later. My conclusion: whatever our people had to endure during Thanksgiving holidays, all are nothing compared to what happened in that movie. To us, even when the worst thing happens, the trip ends within a day or half-day.


I am lucky because most of my parents' family members live not far from our home. Some live in the same city, and others live nearby. As usual, my family visited Grandmother's home in small town not far from Jeonju. There is small main street for post office, bank, police station, and shops, not so different from what you saw in "Mother". Grandmother's community is located about 5km from this area. I do not know much about her neighbors, but I heard somehow all are related(well, their last names are all same). We finish our ceremony for dead family members in the morning, and then we go to the other places. Before noon, we visit tombs, including Grandfather's.

Meanwhile, I noticed that our time with grandma has been gotten shorter and shorter. It reminds me of "Still Walking". We are far more lively and open and frank, but there is always something we will not talk. By the way, I found there are two devils to AA if AA is religion. Irish drinking culture is western one, and Korean drinking culture is eastern one. If you decide not to drink at all, there are always awkwardness and silent pressure from family and peers. My solution was 2-L apple juice, which looks like beer in color.

Now, a month passed. it is November and I recently notice color of leaves is changed. There are dried leaves everywhere, and we won't mind about buring leaves. I smell it sometimes. This change is later than I thought this year and I instantly worry about global warming. Nevertheless, we can still see these beautiful colors in forests. Maple trees turn red, maidenhair trees turn yellow, other broadleaf trees turn brown, and needle-leaf trees stay green. And I decided it was right time to re-visit Hitchcock's "Trouble with Harry".

I went to my home last weekend, and I went hiking with my father on Saturday. It was pretty much like my writing process. I struggled to get up early in the morning, but climbing mountain was easier than I thought. We arrived at the peak, and I felt good just like finishing my writings. I regretted about not bringing digital camera. The scenery viewd from the peak(about 700m) was one of the most beautiful things I have seen this year. By the way, climbing down the mountain was not easy at all, just like checking my drafts. Few hours later at home, I had pains in my muscles and joints. There is fun, and then there is price. I have fun with writing comments in your blog, and then I was overwhelmed with correctness even after submitting it.

Happy Hallowmas, Mr. Ebert. Your autumn recollections are maybe specific but ignite memories of others. And Photos from Mr. Masters are joy to behold. There are some photos taken at my campus during these autumn days, and I'd like to show you plain autumn days in Korean campus with few of my amateurish pictures. I am not sure whether you can see my photolog, but here is my link. There are also pictures of kittens and other things, but don't bother with them.
http://kaist455.egloos.com/photo/50134

P.S.

1. I purchased $125 Ebertfest ticket today. It seems I will have to obtain my ticket at the box office in the next year. However, I am very suspicious because ticket purchase looks like only for US users.

2. Watching John Carpenter's "Halloween" last week inspired me to borrow your phrase. Don't hack. I want to be scared. Don't chop.

3. @ Marie Haws
I got "Bronson" and I am going to see it soon.

Ebert: You're coming?!? Passes are for sale to anyone, but I will have them e-mail you directly to confirm.

I'm thinking of putting together a panel discussion with a title something like "The Global Community of Film Lovers," including some blog posters from opverseas (I so far know of three coming) and some non-U.S. directors or other guests.

You have great taste in movies. I spotted two titles by Bahrani.

I scrolled to the right: http://kaist455.egloos.com/photo/50134

Ebert: I urge readers to start at this page of [Richard Nanian's] blog: http://j.mp/3k5Mos And keep clicking "Next."

LJK: I just did, and it's great. I already know I will return to it over and over.

Bad news for Mr. Ebert's readers:

http://www.thespoof.com/news/spoof.cfm?headline=s6i62531

Ebert: Keep those cards and letters coming in. PayPal account on request.

I wish I could find again which poet it was that said that autumn was the beginning of resting, and spring was the weary season. But I forgot. Too bad. Also too bad that I didn't get wear my ghost costume as planned yesterday. Curse you, cold and flu season!

Out of curiousity, are going to write an essay like this for EVERY season? You already did one for summer before, now autumn, is winter up next?

Oh, and and does your house pass out candy to trick-o'-treaters?

Can't wait for the individual screening tickets to come out. Ebertfest runs through what'll be my second-to-last week as an undergrad, which means presentations and stuff like that, but a weekend away from the chaos sounds nice.

I only hope Apocalypse Now is one of the things that'll be shown on the weekend.

Ebert: Best to buy your tickets quickly. I think they have a special student price this year. I asked for one.

@ Richard Nanian -

Marie Haws wrote, "Of all the five senses: sight, touch, taste, sound – “scent” allows you to identify a thing without putting yourself at risk."

"Interesting idea, but surely vision and hearing both work at long enough distances to be similarly useful..." - Richard

Useful? Absolutely! However, you can't always trust what you see, assuming you can see it, and sounds can bounce and echo. You need often need them both - ie: you hear a sound and automatically turn your head in the direction you think it's coming from, eh?

DC Geek had pondered: “It's the smells you remember. I wonder why that is.”

That made me wonder, too! And when I asked myself "why" - suddenly, I was using "the slider thingy" Roger had mentioned on Twitter:

http://learn.genetics.utah.edu/content/begin/cells/scale/

According to an insanely long thread about Darwin (smile) we all evolved from animals - keeping or discarding bits of DNA along the way towards walking upright and without feathers and of course, getting "thumbs." Maybe we remember smells, for the same reason smells are still so important to animals?

PBS Nature is always showing some animal "sniffing" the air. Gazelles can't always see a lion but they can sure smell ya coming, dude! That's why lions have to be sneaky and approach dinner from downwind, eh?

In fact, everything that's hunted is approached downwind, as far as I know. But it's not just that. It's how much information smells contain, too. I mean, just look at dogs - they go straight for your bum! Your bum is like a bulletin-board of information. And if you're a girl and you've got your period, you're advised not to go camping because of maybe bears - the scent of blood etc. Smells can travel longer distances than sound. And far beyond one's eyesight.

"As for smell, I think the connection to memory is quite literal. As I understand anatomy, the nerve bundle that allows for the sense of smell is directly connected to the brain, indeed can be seen as the only part of the brain that is directly exposed to the outside world. No wonder that scent is the sense most evocative of memory.." - Richard

Exactly! But WHY did we evolve that way? Why is smell connected so directly to the brain? If not because that was the best way to go about things, eh?

The best way to do what, though?

Find home. Find mom. Find family. And while avoiding poisonous foods and being eaten by sneaky stuff in the grass! ('Cause that would suck.)

Smile.

When I left college I left the midwest and moved to the southwest. There are really only two seasons in Arizona REALLY HOT and not. My wife and I still attended Halloween parties, football games and we had Thanksgiving dinner and it was all kind of surreal to me because all the cues that Autumn had arrived were missing but the activities stayed the same.

About 10 years later I moved back to the midwest in the middle of Winter. That entire year was quite an experience for me. I was now employed and the changing of the seasons which used to be strongly tied to school threw me for a number of loops but it was Autumn that hit me the hardest. As the weather developed that bite and the leaves changed I was struck with a powerful feeling of excitement that a new beginning was upon me only to have to go back to the same job with the same people. I was depressed that entire month of October. I now try to start something big and new in my life every Autumn going back to school, embarking on a big project for work, learn a new skill, join a group and meet new people.

Autumn is my favorite season, until about March or April when Spring starts and then that one is my favorite season. But Autumn always means the start of something new to me.

@ Seongyong Cho
Your post reminded me of Japan, which also starts its school year in the spring (April), with first term ending in mid-July and second term starting in September (the second term ends in December, before the brief end of year holiday, with the third term starting in January and ending in mid-March). Also a drinking culture, though I noticed that when I went out drinking with the teachers, some of them only drank tea.

@LJK concerning www.thespoof.com link
LOL

Ebert: So the poor kids go to school in the hottest weather.

I've purchased my Ebertfest pass.
Perhaps this will be the place I get to see Still Walking by Kore-Eda Hirokazu? In any event, I'm looking forward to seeing your lineup of films. I've already noted the Steak n Shake location 1709 S. Neil Street!

Ebert: There are three in town, but that's the one where many hungry Ebertfesters hurry after the night's final Q&A session.

It was always a family ritual to look forward to the Injun Summer Page by John McCutcheon in the Trib. I saved one of those pages from the 60's and framed it and still love looking at it.

Your post about the smell of burning Autumn leaves made me decide to try to locate a good old Maple leaf (not too easy to do in my little California town), and burn the edges of it, just so I could see if the smell evoked memories of my childhood, growing up in suburban Chicago, when my dad would rake the leaves into a big pile into the driveway and start them burning. The day after I read your blog, I opened my front door and there on my doormat--no kidding--was a huge dried Maple leaf. Nope, I don't believe in all that spooky "out there" stuff, and the Maple leaf would have been there had I not read your blog, but there it was. And I burned it. And it evoked those kidhood memories. I was back home in the Illinois Autumn, at least for a few minutes.

Ebert: So the poor kids go to school in the hottest weather.

And they wear wool uniforms (different ones for fall/winter and spring/summer, but still wool). And while the curtains and open windows help to cool off the classrooms more than you would think, the only air-conditioned rooms in the school are the teachers' lounge and any classrooms in the basement. And Tokyo (where I taught) gets HUMID in the summer.

Ebert: Oh, I've been to Tokyo in the summer. Good gravy.

The following tale of serendipity is brought to you by happenstance...

They said I'd be able to watch TV until November 8th - but then cable companies say a lot of things. I was told a technician wouldn't be available to disconnect me until then and naturally, I'd be charged for as long as I was receiving their signal.

SHAW Cable hiked up their rates past my breaking point; I am not paying $60 a month for the few stations I do watch owing to how they've bundled them. Screw that. So I canceled the service earlier last week.

In the building where I live, you can get internet and TV from the same provider; all the apartments are wired for it. And I use them already for the Internet. I was planning to switch over around Nov 7th. $25 a month.

And then suddenly, friday Oct 30th, I've got no cable signal.

At first I thought it was an outage. A day later when the cable hadn't come back, I waited a hour and a half on the phone with SHAW's technical support before hanging up. I got through in 3 minutes when I called later on 2 am. Nope; there's no outage. I guess they disconnected you early, he said.

Ever since, I've been trying on and off, to reach Billing. If they charge me until Nov. 8th for service, I will be forced to shoot someone. On a brighter note, the other guys were open to take my call on Nov 1st - a sunday no less! They'll send a guy over to my building to flip the switch thingy by 5 pm Monday Nov 2nd. If I decide later to get their Premium package moreover, it'll be $35 a month and I'll get HBO Canada, IFC Channel, cool stuff like that.

Meanwhile and because I have no TV, it was off to grab a bunch of movies - as I can't watch PBS or anything!

And that's how I came to see a wonderful film called "Outsourced." They had on DVD at my local library.

http://www.outsourcedthemovie.com/

I was very happy to see the adventures of Mr. "Toad" in India and "Holi" when they throw COLORS at people and everything - as oh my God how cool is that?! Why don't we do neat stuff like that?!

And how profoundly ironic! For it all started with corporate greed which led to a film about that very same thing and ultimately finding some Zen. For I'm feeling as happy with myself now as a cow in an India call center.

Smile.

Ebert: I hate to repeat myself, but since you brought up happiness in India...

http://j.mp/4DBPS5

Yes, I certainly am going to the reunion. Last time, the organizers picked the day of my son's wedding. It was a tough choice.

Thanks a lot for e-mail from the festival director. And Thanks again for "Playing for Changes" YouTube Clips, filled with optimism and hope. I am going to introduce some of them to my internet friends by posting it on my blog. And your sketchbook will be introduced, too.

I am not a good drawer and that probably explains why I am pretty comfortable with the works of Kandinsky, Mondrian(I like his "Broadway Boogey-Woogey" a lot), and Pollock. My graffiti usually consists of words, lines, dots, and basic figures.

By the way, I read interesting article about President Obama from some Korean newspaper today. According to it, he said American education system should follow our system. Well, I emphasized negative sides of our system earlier, but I admit that our "Take no prisoner" policy is at least better than "Leave no child behind". My advice: You can follow ours but not too much. We indeed have accomplished many things, but the efficiency is quite low, when considering the amount of efforts and compared to other countries' advanced education system. It still needs to be fixed.

These are two interesting YouTube Clips I found. I am very enthusiastic about film music concerts. However, I have attended only one concert. But it was great to see Ennio Morricone conducting orchestra in front of me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H82QHiUvY5E&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hymTyyOxKAs&feature=related

Ebert: I hope to assemble a panel discussion featuring blog friends from foreign lands.

Speaking of music, I just put this together:

http://j.mp/4DBPS5

Mr Ebert,

Off-topic comment.

I don't twitter but i found that you had a twit about a comment on REDDIT.

Would you like to do a IAMA on Reddit ? I think there is already a request circulating around, its essentially a Q&A and is generally quite interesting.

Rgds

Ebert: Here's how dumb I am. What's an IAMA?

Mr Ebert,

Its one of the most popular sub-reddits on REDDIT , IAMA - is I AM A "fill in the blank" "Ask me Anything", so for e.g one of the top ones currently is I AM A "totally blind person Ask me Anything", he volunteers to answer questions , a moderator generally verifies , the person is who he says he is and people fire away questions.

So it is a forum for people to share experiences ,have a Q&A session, anyone who is registered with REDDIT can volunteer to answer questions.

In your case, there is a request for you to come on REDDIT and answer questions.

All kinds of interesting people come in to answer questions in the last few days there have been IAMAs by company directors, whiste blowers at Mc.Ds, a convicted felon who then went to become lawyer, medical interns, research scientists , it really is a varied collection.

Here is the link: http://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/

Rgds,

p.s: Beware never say anything bad about bacon and narhwals on REDDIT.

Ebert: I'm afraid it could take a lot of time to do properly. But I love REDDIT.

Uh, what are narhwals?

You might enjoy this:

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/chanda-mama-around-the-world.html

Mr Ebert,

I should probably add this the verification process is very straightforward,

From REDDIT :

"Anyone claiming to be a celebrity or notable public figure must provide proof either to all of Reddit (an official Twitter update or a photo holding a note that says 'Hi Reddit' works) or privately to a moderator of this subreddit. All celebrity posts that do not follow this rule will be removed."

Rgds,

Having been born and raised in SoCal, I think of autumn as a time of dog days of summer, new classes (because I'm an eternal student) and cold nights. I didn't fully appreciate the changing colors of the leaves (we do have some ginko trees here which become yellow) until I spent a year abroad in Japan.
I attended some festivals for chrysanthemums and for the red Japanese maple leaves and longed for California (which may be because we didn't have central heating in our dorm).
In Japan, there is a song about the seasons. It's not that old because it refers to a German poet in one verse: Heinrich Heine was a German romantic poet (13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856). Translated, the song says that the people who love spring are people with pure hearts, like one's friends. The people who love summer have strong hearts like one's father. I typed the Japanese below.
秋を愛する人は
心深き人
愛を語るハイネ　の　よう　な
ぼく　の　恋人
I think it means:
The people who love autumn
Are people with deep hearts/thoughts
Like Heine who wrote about love
That person is my lover.
I always thought it was interesting that the Japanese chose autumn to symbolize love and I think it used to be the season for weddings. Spring was about friends and winter was about one's mother.
What I love about autumn? Pumpkins, Halloween and Thanksgiving. Oddly enough it's also time to plant one's garden in SoCal, so I love the planning that goes into that. Of course, it would go better if the new puppy wasn't digging up the lavender to chew on. Who knew that the roots of lavender was good doggie dental floss?

Ebert: Somehow doggies seem to know that stuff.

Bright leaves in the Valley? I sought 'em
From Bell Road to Salt River bottom.
Our hues are subdued
So our season is screwed
And we non-celebrate our non-Autumn.

But we're still wearing shorts and T-shirts . . .

Hi Karl-Heinz.

You and I have got to meet at EbertFest, and have a steak burger (and a chilli-mac for me) at Steak and Shake!

And Seongyong Cho. And others from these threads as well.

It's not a reunion, technically, because we've never met. A meet-and-greet. That would be awesome.

Ebert: That would be awesome.

Mr Ebert,

That's true , It can be a bit of a time sink.

BTW, you are right on top of the list now - http://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/

Rgds,

p.s: Narwhals are unicorns of the Sea :-) .

p.p.s: Its a troll that originated on the IGN board and got wide air-play on REDDIT.

Ebert: This is a little strange. That request for 10 questions from "me" isn't from me...

I like my narwhals parboiled with cabbage, and a touch of Colman's English mustard. Marie Haws, how would you prepare a nice narwhal steak?

Roger,

I read your marvelous journal posting on Halloween while traveling this weekend in Doha, Qatar. Even though it was 90 degrees and humid along the Persian Gulf, your evocative descriptions immediately transported me back to the crisp Iowa autumns of my childhood. A perfect Halloween treat, a link which I sent around to family and friends for their enjoyment. My husband Rich entered U of I in the fall of 1960 as well, and remembers the huge crowd of students who turned out for JFK on his campaign stop through central Illinois -- also a 'new beginning' during that fall. Were you there?

Ebert: I certainly was. And running like crazy beside his limousine.

Having just read this entry and the "first time online" article, also about the wonders of fall, I plan on rushing home after work, making my own little pile of leaves in the driveway, and with matches in hand, closing my eyes to take it all in. I can't wait!

Yes, that WOULD be awesome.

We can hash out the details closer to the day.

Hi Roger,

Becoming familiar with reddit is quite easy. It would be amazing if you could come answer a few of our questions. I won't lay on too much pressure but here is a brief set of instructions for how to get started if you would like to respond to the "I Am A" request:

1. Go to http://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/
2. Register for an account by clicking "Register" in the upper-right portion of the page. The required fields are "Username," "Password," "Verify Password," and the CAPTCHA to make sure you are not a machine. Once you have completed registration you are automatically logged in.
3. Click "Submit a Link" on the right hand side of the page.
4. The form can be filled out as follows:
title: "I Am Roger Ebert, AMA."
url: "self"
Then fill in the CAPTCHA and submit.

At that point you will be directed to the page containing your post and the world will begin asking you questions. You never have to leave this page - just refresh it occasionally (F5 on your keyboard).

You will see questions from folks and there will be a reply button next to their question. When you click "Reply" a text field will open up. You would then type your answer and click "Submit." Your response will show up immediately, but you will need to refresh the page (F5) to see more questions.

Hope to see you soon Roger, you have a lot of fans on the site!

Brent Woodle
Carrollton, TX

Thanks for the great blog entry, Roger. Ebertfest has become an annual event for my family. The opening night screening of "Woodstock" this year was one of our favorite experiences in 11 years of attending the festival. I'm curious about a couple things...

1) Why was "Apocalypse Now" announced early? Do you already have a guest committed? Or do you have your hands on a great print?

2) Can we please get more Herzog next year? I've seen most of his films already, but I crave his three-hour post-screening storytelling sessions.

PS: I store all the Ebertfest coffee mugs I collect "right in the pool room!"

The thing about Autumn, for a photo-hobbyist anyway, is that it is so fleeting. There is a distinct window in time when the picture is there, wneh the leaves and light are right, and then it's gone. Today, as I looked around, it's gone. Now I can put the camera down and enjoy the season for what it is.

I looked at the stat counter on the photo-website today. Somewhere over 20,000 picture views for October. I'm stunned. And thrilled. It gives me no end of pleasure that folks on here looked at them and got some joy from them. Thank you all. And thank you Roger, for pointing the way there and for the words of encouragement. It means a lot.

Ebert:

Dear readers:

Ebertfest passes are half sold! They may be all gone in 3-4 days...

R.

This may not be the most appropriate thread on which to post this, but your London Underground Movie Map tweet remind me of these intricate Movie Narrative Charts posted this morning over at xkcd (click to enlarge).

Okay, the last two panels aren't that intricate, but they're pretty funny anyway.

Just thought you and your readers might enjoy.

That reads like a Springsteen song, and though you don't know enough (or anything) about me to know how much I love Springsteen, we'll just leave it at that. Great entry here. Gave me that feeling of nostalgia and redemption, even though most of these things I haven't experienced myself. Almost like listening to Backstreets or Jungleland or Sandy or even Thunder Road (by the aforementioned Boss, of course), just pure poetry throughout.

I think I understand you, about Autumn, I mean. The color of the leaves doesn't make things new, and if you live in (southern) California as I did for 13 years, the color of the leaves doesn't change, either. Autumn is the real start. A time for romance and new friendships in the coming school year, and in my case after the move, a chance to be a new person. Meet the girl, hang with the new friend, start over, do it again, rinse, repeat, correct.

Quote..Marie;Why is smell connected so directly to the brain?

Has everyone here seen "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer"? If not, go, go rent now.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJyJIT2UUsg

Maybe I'll tell the story about how me and a friend both had the same dream during one particular November and discovered how to make cemetery wine. That one's a doozy.

Ebert: This is the time to share that recipe.

Not a recipe exactly, but a funny story. My storytelling abilities are still a little rusty, so please forgive me if I hiccup my way through this.

In 1990 just before Halloween, I'd been working on a short story about a man who receives a haunted bottle of wine. Whenever someone drank from it they'd find themselves being visited by the spirit trapped within the bootle. Not exactly the most original thing in the world, but I was seventeen and it seemed pretty good. Being young and inexperienced I was overplotting the whole affair with needless digressions, one of which was a fictionalized recounting of a dream that my cousin had told me he'd had. In it he had been driving a car through a furious snowstorm. The kind of nor'easter so thick that it could be London fog. All he could see apart from a solid wall of white were his windshield wipers and a blurry outline of trees on each side of the road which let him know there was a world out there, not just limbo. Then, he saw a dim light ahead, and in the logic of dreams knew he had to go there.

When he arrived at the light he saw that it was the scene of an accident. A car had hit a deer. Spotlights had been set up. An ambulance was parked, strobe lights flashing. Men were busy prying the victims out of their vehicle. "It was all pretty normal, except that when I looked at the paramedic's faces I couldn't make out any detail." He told me. "There was something wrong about them." Then, one of the men there looked up and said "Did you bring the wine?".

That last bit, of course, is why I was trying to make it fit with my story somehow. I was trying to create one of those synchronicities that I thought were common in works of fiction. I was hashing the job though, so I threw the whole thing away and moved onto something else.

The reason why I haven't completely forgotten about this event is that not long after, damned if I didn't dream my cousin's dream. I guess that all the time I spent working it out in my head sort of made it mine as well.

So there I was, sitting in the passenger seat of the car while he drove. It was one of those old Volkswagen Rabbit diesels. A detail he hadn't told me, but I was sure must be true. The wipers made that screeee... screeee... sound. Outside, it was indeed apocalyptic. A wall of whiteness that I knew was death. If I went out there I would die for sure. The car couldn't stop. The wheels were worn to dust, having rolled over this nightmare ever since he told me about it for the first time.

When we arrived at the accident site, I saw that my cousin had been mistaken. You could see what the paramedic's looked like very well. It's just that there wasn't much to see. They had no faces or features, but instead perfectly smooth egglike heads. (This last was not inspired by Saki's "The Mujina" which I'd read not long before, I'm sure. Look it up and see.) This time they were gutting the deer and bringing it's innards inside the ambulance. I had some vague understanding that they were taking the animal's soul. Something similar had been done to the people I suspected.

"Did you bring the wine?" The man said.

...and I was back at the beginning, back on the road. The light was still in the distance. My cousin looked more frantic. He was saying something, but I couldn't hear.

No dream is linear and all are subject to interpretation, believe me when I say that I've carved this one down to the bone examining it's parts, and it's entirely possible that I've confabuled as much as I remember. However, I don't think it matters. I can't really "report" what happens next anyway, only relate what I think happened. I think that we arrived back at the accident site and that the man again asked where the wine was, and that again I couldn't answer and that again I found myself at the beginning - Ouroboros - and I think that what happened next is a jumble of images. A cemetery. An old manor house. A field in summer. Scarecrows on fire. Black cats mating like rats. Who knows exactly?

What I took from these images was that to make the haunted wine in my story, you had to bury it on top of a grave at exactly midnight on Halloween, when the veil between the living and the dead was at it's thinnest. So thin, in fact, that if you happened to look up at the night sky you'd see that the all the stars had gone pitch black out of respect for the dead. Then, when the ghosts rose from their resting places to wander the Earth in search of the feasts and fires we were supposed to lay out for them, some of their soul would be caught in the wine, and if you drank it they could grant you any wish or answer any question. Whether you liked it or not.

Don't ask me how I know this, it was a dream. When I finally understood however, I told the man with no face that I indeed had the wine. Then, something really horrible happened and I woke up. I don't remember what. I think he may have shown me his real face, but I don't know.

The last image I am left with as the dream has faded into the little bits that I remember, and those I've rebuilt using my imagination, is one of holding the wine bottle and looking inside at little pinpricks of light winking in and out of existence within the liquid. Kind of like spotlights, or stars, or the bone white sleet of a furious snowstorm.

Ebert: What do you mean, "My storytelling abilities are still a little rusty?"

Your poetry is just fine.

Thank God I'm on the wagon.

Hi Mr. Ebert!

I am one of the moderators for the section of the reddit site known as "I Am A", and I apologize for the confusion about what we are and what we do. Admittedly, the experience is convoluted to someone who stumbles into it.

In the general sense, we are users who do informal interviews.

I understand and appreciate the time commitment that you recognized in the comments over there. I'd like to offer to simplify the entire process for you. With your permission, I will gladly organize and collect the top 10 highly-rated questions from reddit, send them to you in a single document, and you can choose how many or how few of them you'd like to answer, and send me your responses. 10 questions is the typical amount that we usually get answers to from notable public figures such as yourself. If you'd prefer more or less than this, that's entirely up to you!

Touch base with me in an email, and I'll be thrilled to accommodate this mini-interview.

Thank you for all the effort you put into this blog, and thank you for reading reddit :)

Sincerely,
-MMM

Mr. Ebert,

I consult your site before seeing a movie, but I had no idea you had an online journal. I'm very pleasantly surprised, but I must tell you Prufrock is also inspiring to young women. I remember connecting with it in college and thinking that I would have understood and appreciated him when no one else did. I re-read the poem for the first time in probably ten years I when read your post. After spending the greater part of the last decade entrenched in adademia, it was nice to feel and not think for a minute, if that makes sense.

Ebert: I think many people identify with Prufrock who would not, however, want to try building a relationship with him. This may interest you. I think of it as "Prufrock goes on a date."

http://www.youtube.com/user/SpokenVerse#p/u/0/s19EroNvRyk

I wanted to tell you this in an email, but can't find your address, so here goes. Every time I read your work, I feel a little bit better about humanity, like I do when I watch Max Von Sydow. It is something to see a man do his work so well, to believe in it, and have faith in it. Thank you.

Ebert: This is a little strange. That request for 10 questions from "me" isn't from me...

That is quite normal hence the moderator verification process.

Rgds,

p.s: Marie Haws , however you cook a narhwal steak make sure bacon is mentioned somewhere in the recipe.
p.p.s: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/chanda-mama-around-the-world.html , thanks for that , i grew up on it.

This isn't exactly on topic, but having read of your love for Venice, I thought you would find this interesting:
http://www.newsweek.com/id/220748

Spring is transcendent but I want to be in love in the Fall! Looking out my window at the colors as I write--glad to be alive. I just realized that Ebertfest is on my birthday. My husband always gets to TIFF it up because it is his birthday.... hmmm, I am plotting.

Ebert: And therefore, obviously...

Ahhhh, Autumn. Alot of firsts for me also. First high school girlfriend that meant anything, first car, first awkward love session. I remember those days fondly.

But, get this.........we can still burn leaves in our small town of Grant Park, IL. ( 50 miles south of Chicago ). Burnt some last night and stood in the path of the billowing white smoke.

Life IS good.

Here's a bit of narwahl movie trivia...

Roger, this line:
"For nothing is easier for a teenager to imagine than rejection.''
So clean and tight and funny and true and universal that it really ought to land in Barlett's or something.
Thank you for it
Fish

@ Marie Haws - I loved "Outsourced," too. It caught my eye one day when I was browsing the DVDs at Target, and I bought it on a whim (one of the quotes on the front cover made the decision easier, also. )

You don't find many films that are just plain likeable. Lots of movies go for that kind of breezy charm, but "Outsourced" pulled it off without even seeming to try. And the exotic location made it all the more interesting. Also, somewhat coincidentally, I just happened to get "Monsoon Wedding" in the mail yesterday. I haven't watched it yet, but I've heard similarly positive things about it. Anyway, thought I'd share that. I'm off to go make another poor quality, bad-improv short film, and hopefully recruit someone to go to Ebertfest with me.

There’s no question that I love summer, always did as a kid, having played baseball throughout childhood both little league and a 2nd Avenue wiffleball league. Nothing will replace the weeks in the 70's each summer on Long Beach Island, Manasquan, or Point Pleasant with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. However, as blasphemous as it seems, there came a time when I was ready to go back to school.

There’s something about new shoes, jeans, long sleeve shirts, and a light jacket that turns me back into a 12-year old. There’s something about picking out a new backpack, pens, erasers, and other school supplies that screams in smiles. That’s probably why I became a teacher. It doesn’t hurt to have an October birthday.

My first concert ever was 1978, Bruce Springsteen at the Capitol Theater in Passaic, NJ. It was a nice October night, and I've been able to snag a copy of the same show on CD off E-bay 30 years later. No, of course it wasn't legal, but it's gold, no doubt.

September through January, when school let out at 3pm, we ran home to change into play clothes and then headed to the town park for football. If you had a shirt with any amount of green, it was just as good as a NY Jets jersey. If blue, then you believed you were on the NY Giants. No other teams mattered. We played until the 5 o’clock whistle blew, which was loud enough to hear at every corner through the square-mile town of Lyndhurst, NJ, only five short minutes from the Lincoln Tunnel. Latecomers had to wait for an even number to join a team. Nobody had an arm like Pete Miserak. Nobody had the speed of Benny Esposito. Nobody complained like Scott Lindskog. Nobody knew everyone else’s touchdown totals like Mike Tesauro. And nobody thinks about those days as much as I do.

I worry about kids today. Those days taught us how to work with others, how to be fair when making teams, how to solve problems by watching defenses, when to stick to your guns on a controversial out of bounds call, and when to walk away when someone was too stubborn or about to call their big brother. We learned simple math from keeping score and geometry from figuring out which trees marked the goal line and sidelines.

You want to smell the greatest smell in the world? If you're north of the Mason-Dixon Line, go outside on the first Saturday in October at about 10am. Feel which way the wind is coming from. Lean back slightly, flare those nostrils, and slowly, deeply inhale. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to a time machine.

This entry is fantastic. I am very glad that you share such personal memories with me and with anyone who will read. This fall has been rainy here in Vermont, but the clear days are too beautiful to condemn the season. The discussion on this page, with the focus on smell in particular, reminds me of my walks last week and all my autumn hikes in the Green Mountains. I love to describe the air in a deep forest as "hyper-oxygenated;" it is so much more refreshing than all of the air I ever breathed in Chicago or Milwaukee or Florida. I was inspired to write this just now. I hope you enjoy.

The smell, after an autumn rain,
of green moss and ferns
surrounded by a shallow puddle
and fallen leaves that slowly decay,
carried on the exhalations
of young conifers,
is as invigorating
and validating as
a new lover's first kiss.

-Here's to autumn.

What's better than a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring brought to you by the good folks at Ovaltine? Your very own Ebertfest pass--thanks to herself, the Dearest Jill, lassoing the Moon for an early Christmas present. I'm the richest man in town, Clarence! See you on Neill St., fellow Steak-n-Shakers.

narwhals are similar to beluga whales but have a unicorn-like horn on their heads. very strange looking aquatic creature.

This is the first time in a few years that I've lived within walking distance of a reasonably priced movie theater. In fact, the last films I recall seeing on the big screen were Juno and American Gangster, though my date and I found ourselves locked out of the theater halfway through the latter(Note: Smoke-breaks during a movie are BAD, and I've mended my ways).

Last Friday, I had the great fortune to go to my local theater and see Where the Wild Things Are. When friends asked isn't that a kid's movie, I replied that because of the director's credit on the film, it would probably have little in common with Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs(haven't seen it, but I love the title).

From my house to the theater, I walked through my backyard hearing the crunch of dead leaves under my shoes, across my neighbor's field with a crisp wind blowing through me, then along several sidewalks that used to take me to school with orange and red sparkling from the branches overhead.

I don't know what it was, but something about that walk got me into just the frame of mind I needed for that particular film. Something about the memories of childhood and the dying away of the warm season prepared me for the quietly intense and evocative vision of that movie. It was the best big-screen experience of my adult life.

Hi Roger.

I posted a new gallery of pictures tonight on my photo-website of our day on the U of I campus and the game. Game pictures are unfortunately limited to the view from my seat. The campus, on the other hand, was ours to explore...

Enjoy!

Ebert: My heart leaps up when I behold...

That does it! Now I gottawrite that entry about the University of Illinois.

"Marie Haws, how would you prepare a nice narwhal steak?" - Roger

Whale skin and blubber (called muktuk) is either eaten raw, boiled or dried; at least based on how the Inuit (Native Canadians) go about it.

Once you've caught and killed a narwhal...

The whale is invariably cut-up into small slabs or sheets; picture an 8 x 10 around 1/2 inch thick and that's what gets stored in a freezer. They'll take a sheet out and let it thaw for 30 minutes. Then cut a bunch of 1 inch squares. The cartilage is very tough though and the skin is chewy, and so to make it easier to eat, they'll often score it deeply with a knife to help break it up, you know? Some Inuit like to dip a piece into soy sauce or seal oil. You can also eat it boiled which softens the cartilage and helps to tone down the smell; the skin apparently has a strong odor.

So you don't actually grill it like a steak. The flesh is too tough for that. However when you boil it, seems it gets a bit mushy.

I think it's best to probably eat it like sushi. Raw. And maybe try cutting super thin slices of it, with a good ceramic Japanese sushi knife.

Note: a certain number of narwhals die each year; they get trapped under the ice. And some of them are caught beforehand - they're found in groups sharing an opening. So if you were out hunting and spotted a narwhal who was going to die anyway, then... well... I guess it would okay to grab one; at least it won't go to waste. If a polar bear were around he'd do the same, eh?

Otherwise, I think you should leave a narwhal alone and not risk the bad karma. 'Cause a narwhal is indeed "a unicorn that can swim" and speaking for myself, I personally wouldn't want to risk messing with a potentially "magical creature" in case something got really p*ssed off at me for it.

Then again, you could always throw caution to the wind and risk the wrath of the Narwhal Gods. :)

"Anne Rooney posted on November 2, 2009 1:52 PM"

When I saw Anne's name and because I wasn't totally awake at the time, I thought for a moment that "Andy Rooney" from 60 Minutes had posted in Roger's blog. Chuckle!

I was also half-asleep when I read this:

@ Karl-Heinz on November 2, 2009 2:45 PM - “Yes, that WOULD be awesome. We can hash out the details closer to the day.”

And why I thought Karl had written, “that sounds like AWESOME hashish.”

@ Venkatesh Sellappa - "p.s: Marie Haws , however you cook a narhwal steak make sure bacon is mentioned somewhere in the recipe."

I typed in narwhal + bacon and got a video of a cat flipping in Zero-G to the music from Kubrick 2001...

The narwhal bacons at midnight: Zero-G Cat Remix

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iU0dpXLXEOY

I swear, I'm not making this up - watch the video!

Meanwhile, there was a moose in my elevator today. I was returning from the grocery store and someone was taking a croc-pot up to a friend's apartment; toting it inside a shopping cart.

"Mmm, that smells good." I commented.
"Moose". they replied.
"Moose..?!" my eyebrows raised.
"Moose".

The doors opened then and I got out on my floor, with the smell of Moose stew now firmly noted and recorded by my brain. So THAT'S what moose stew smells like!

Kinda gamey.

Ebert: You think I was kidding about narwhal steak? Check this:

http://www.reddit.com/r/pics/comments/9v231/wife_just_asked_if_i_wanted_some_bacon_so_i/

Don't skip the first comment.

Why didn't I just toddle down to little Madrid for Halloween? I didn't make it into Santa Fe and Madrid's just down the road. Old Pete the roadie filled me in on the doings yesterday morning at the coffee shop there. For one thing, they painted Pete's motorcycle -- a brand new Yamaha 1200 cc with a side car -- with Anasazi symbols. Rather nice. Then their annual parade. There's a 2009 calendar featuring Pete and a few other jolly bearded old goats, buck naked but for hats and bandoliers, riding horses down the main street, taken at last year's shindig and sold to tourists.

And the darnedest people show up in Madrid. I wasn't listening, it being a splendid fall morning, but some Hollywood celebrity or two was there. And yet somebody else, making yet another documentary. A few months ago a Spanish TV crew was there, doing a story on towns named "Madrid." They gave Pete a medallion. Very nice.

Territorial Governor Lew Wallace -- who wrote the epic BEN HUR, said "Every calculation based on experience elsewhere fails in New Mexico." Indeed. Madrid, population 500, is now pronounced "MAD-rid" and 10 major films have been shot there since hippies took over this abandoned coal town in the late 1970s. The fake restaurant that was built for "Wild Hogs" is now being turned into a real restaurant. Unless decorated on a whim like Pete's new motorcycle, none of the houses have been painted since... 1948.

A minute in the morning and a minute in the evening, sunlight is shorn from summer, then added back on in the dead of winter.

It's not the scenery that sticks to my bones; wherever I live in Autumn, it's the sunlight. Back in upstate New York, Tom Walsh's ma would go into a silent funk this time of year and not come out of it until springtime. This was before they invented terms and acronyms for that condition.

It was more romantic to think of her as an Irishwoman through and through and through, spending every winter sitting at her kitchen table wordlessly, waiting faithfully for a long lost ancestor to come home from the sea. A bliss of melancholy known only to her.

Mrs. Walsh, seated at the kitchen table with chin on her hand, would give the sparest acknowledgment to her sons and visitors, a smile painful to make, not directed by her soul; leave her alone, I thought. Like the grass and the leaves and the daffodils, she'd be back in springtime, chipper and laughing and cheerful, same as every year. What a spectacular brood, I thought... caught up in the deep roll of daily autumn shadows, long from morning until night. The shadows gave way to early evening darkness as we'd all speed deep into the winter solstice.

Winter never felt dead to me, only withdrawn. It was the yawning of a land now weary of its noisy decorations. They'd peel away, leaving naked sleeping trees and a silent inner sound. Nothing is more silent on a winter night than that vague oceanic roar one doesn't need ears to hear.

There was a family tradition -- us boys who went off to college gave up our rooms to our next younger brothers. We'd stay in the attic on our visits home. A younger brother had come of age -- a room and bath of his own! I handed over my suite of two rooms plus a private bath and shower to the next boy down. A thrilling ceremony for him.

This was a huge, elephantine Victorian place built in 1875. It's worth looking at on Google satellite... if for no other reason than to know this house cost $13,000 when my dad bought it in 1965.

http://maps.google.com/maps?client=opera&rls=en&q=98%20Malta%20Avenue%20Ballston%20Spa%20NY%2012020&sourceid=opera&oe=utf-8&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&hl=en&tab=wl

Click on the little man and drag him around 98 Malta Avenue, Ballston Spa NY and you can get a 360 degree view of this place that Chas. Addams built. Note the garret with the widow's walk. You can see through the window that the garret is still empty for whoever lives there now. I still dream of that attic...

I wouldn't be surprised if the present owners hear the sound of footsteps deep in the night coming from the attic even now. Some would be mine. We do leave ghosts in places we dream about.

The wood floors were bare and unvarnished and the ceiling came to a peak at about 10 feet. I set up my place in a gable, facing the setting sun. The place was unheated and so, I spread an electric blanket across the mattress, which sat on a set of bedsprings; I had books scattered and open all around the bed. I'm surprised how often I refer to those books even now, decades later. They were by Johnson, Boswell, various philosophers ancient and new, Velikovsky, some science works, Woody Guthrie's BOUND FOR GLORY, a few novelists and some underground comic books.

I expect that the northern wind has again begun blowing by now there, arctic air blasting down through the Adirondacks from Canada, shaking the big Victorian now as it did then and as it did in 1875. Living in that attic was like living on an old whaling ship.

Many was the night I'd lie on the electric blanket reading into the wee hours while the wind blew through the blackness outside, gently rocking my makeshift bed. I'd shut off the light and stare at the frost on the window, glittering a little from the streetlight outside, wondering where this ship of self was going.

And many was the night, you all, where I shared this gently rocking loneliness with one beautiful girl or another who'd snuck up the back stairs.

Dear Roger,

Autumnal greetings to you from Seoul, Korea, where I'm currently deliberating on which Korean destination I should make my way to this weekend to take in what could be the last hurrah of this year's fall colour kaleidoscope. Autumn is also my very favourite season and October is my very favourite month...and it unfortunately has already run its course for yet another year after blowing by at what seemed like warp speed...as it so often does.

The little town that I grew up in, Waldron, Indiana, was a great fall town. Located about 30 miles from Indianapolis, it's really more of a hamlet or village than a town, or at least that's how I've always thought of it. The town's heyday has long since passed – gone with the disappearance of the old Interurban railway that connected it to Indianapolis and neighboring towns; gone with the significance of the ‘big railroad’ that ran straight through the middle of town, the New York Central line between Indianapolis and Cincinnati. As far as I know, not too much has changed from the way things were during my childhood and formative years…although the feeling is not quite the same. The ballpark demographics: Around 800 residents, a post office, a volunteer fire department, an elementary school, a junior-senior high school, a couple of churches, and one of each of the most essential of establishments – a water company, a telephone company, a natural gas company, a small food market, a gas station, a café, a barber shop (maybe still there), a hair salon (or two), a boutique or curiosity shop (or two)…and that’s probably about it. I imagine that the familiar maple trees and old houses still line many of the short streets, especially the town’s two main bisecting streets – Washington and Main Streets.

For me, the Autumn was always when the town of Waldron was at its most beautiful, which in large part could be attributed to those aforementioned trees with their big orange, red, yellow, and brown leaves, which eventually and steadily floated and fluttered down from the limbs until they finally covered the ground and streets with their multi-coloured carpet. This romantic perspective is very much akin to the way the main character (as a grown-up narrator voiced by Woody Allen) describes how he remembers his boyhood neighbourhood at its most beautiful in the movie “Radio Days” – leaf-strewn, rain-swept, autumn-like. This has always hit the spot with me and I completely relate to it.

Of course, Halloween was the pinnacle of the fall season and there couldn’t have been too many better settings for it in my view. This was the time each year when I most enjoyed my hometown…and when I miss it today. It was during this time when one could imagine that the town had come to life out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Here was pure Americana in action and on display. The town’s size and atmosphere were absolutely perfect for hordes of ‘Trick-or-Treaters’, some brought in from surrounding towns by their parents - precise processions of cute and creepy costume-clad adventurers making their way through the decorated maze of the town collecting goodies and cheer. Freshly carved pumpkins were on nearly every porch, haystacks on some. The fresh smell of the air filled lungs and the crispness of the breeze prickled faces. When the night sky was clear, a star-filled canopy covered the scene from horizon to horizon with a bright shining moon illuminating the small town charms. There were even some notoriously ‘real’ haunted (or at the very least, spooky) spots to explore and investigate…if you knew where to look. And if you didn’t…or if you just didn’t have the heart for that kind of Halloween activity, then there were always plenty of horror movies waiting for you on television.

Additionally vivid memory snapshots from Waldron autumns include: Fall festivals, Eating my mother’s chili (a fall and winter delicacy), walking and riding my bike(s) around town, playing (American-style) football with friends on Saturdays and /or Sundays, …and yes, the smell of burning leaves permeating the air.

I have enjoyed fall in a variety of locales and continue to enjoy autumn wherever I am…but of course the feelings of nostalgia from times of complete freedom are always tough to beat.
Interestingly, your autumn memories evoked additional nostalgia. After reading your essay and thinking more about it, I realised that many of my life’s most significant romances began in the fall.
These days fall is the season when I feel the most fresh and at my best, with spring coming in as a close second. If it were up to me it would be autumn for…oh, at least 300 days of the year.

~ "Sammy" Terry [Allusion to a ghoul I grew up with - one of the greatest local television horror film hosts ever in my view]

Roger,

Here's one any self respecting newspaperman should enjoy.

The Burglary(1920)

Seems ideal for one of those annoying ad pop-ups. Final freeze frame caption:

"The Chicago Sun-Times for all the latest"

Might be tough though to get the rights from Der Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger.

http://europafilmtreasures.eu/PY/271/see-the-film-the_burglary

I had a question about the tickets to Ebertfest. I'm looking to buy two, and on the site the only option is to pay with a credit card. This is a problem for me, because I don't own any credit cards. I do have a debit card, which normally would work in this situation, but I lost it a week ago when I accidentally left it in an ATM, and the new one probably won't be in for another week. Are the tickets sold on any other websites that offer other payment options? I'm assuming there's something else I can do, but right now I'm at a loss. I'm worried that if I wait until my new debit card comes in, tickets will be sold out. I'm looking to either pay using my checking account, or using Paypal buyer credit. I'd appreciate anything you can tell me.

Ebert: Zounds! Sent you an e-mail.

Interesting that for us in the Northern Hemisphere that Autumn feels like a beginning. I bet in the Southern Hemisphere it feels like an end. I looked up the start and end dates for school in Australia and the beginning date is February 2, 2009, and the end date is December 17, 2009. I wonder if their Autumnal Equinox is in March and their Vernal Equinox is in September? It just shows you that it all depends upon your perspective.

spring is the time of loneliness
being blessed with no magic caress
i turn my cheek to the balmy weather
i think of the times we had together

autumn when the sky turns orange and grey.
is reflective of the sorrow of yesterday
i drag my leather jacket out of the closet
i keep walking because it
keeps me from thinking too hard.

the winter is where i find redemption
isolation in the elements is peace and harmony.
my peacoat replaces my leather
i never feel lonely in the colder weather.

summer also is a lonely time
no friends living of my own dime.
walk to the diner have soup and a sandwich
drinking coffee by myself.

of all these times the ones i love the best
are spent with friends and when i'm taking rest
live together happy times with friends
being sad is no way to make an end.

By Terry Douglas on November 4, 2009 11:23 AM: ~ "Sammy" Terry [Allusion to a ghoul I grew up with - one of the greatest local television horror film hosts ever in my view]

Say, Terry, I remember Sammy--watched him when I was in grad school at IU. Great ghoul-laugh. Art major friend and I actually went down to the mall when he made a personal appearance. Jam-packed with screaming kids; it was like the Beatles at Shea Stadium, except with real bats. (Ouch.)

And, ahem: It wasn't until a few years after I left IU that I realized his name was a pun on "cemetery." Wot a dope.

Glad you enjoyed the U of I gallery! My permission, of course, to use any that you like if you write a U of I article. I would be honored, again.

Your writing brings back fond memories of the funniest, most intelligent, most interesting boy at UHS (and best kisser). My memories of Roger include his appreciation for intelligent girls who had opinions of their own and his reverence for Marilyn Monroe (are those two incompatible or consistent?).

Ebert: The more we find out about her, the more consistent. But I wasn't thinking a lot about her opinions at the time.

Every time I hear that Everly Brothers song, I think of you. I saw you wearing many different outfits, but when the song plays, somehow it is always summer at the uncooled Tigers' Den, the ambiance resembles a tropical rain forest. and you are wearing a lightweight blue summer cotton dress with sweat circles under your arms to match my own.

Ebert wrote: You think I was kidding about narwhal steak?

Are you talking about "other people" talking about THIS..?!

http://16.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kp3r99rGK81qztscyo1_500.jpg

Bacon wrapped around a piece of chicken and made to look like a narwhal?

I mean, I see people on Reddit referring to "narwhal steak" but I haven't found anyone touting a recipe for it, online. And when Google does find mention of how to prepare Narwhal, it's considered best eaten raw.

Mr Ebert,

Thanks for doing the 10 questions , lots of excitement there.

@ Marie Haws: Very nice video , i had seen it before . Narhwal + bacon is just something that somehow seems to have caught on . Its one of those memes that refuse to die.

Rgds

I thought I had heard "Autumn Leaves" before! Yesterday, I put on Pete Fountain's album A Touch of Class--which I haven't listened to in a long time--and, low and behold, there's him playing a shortened version of "Autumn Leaves" on Track 2. Track 1 is a shortened version of "La Vie en Rose," which reminds me--I must see the movie of the same name at some point.

@the evening coconut: I enjoyed reading your poem :-)

Are you familiar with this poem by Laurence Binyon? It may not be quite as good as Prufrock, but it's worth reading. Thanks for another memorable and eloquent post; your blog is among the very best on the 'net.

The Burning of the Leaves

Now is the time for the burning of the leaves.
They go to the fire; the nostril pricks with smoke
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smoldering ruin and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.

The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.

Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before:
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;
Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

Different seasons require different colognes; for autumn, I recommend "Euphoria Intense", by Calvin Klein:

http://www.calvinklein.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3873929

I hope this "advertisement" makes it past your spam filter.

Roger,

Thats illiterate.

It's also ironic!

; )

This is horribly off topic, but at the bottom of your latest great movie entry you state that Hiroshima, Mon Amour is in the great movies, but there is no essay on your site. I find the film deeply important and vibrant, so I would just like to be guided toward the essay if it exists.

In the north, Autumn is middle-aged and dying. But before she goes....

She's splendid and beautiful and smiling as she meanders in and gently hip-bumps Summer out of the way. But now all the brightly coloured leaves have yellowed and dropped, littering paths and roads, choking drains and gutters. I can see from my sixth-floor window that the trees, while not completely bare, are at least topless, stripped down to only a thin petticoat of remaining yellow, the last vestige of their modesty.

The rain has come. And it is cold. Tonight, snow.

Autumn's initial caress is so lovely, but now she's taken hold and with an unfriendly, unfeeling stare, she is starting to squeeze in an uncomfortable place.

Just writing to note that your RSS reader is not working properly- at least for me. For some time now, the RSS indicates that "The agony of the body artist" is your last post.

The leaves are so much brighter now that the Yankees won.

Thank you, Roger, for this vivid feel good reminder of the blessings of fall. Having been raised in Arizona, specifically Phoenix, I remember well raking leaves on Christmas Day. Fall, as a season, really wasn't a season, but the simply the start of school and the end of summer. The colors of fall are just not there in Phoenix, but here in Illinois, Mother Nature paints the landscape with an explosion of color. I had never smelled burning leaves til moving here to Illinois. Now I look forward to that wonderful smell every autumn. We are blessed to live in a rural area where burning leaves is still allowed and the smoke that wafts around the neighborhood is very sweet indeed. Between the smell of leaves smoldering, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the chill in the air and a fresh cup of apple cider, is there any greater season than fall? I think not.

I THINK "Injun Summer" is far older than you and I (never mind how I know how old you are). My father showed it to me.

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

BASTA!

No You Shut Up.

"(Untitled)"

Smile.

Indeed, how could one fail to smile at the sight of such unapologetic pretentiousness. The sheer cheekiness of it immediately endeared both the piece itself - as seen hanging on the wall behind Adam Goldberg in "(Untitled)" and the film itself, which I can't wait to see now!

I found myself drawing parallels between the film and a play called "ART" which I saw years ago at Wyndham's Theatre in London's West End - as it too was a comedy and a smart one, partly about conceptual art.

And here's the thing; most conceptual art is a private in-joke requiring telepathy in order to get it. The only person who really understands his work, is the guy who made it. There are exceptions of course, but for the most part, it's too personal to be readily understood - which opens the door to projecting onto a piece now; and that's what sells it.

Not what's actually there, but the mental gymnastics required to appreciate it. And I think Conceptual art is best loved by people who love to think important thoughts while rewarding themselves for being so clever. :)

Again, I can hardly wait to see it, as you've made it sound like a really fun movie!

From China Court by Rumer Godden:

The garden had changed in a week. "Is it only a week? asked Peter. The sweet peas were almost over and though stocks and marigolds still flowered, the Michaelmas daisies were beginning. There were Japanese anemones, black-eyed susans, roses. A sting of cold was in the air--The dew will be heavy, thought Peter--and there was a smell of woodsmoke, Groundsel had been having a bonfire.
"Autumn is so melancholy," says Barbara once to Mrs. Quin. "Dead leaves, dead bracken, withered stalks of flowers, bonfires, mists. Melancholy," says Barbara with a shiver.
"That's a town convention," says Mrs. Quin. "If you lived in the country you would know better than that. Autumn is not just ash," she says, stirring the bonfire.
"What is it then?" asks Barbara.
"Potash," says Mrs. Quin.

****************************

That's one of my favorite books and that passage has always stuck in my mind. I admit, I had to look up potash to find out why it's significant. It has to do with the fact that the health of the soil and fertilization of next year's garden is bound up in the burning of this year's dead plants. Another look at the cycle of life.

Hello Roger -

Lovely post -
I just wanted to share this Basho poem. It gives me chills, and like all good Japanese poetry, reading a few simple lines leaves you with enough to dwell on than as if you'd just read a novel.

None are traveling

Here along this way but I,

This autumn evening.

Clouds come from time to time -

and bring a chance to rest

from looking at the moon.

Put the blame on your German genes;-): Autumn has got to faces -melancholy & thankfulness.

OldBlueIris, Germany

Once again, you have moved me.

In regards to the first respondent of this post, asking you if your early experiences were why you cry for moments of redemption in films, I just have to say that I have never cried as hard during, or after, a film as I did when I saw "Departures." The scene wherein Daigo caressed his father's face just destroyed me; when the flashback came into focus, I saw my own father's face, mostly forgotten in the eighteen years since his death. I wasn't watching a movie, I was imagining that I had the chance to truly say goodbye, as a ten year-old boy was unable to do. The movie was a life-altering experience that I was not expecting, but will always remember with gratitude.

Life, feast upon death;
ending leads to beginning.
Charred leaves, healthy crops.

The Everly Brothers will never go out of style.

Your Generation:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mssxemrCrbw

Today's Generation:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2cklXAQ9UT0

Zack, I completely agree. No film has moved me like Departures. I could barely breathe by the end of it.

I've been trying to nag everyone, including semi-strangers, to go see it, but am always amazed how few people know of it. Maybe 15 years from now Roger will write an entry about it.

"That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay..."
Part of the opening words to Ray Bradbury's The October Country, easily my favorite book of all time.
Unfortunately, a lot of the classic identifiers of autumn are gone where I live, though certainly not where I'm from. It is still my favorite season and always will be, partially because it is mysterious. The other three seasons bare their souls too easily; the multitude of natural colors, the winds, the particular brand of murky twilight lends itself to thinking that anything could happen. And, of course, there are pumpkins. I'm a sucker for anything pumpkin, but eating it at any other time of the year just feels like a violation of some sort.
That's probably why the majority of stories I write are either set during autumn, or travel through it at some point. It is the perfect backdrop for almost anything.

Dear Roger:

Thank for the shared memories. I grew up in Des Moines and the fall was always about colored trees, chilly mornings, Iowa and Dowling football, leaf piles, pumpkins, touch football and roaming home from school with my buddies.

I'm afraid that for my 11 year-old son, living in Texas, his fall memories will be that of setting a pile of leaves on fire in our yard and having do-gooders drive by and calling the police and fire department to come and put the fire out. Before the panicked public servants came, my son with hose in hand had already put the fire out and gone back in our home.

Shortly thereafter, my wife was surprised to see at our door an angry group of cops and firemen screaming about the leaf fire. My wife quickly called our son and he told them that he had put it out already and all of the adults just kind of looked at each other and said "oh."

Of course to justify their panicked presence the fireman had to take their fire sticks and root around the leaf pile to make sure that it was out and the police had to stay around for a half hour just to spy on my son's possible shenanigans.

Maybe it's just a Texan "thang!"

If blog topics such as books and autumn leaves continue, I will never get any work done.
Here is my suggestion for 'short' topic: BEST SPEAKING VOICE IN THE MOVIES. And, what luck!, top three are ALL IN ONE MOVIE. . . !
"Island in the Sun," 1957. James Mason, Harry Belafonte, Michael Rennie.
End of discussion. We can all get back to work now. . . ;.)
Thank you again, Dear Ebert. Cassandra

I lived in Davenport IA for quite a while, and for a time each fall, the topic of leaf burning inflamed public passions to the point that issues like abortion and gun rights were nearly driven from talk radio and newspaper public comment pages.

You would think that the Revolutionary War had been fought entirely to preserve this practice for future generations, according to the pro-burning brigades. Meanwhile, elderly folk and asthmatics complained that they risked their lives just stepping outdoors.

You could see where nostalgia collided with reality in some of the older neighborhoods, with thickly treed streets that could produce leaves by the boxcar load. A few giant mounds burning at once sometimes thickened the air to the point a person couldn't see to drive. It didn't help that, instead of tending the fires of their heritage, many simply squirted on some lighter fluid, tossed a match, and went back inside to watch football. A little old fashioned work ethic might have gone a ways to preserve a time honored tradition.

The last I remember the city council was experimenting with designated burning days, alternating with free-breathing days. I think that just made everyone madder.

Ebert: And bobbing for apples. Do they still do that?

Hi Roger,

As a matter of fact, the highlight of this year's Halloween night for me was watching my nine-year-old son bob for apples. While trick or treating, we happened upon a neighbor who had provided the opportunity to any willing participants. My son did so enthusiastically. While everyone else met with varying degrees of success, it took him only a few seconds to plunge in and come back up with an apple firmly lodged in his mouth (no stems allowed). I've never seen him so proud. It was one of those little, unexpected moments that remind you how much there is in life to cherish.

Thanks for sharing your memories.

Ebert: Cartoon caption:

[ Children at Halloween party looking at tub with apples floating it in. ]

Waaah! Waaah! We don't WANNA watercoard!

Roger,

Well we have never met but the connection is there as so many of us have followed you over the years. We feel we know you but you don't really know us. However, several years ago I reread an old newspaper picture and article of me(1961) and there you were. I was a State Champ cheerleader from Springfield High School. Our team lost their first game at state that year, but we gals won the cheerleading trophy and you were one of the judges. And the real amazing thing was another one of the judge's, Julanne (don't remember Julanne's last name)was a gal I had just met that year. Julanne was and still is a very good friend of my very good friend. They we nursing students together at U of I and now Julanne is in Texas and we are in AZ.
You are right we are all connected.
And these fall stories are the best!
Take care.

Aaar. Woke up this morning with frost on the blankets. The days are dwindling where we can wake up in the middle of the night and look at the stars overhead, then fall back to sleep.

It's just too beautiful. Watching the sun come up through half-an-eye just too beautiful. Horses snortling and pulling on the pillows to get us out of bed, too beautiful.

Mr. Ebert -

I remember enjoying your "Of all the gizmos forced upon us by the modern world, is any more melancholy than the leaf-blower?" essay when you first wrote it, on, if I remember correctly, the Sun-Times web site. But almost as much fun as the essay itself was the discovery that the site's ad-bot, too, had apparently read and analyzed your text, and had selected what it felt was the ideal commercial message to place beside it on the web page: an adverstisement for leaf blowers.

Once in awhile it's fun to feel like Superman. Not from any great feat I've done, but from some bumbling thing I've escaped. Last night, trundling around in the dark in my sandals, I stepped on a cactus. Came away scot-free! Then I smacked dab belly-first into a fence. No harm done! Then I accidentally tromped on another cactus! Scot-free! Superman! Gyod, those things can hurt.

Such a baleful howling there was last night. A single, expensive hunting hound across the road, singing about being in jail.

I know it's expensive because I've seen all of them and played with a couple of them. Two of the happiest expensive-looking dogs in the world came prancing and sniffing around here last summer, thrilled to be out exploring. They loved me, too. They loved absolutely everything for the time they were free, with an absolute love.

I could see how they'd gotten away, as, while exploring our property, they preferred to slide under the fences rather than just walk through the open corral gates. They'd found a secret, delicious escape route under their kennel fence.

When not languishing balefully in their kennels, which is usually all day and night, their owner has them out training to the sound of a hunting horn, following a horse around and around a track, ridden by a young woman in a lawn-jockey costume. I've seen her from a short distance now and then, but I've never seen her smile. She's very likely living a life of Doing Everything Right. They want to be the stars of the local la-la hunting-and-horn-blowing club, which is habited by All the Best People Who Do Everything Right. There are even members who might prove to be important to my career, but I'd rather be free of all that than bother with right-doing people who might prove to be important to my career.

With high fascination, our horses stand and watch the horse and dogs go round and round and round from their distance about half a mile away. Ours were trained for racing, not ceremonial hunting. Each time they see the horse, rider and dogs, horn blowing, they've never seen anything quite so amazing before in their lives -- except perhaps for the llamas that escaped from a neighbor's ranch last summer and came up to the property line. That was riveting.

The expensive dogs don't live such fascinating lives, stuck in a kennel most of the time as they are. Now and then they'll howl in unison at night, and it's baleful.

The coyotes, who get to run free in exchange for having to catch small animals for a living, sometimes howl in sympathy. They make little encampments in a radius around our property, and after some time spent sleeping outside, one can tell by the howls who is encamped where. After one realizes they don't mean to sound as blood-curdling as they do (I'm not a rabbit, after all), the exuberant dog-music they mean becomes clear and so do the points of dog-harmony they mean to make.

The only entertainment the expensive hunting dogs have is to howl along with the coyotes... or it's that the coyotes howl along with them. The only song the expensive hunting dogs seem to know is "Nobody Knows de Trouble I Seen."

The coyotes are always exuberant and spontaneous, but the hunting dogs usually start out with one call of misery, and the others join in. Then the coyotes harmonize from their several encampments, perhaps in compassionate contrapoint to the imprisoned song of misery they hear.

One might wonder why such a racket in the middle of the oceanic silence of a desert night isn't annoying, but it isn't. Unlike the city night sounds of speeding vehicles and sirens and boomphing adolescent sex-music and the like, the animal songs don't spell trouble happening out there somewhere.

Last night, however, was a solo sad dog-song. None of the local dogs or coyotes joined in. The dog spelled out his plaintive ballad until dawn, and like me, all the other creatures listened in silence. It needed heard. Things are getting sadder on the ranch where they Do Everything Right. As to punctuate the dog's message, a little cold rain fell, just a little.

Emerson essayed about how there seemed to be a palpable aura in the homes of people trapped in their own misery, no matter how proper the appearances. I noticed this about the Proper Man who owned the expensive hunting dogs who had escaped in glee last summer. I called around to find out who he was and what was his phone number so he could come fetch his expensive dogs. He showed up unsmiling and ungrateful that I'd kept a watch on them for him, to the point of rudeness. He made sure I seemed unimportant. He wouldn't so much as offer a handshake. No L.L. Bean Country Club member am I. Well screw you, Jack, my horses are more expensive than your horses -- at least, they used to be. Now they're just lovable.

Stumbling into winter we go.

Ebert: I stopped in my tracks to read this.

Then I took the liberty of illustrating it:

http://j.mp/1GRnyr

Tom, that is beautiful. You lead a charmed life and there's probably no one quite like you in the world.

Roger, it's linked to the "I'd like you to meet your best friend" thread instead of this one. I tried to post a comment over at the fringe to apologise, but I don't think it made it through. Internal error thingie again. If it did get through, I hope it was a satisfactory apology to an inexcusable action. The social contract thread hasn't updated either.

Your essay is beautiful and touching Roger and has drawn out further beautiful prose. I wish I could contribute something of a similar nature. Perhaps Grace will oblige us? She's a most evocative writer.

Indian Idiot (H.W.)

Unusual week, ain't it H.W.? First I'm quoted in the New India Express, now this!

Ebert: I took the liberty of illustrating it:

http://j.mp/1GRnyr

Better than being honored, Roger,

I'm flummoxed at the pics! Llamas and hunting party (those are the clothes) understandable, but yes, that's our Solar, the white horse. White thoroughbreds aren't very common. Also, that's near exactly the color pattern of one of the hunting dogs; the other was black-spotted.

No small coincidence then that Catt and I have just come back from "Men Who Stare at Goats." You musta been a candidate. Let's see that chest tattoo. We'd actually gone to see "Coco Before Chanel," which was quite good up to the point the film broke 2/3 in, and the projectionist told us there was a mile of film on the floor, could we go watch something else?

Ebert: I missed what the New India Express quoted you as saying.

Ebert: I missed what the New India Express quoted you as saying.

---Er... uh... nothin'. Street reporter Sri Lly Ballou just asked me about my cranberry bog...

Ebert: "Now you've triggered me, Mr. Ballou!"

See this?

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/good-gravy-mr-science.html

Ebert: See this?

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/good-gravy-mr-science.html

I not only saw it, I had to stop to rest finally at "I think Noel Coward penned it in one of his weaker moments" because I couldn't read for tears in my eyes and aching sides, back and belly. Not kidding. I would have reached for the Bisodol if there were any.

Somebody's going to have to research the rest of the world before Bob'n'Ray are pronounced merely the funniest men in American History. I and friends have literally fallen down on the floor listening to them.

Tom said: "Unusual week, ain't it H.W.?"

All in a day's work for you batman. What's unusual is that you don't do more of it. I wonder why..

The following is a "short" satirical opinion piece on a recent piece of news -

"This just in -

..a stranger f***s the ghost of Franz in the a**..

..we'll bring you more as the story breaks..yes even the surname of the man in question..right after the weather, right here on the Lone Ranger News Station..

..tumbleweed shall roll endlessly in the desert and the aimless shall ponder upon the tumbling of the rollingweed..or..hang on.. is it rolling of the tumbleweed..?..well, that's what you boys get for outsourcin' your goddammed weather script writin' to them Indians..

..pickin' up where we left off, prolific writer of anti-hero cowboy epics, the legendary Cormac McCarthy has been quoted as saying -- quote -- I'm not interested in writing short stories. Anything that doesn't take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing. -- end quote..

..in McCarthy's defence, which must be made for a man of such plainly evident greatness, he was also quoted as saying the following -- quote -- There was never a person born since Adam who's been luckier than me. Nothing has happened to me that hasn't been perfect. And I'm not being facetious. There's never been a time when I was penniless and down, when something wouldn't arrive. Over and over and over again. Enough to make you superstitious. -- end quote..

..and now for the first time in cable history, L.N.R.S. brings to you exclusively a voice from the beyond and we don't just mean beyond the desert folks..we present to you the ghost of Franz..who? Kaf..ka?..what kind of a name is that..what is he like a coffee shop owner or sumthin'?..anyway here he is..or it is..speaking from the afterlife..the ghost of Mr. Franz Kafka..

..yes, greetings from ze crypt and ze name ees ka-afka by ze way..not zat it matters..it ees all ze same to ze dead..mostlee

..well, Mr. Ka-afka, what exactly is your beef with Mr. McCarthy?..

..first, you would think zat I would not know zees typically American "beef" colloquialism, but us ghosts like to keep up with ze current affairs..zat is how I came to know of MacCarthee's recent condemnation of ze short story..anyway, I haf no "beef" with ze gentleman, I am a close admirer of hees wurk..trust me, even he doesn't know how close..and I think zat zere are some limited similiarities between hees and mine wurk..

..I'm sorry to cut you off there Mr. Ka-afka, but could you hurry it up? Inter-dimensional calls cost money..

..you remind me of ze cruel soviet communists..I weel try to hurry..I have a date wiz..Ereec Blair soon and he gets all paranoid if I don't show up on time..anyway..where was I?..yes..as MacCarthee has said, he is a very lucky man..if he can hear me, I would suggest zat he try to leev in ze communist cities like Xinjiang, or Pyongyang, or Kerala, or Calcutta..I lost my train of thought..eet often happens weez us ghosts..oh yaa..if MacCarthee leevs in an oppressive communist ceetee, he might develop a taste for ze short story..zere ees not much time to write anything bigger and zat too must be written furteevelee..and who knows, someday it might be his ghost being interviewed by your ghost, on hees way to ze date I would most definitely like to haf wees heem..zat's all..

..I'm sure he'll 'preciate that..not..

..haha..you are ze veree funnee American man..

..well that I most certainly am..

..not..see..American humour ees eeezee..

..oh I see..well isn't that nice..

..no eet eesn't and I hope zat you would stop badgering me..why did you summon me from ze afterlife if you didn't want my opee-neon..?

..I'm sorry Mr. Ka-afka..is zere..oops..I mean..is there anything else you would like to convey to Mr. McCarthy? ..who I am sure is watchin'..not..

..I weel pretend I did not heeer zat you impudent man..anyway..could you pleese tell heem zat I loved Suttree and everything else hee has written and zat I weel look forward to seeing heem in ze afterlife..no, I weesh hee has a long and happee fortee or so more years of life..

..well you sure are a character ain'tcha Mr. Ka-afka?..

..yess..zees is true..

..well before we let you hop on, or float on..or whatever it is you dead folk do along to "Big Brother"..we have a question from a viewer..

..yes..yess..I love ze viewers..ask on..

..well..this is kinda' weird..anyway..it's a question from a guy, or a gal..we can't really tell..with the handle "Kafka's Squished Bug" and he, or she..is askin' what's with the accent dude? Surely you could've learned any dialect you wanted to..

..well..zees ees just annoying..I could speeek Greeek if I wanted to..but would you understand eet?..I doubt eet..and I like my heritage..just like I like my short stories..I'm leeveeng now..
..Ereec..Ereeeeeeeec..wait..I want to talk to you about ze indirect reference I just dropped about ze dictator of Oceania from your 1984 on an online message board conversation wees a right weeng American yesterday..wait Ereeec..

..well there you have it folks..a broadcast first..the resurrection of Franz Ka-afka..

..folks, this just in, our news station is being shut down by the lawyers of Mr. McCarthy for defamation of character..loss of profit..and metahphorical assault and battery..

..I sorta' see what Ka-afka-esque means now..oh well there's always News Corp. one of their subsidiaries oughta' pick me up at a bargin' now..

..in the meantime..I love scotch. Scotchy, scotch, scotch. Here it goes, down, down into my belly.."

Indian Idiot (H.W.)

P.S. If by some freak chance this actually gets to Cormac McCarthy, I'm very, very sorry sir. Just having a laugh..all in good fun..and the world's going to end anyway..so what the heck, eh?

How my fame grows. This poem arrived for me this morning from Nova Scotia. I am now an Epic. Take that, Jerry Berliant.

Nightly Adventures!

When Tom Dark lies down to sleep,
His horse companions, a vigil keep.
Sleeping snug, with a tarp to cover all,
Just in case overnight, rain should fall,

He has no one to share his bed,
No one to caress or cuddle his head.
He wants no cradle song nor lullaby,
Nor idle chatter from passer-by.

Secure in knowing his horses will neigh,
Should marauding coyotes come his way.
Tom feels quite secure, and no mistake,
He thinks his chosen life, a piece of cake!

Sleeping neath the skies, night after night,
Allows him to rise, at dawn's first light,
But should he perhaps happen to oversleep?
His horse companions, nibble ears, to keep

Him up to a high mark. It's one they've set,
For they allow him no backsliding. A sure bet!
He finds sleeping in the confines of their corral,
Fills a need: providing a boost to his morale!

He seeks no female companion: the stars
Being all he wants or needs. Nothing mars
His nights, nor disturbs his well earned rest,
And sleeping thus, is thought by far, the best.

He requires no one to hold him tight,
Nor the comfort of another, in the night.
Should nightmares - not the four footed kind,
Cause fear and confusion in his tired mind,

His equine guardians, nuzzle him, as if to say,
Calm down: nothing harmful will come your way!
These protective angels, and stalwart scouts,
Are keenly aware they are his trusted look-outs,

By donning the role of sentinel and defender,
They'll quickly deter any would-be offender
Who'd intrude upon Tom's sleeping space!
Devotedly, they guard his chosen resting place.

Nightly they step gingerly around, well aware,
He sleeps soundly, relying on their attentive care.
Whilst lying snug and peacefully under the trees,
He hears no noise except that of the gentle breeze.

His location he had chosen with circumspection,
Knowing wilderness stretches in every direction,
He wanted no marauder to know he is there.
A smart thinking move as most would swear!

Sleeping outside is not what many would suppose,
But for Tom? A time for pleasured, sweet repose,
Knowing he lies well guarded, when slumbering deep.
But we, the more timid, choose to stay inside to sleep!

Rhymer. November 15th, 2009.

Icy cold tonight. This a.m. Catt woke me up to show me the snow all over her knit cap and coat. Just now returned from dinner at an Indian restaurant. Very very good, as usual.

Very funny, HW. All right, all right, now that I've been heralded and chronicled in lengthy verse, I can act less obsequious. ALMOST very funny.

HW writes: What's unusual is that you don't do more of it. I wonder why.

---Well, HW, do you see how people never write big long poems about Roger? That's because he writes too much. They write big long poems about you only when you don't write that much. Then nobody knows all that much about you and they can make a lot up. For instance, Ulysses sold salt and pepper shakers for a living.

Hi Roger,

Just posted a new gallery on the photo website: Novemeber Corn

A continuation of autumn...

All pictures are taken in Central Illinois, within 30 miles of my home.

Sorry Marie, I didn't find any crop circles. :)

Try the slideshow option again.

Enjoy! Hope they give you good memories of downstate.

Randy

Ebert: Beautiful. That's the kind of country where I was born.

Ebert: I took the liberty of illustrating it:

http://j.mp/1GRnyr

Oh Tom...you and your stories.

Don't stumble too far now, friend, winter can be so harsh.

The dogs in my neighborhood sing in harmony. They seem to know how good they have it, as the four-legged members of their families, sleeping in plush cedar-scented beds. The neighborhood building code bans obvious fencing, none at all in the front of the house, and only wooden (or wooden-appearance) in back yards. Expensive invisible fencing is proclaimed in some yards with little celebratory flags, and heavy shock collars on family pets. These posh pets take their roles seriously: they play with their children seriously and bark viciously at strangers. And neighbors.

This is very very Novembery. My writer pal Shirley sends me this from the writer's almanac and a note:

It was on this day in 1851 that Herman Melville's novel Moby-Dick was published, and it was a total flop. He had poured his heart and soul into the novel and he thought it was his masterpiece, but neither the critics nor readers agreed with him. His readers wanted a swashbuckling adventure story, like Melville's earlier novels, so Moby-Dick was too heavy and allegorical for most people. Only about 2,300 copies sold in the year and a half after it was published, and in the next 40 years after that, only about 1,000 more copies were sold. It wasn't until the 20th century that reviewers dug it up and started to take it seriously.

Funny thing, Tom. I don't think of it as all that allegorical. One can taste the sea in it, and desire. The allegory is done in broad,
transparent strokes that don't get in the way of a great, driven story.

Perhaps we can dare to hope that, as a result of time's passing, our appetite for and digestion of allegory has increased. It's not like those allegorical paintings that abound through history (METAPHOR signaling frantically in flashing red). I would like to think so. I would like to think we demand no less than depths of meaning in our stories told these days that we can feel yet be as transparent as ghosts, as history. Perhaps this is the meaning of time. Perhaps this is the whole concept of meta.

Cold tonight.

Ebert: It's only one of those little Barnes & Noble classics, but Google makes it unusually readable:

http://j.mp/3Bx5HB

Tom said: “ALMOST very funny.”

Thank you awfully muchly Tom. I do try so hard..or, do I? ;)

Tom also said: “I would like to think we demand no less than depths of meaning in our stories told these days that we can feel yet be as transparent as ghosts, as history. Perhaps this is the meaning of time. Perhaps this is the whole concept of meta.”

Upon reading this, as though of some preterhuman miracle, for obvious reasons, Indian Idiot (H.W.) shrunk by about a third in size and the spectral form of this sorry figure was last seen on a child's trike, making straight for a cliff.

On a serious note, we have as much say over what we do with our lives, as we do over the colour of our eyes, as little as the sometimes limpid, often cloudy pools of memory that linger from their vision and as helpless as a foal in a frothy maelstrom with little to no chance of debouchment. Choice and meaning are vividly lit veils we choose to draw over our eyes, so as to not be blinded by darkness. Since it is dependent upon time and time is both illusory and irrelevant, you can guess where that leaves meta..or am I just being flippant again? :)

Indian Idiot (H.W.)

What is THIS, Miss Wang? "Me and my stories?" why, you little...

Just for that, I have been immortalized yet again. I'm not sure it makes me feel any better after this stinging put-down, but maybe after we are all dead, only these depictions will matter... they may be put to music accompanying a big balloon of me floating down Broadway in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade to loud applause.

This is a real poet from Nova Scotia, actually. I'm hiding his identity in case he might be tempted to immortalize Grace Wang, too. ("Licence" because he's originally from Yorkshire. Speak it with a Yorkshire accent.)

Poetic Licence?

Poetic licence allows us to fudge the facts,
Parody an event, or to propagate unproven acts.
But to delve into another's private affairs? No Sir!
We draw the line at such liberties, as you'd concur!

Like the horses that gingerly step around
Our friend Tom, sleeping on the open ground,
It matters not to me who shares his bed,
I avoid "that" in which, one should not tread.

Of private matters, I neither seek to peek,
Nor listen for springs or things that creak!
Never wonder what company he or others keep,
When they lie down for a restful sleep.

Privacy is sacrosanct, I've always thought,
And further enlightenment I've never sought.
Whether a hermit, or a simple wanderlust,
It's a blameworthy life that's led, I trust?

To sleep under the stars, throughout the night,
Let sleeping dogs lie, with whom they delight.
Whatever their choosing, I think it's not for us
To concern ourselves unduly, nor to make a fuss.

We lead our own lives, we make our choices,
Listen to our conscience; ignore other voices.
We select our own way, and choose our Mate:
Trust in common sense; leave the rest to Fate.

Rhymer. November 16th, 2009

To be fair, HW, it was my friend Shirley who wrote “I would like to think we demand no less than depths of meaning in our stories told these days that we can feel yet be as transparent as ghosts, as history. Perhaps this is the meaning of time. Perhaps this is the whole concept of meta.”

Now then, Shirley, I know you're peeking in here. For awhile I thought you were Grace Wang. Face up, girl. You've just shrunk HW to the size of a tricycle.

Also, HW, ever since the New India Express said I "almost" nailed it, my ego has taken a squintier view of you wogs. From now on, all one billion of you are "almost." At least, until I DO nail it.

PS in between things I'm reading the MOBY DICK excerpts Roger posted. Call me Ishmael, but I almost worship those words. The opening is the very soul of November.

We lead our own lives, we make our choices,
Listen to our conscience; ignore other voices.
We select our own way, and choose our Mate:
Trust in common sense; leave the rest to Fate.

Oh I'm liking this...I am.

Keep the veil of mystery on, Tom, that bother me not in the least.

But keep these coming...xo

p.s. You see, there really is something about us Canadians...you can't seem to stay away ;)

Those were "Rhymer's" lines, Grace. I'll see if we can't get him to join. He belongs to a private international discussion group -- the only one I've ever spent any time on before Roger's. He is the most adept rhymer I've ever met. A couple of years ago we engaged in a poetry contest over Xeno's Paradox and Johnson's kicking of the Berkeley Stone, and I'm still exhausted. It was like being assigned to 25 rounds with Muhammad Ali (been reading Larry Kolb's stuff).

Before I quit last night, I wound up reading more of MOBY DICK that Roger put up http://j.mp/3Bx5HB tho' it's missing some pages.

HW, I shrank much smaller into humility than a toddler on a trike.

Even his joshing line "But being paid -- what compares with it?" is placed better than a mordant in a Mozart piece. In comparison, all I write are eccentric versions of "Louie Louie." And that song is now so old and dowdy only Roger may recall it.

Sigh.

Tom said: “Also, HW, ever since the New India Express said I "almost" nailed it, my ego has taken a squintier view of you wogs. From now on, all one billion of you are "almost."”

Well matey, we've only been an independent nation for a little over 60 years, give us a few hundred years and our news media will surely evolve to the level of “sophistication” of the WSJ too. I'd heard that “wogs” began at the channel..or some such phrase..“Almost” is a most comfortable place to be in, depending of course on the prejudice you bring to bear upon it. That your ego was affected by that sarcophagal error, I find difficult to believe, because I think that you are both a most modest and evidently very funny person. Moreover, are you going to put much stock in he who writes “.. in my own(i wish i cud say inimitable) way..”? If the dude could learn how to capitalise “i” appropriately, or spell “could” correctly, he might “almost” nail it himself..and that's just from a subtitle he wrote, I didn't read much else.. :)

Come, come my dear Watson – you wish to “lump” over 1 billion people..under a label which could be affixed..well..the entire human population.. :)

Indian Idiot (H.W.)

P.S. Tom also said: “The opening is the very soul of November.”
Except maybe in parts of the southern hemisphere..? :)

Amazing, evocative post, Roger. I grew up in Israel and Southern California, where autumn isn't quite as dramatic, but I traveled enough (and read even more) so I can appreciate all this.

I was introduced to Prufrock by my brilliant high school English/Speech & Debate teacher, and performed the poem in its entirety at competitions throughout my junior or senior year. It is humbling and so cool to know you have a deep connection to it too.

The bouncing brown and silver sine-wave of a running squirrel, the
blushing pink and green and mustard leaves, yellows like gilt, molten
steel reds, lit in the setting sun--luminous, internal light, as they
wave frenetically in the wind. I sit inside, warm and still. An ineffable mix of feeling, from
nostos algos--the "returning home pain" to a sense of beauty that
makes me fear even breathing--and this is where
even poetry fails. Sublimity? The numinous? But there
are no words for this.

HW, it has occurred to me that a long litany of American racist epithets, which have always amused us Lenny Bruce types, may not be appropriate for Roger's blog after all. I can feel Roger's silence about it and that makes me shrink with unease. Therefore, HW, I shall relegate a certain portion of this discussion elsewhere for your edification.

Oh. I'll retain this, though: those diverse epithets are a double-sided coin, mean when meant in anger, funny when meant in affection. I'm tickled that in my diversity of friends over the years, I get to use the affectionate side of that coin with them.

Of course I'm not angry at the New India Express, I'm flattered. And look here, you called me an "evidently funny person."

"Evidently"? "Evidently"?! You wo -- er, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din. "Wog" isn't used in the U.S., by the way.

I'm serious about the nuances of phrasings and humor coming out of India. On the one hand, much in the Bollywood films that would make an Indian audience roar ain't funny to us Yanks... but then, take a few lines out of a Deepa Mehta film... the humor is so original to me I'm still laughing even though I can't remember how they were put to repeat them to you. I know she's a bit unpopular in India. Blasphemous, I hear.

Let's take this sentence that you scolded from that article: “.. in my own(i wish i cud say inimitable) way..” He's not being ignorant, he's using bits of hip vernacular from the UK and the U.S.

"Cud" for "could" is UK. Small "i" is American, from e.e. cummings (Not E.E. Cummings). Both denote subtle connotations for his remark.

The British use cockney fondly, which is where "cud" comes from. I remember first seeing it on an album by a rock group called Slade, back in 1971. "Cum Feel Tha Noize" was the album and title song, tho' my favorite tune to play was "Gudbye t'Jane." The idea was to put on a working-class ignorance. That even has its literary roots, or sentiments, in Europe's and America's "Noble Savage" idea of the 18th and 19th centuries. You can sound like a primitive dumb-ass, but in fact, you're canny and not unwise.

I started seeing teenagers using the small "i" for "I" when I was a teenager myself. We're talking the 1960s (dodder, dodder). e.e. cummings, who never used capitalizations, was a favorite with the smart girls. They started using "i." The idea was "I" means a great big ego (bad) and "i" meant a humble little me (good). I was surprised to see the convention spread, especially in punk literature in the 1980s.

There was also a famous series of poems, called "Archy and Mehitabel," love-letters to a cat from a bug who hopped on the typewriter keys to write them. Archy couldn't reach the shift key to capitalize things. However, that had a sweet humor. These girls weren't being humorous. They read e.e. cummings. They were serious. Dead serious. Very puritan.

We've been playing with altered spellings at least since paper became plentiful enough to play with. Not mere ignorance, but play. At least since Chaucer. We try to imitate how we inflect words to accent the meaning.

So, for example, when we mean to convey that our feelings are slurred about something, we write "I dunno." When we're certain and serious that we don't know, we write "I don't know." When we are lying, we state "I do not know," or "I do not recall at this time." But the variations would take up a whole term paper.

Yas, yas, I meant to say Melville's opening lines are the very soul of November in New England. Having lived in all the climes of this country, I could even feel that soul in November among the palm trees of Southern California and the Arizona desert.

But you're on the other side of the equator, so you shouldn't have a "November" just now. You should be having an "April," shouldn't you?

"Whan that Aprille with her shoures soote, the droughte of the Ram hath perced to the roote, and bathed every veine in swich licour..." You'll find the correct rhythm for these lines in any old British dance-hall number. It's very colorful, showy, promenading. It wasn't until relatively lately that scholars realized Chaucer's lines actually scanned in proper meter and rhyme. That is a problem with literal-mindedness. We move our mouths differently every few generations, and pronounce words differently -- and their meanings change as well. I conjecture that modern renditions of medieval music are also quite dismal compared to how it was actually played.

I hear that Chinese and Japanese ideograms are pretty much understandable in both countries, but they can't understand each other verbally. In the same way, I can understand "Rhymer's" writing perfectly, but when he spoke "Dorset," the vernacular of his British home, the only word I could understand was "turpentine." And it's pronounced "Daarz't" to my ears.

When I was a kid, just moved to upstate New York from Ohio (Ohiya), my new best friend could hardly understand a word my father and grandfather said. That's only 6 or 700 miles apart. But in upstate New York, "S'kanaan?" meant "How are you today?" Nowadays the common expression for that is "s'up?" When anyone in this country asks "how are you today," they're likely selling something, or you're in the hospital.

In both places we understood "Jeet jet? Nawp, jew?" "Did you eat yet? No, did you?"

I wrote "yas, yas," instead of "yes, yes." I believe that inflection would convey the intent for most english speaking countries -- a bemused impatience, humorously meant.

Your Indian "yes" sounds like "yais" or "yeese" to me, but in making that same inflection, your jaw would move the same way, and would come across properly in person. It would be understood the same way with the Spanish and french "si, si, si" drawn out. Written language doesn't convey but a fraction of subtle spoken intents, and that's got us into trouble often.