Winter Solstice: An Essay

by Nina MacLaughlin

A celebration and meditation on the season for drinking hot chocolate, spotting a wreath on a neighbor’s door, experiencing the change in light of shorter days. All aspects of Winter, from the meteorological to the mythological, are captured in this masterful essay, told in wise and luminous prose that pushes back the dark.

Winter begins with the shortest day of the year before nightfall. As in her companion volume, Summer Solstice , the author meditates on both the dark and the light and what this season means in our lives.

“Winter tells us,” Nina MacLaughlin says, “more than petaled spring, or hot-grassed summer, or fall with its yellow leaves, that we are mortal. In the frankness of its cold, in the mystery of its deep-blue dark, the place in us that knows of death is tickled, focused, stoked. The angels sing on the doorknobs and others sing from the abyss. The sun has been in retreat since June, and the heat inside glows brighter in proportion to its absence. We make up for the lost light in the spark that burns inside us.”

If Winter is a time you love for its memories and traditions, if you love writing that takes your breath away with lyrical leaps across time and space, Winter Solstice is an unforgettable book you’ll cherish.

Genres: Essays, Nonfiction, Poetry, Christmas, Nature, Short Stories, Memoir

88 pages, Paperback

Published November 21, 2023

About the author

Nina MacLaughlin is the author of Wake, Siren: Ovid Resung, a re-telling of Ovid's Metamorphoses told from the perspective of the female figures transformed, as well as Summer Solstice: An Essay. Her first book was the acclaimed memoir Hammer Head: The Making of a Carpenter. Winter Solstice is forthcoming. She's a books columnist for the Boston Globe and her work has appeared in or on the Paris Review Daily, The Virginia Quarterly Review, n+1, The Believer, Agni, American Short Fiction, the New York Times Book Review, Meatpaper, and elsewhere. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Reviews

[s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all] · Rating 4 out of 5]

‘We peer into the abyss, tread into the mystery. It’s a temporary death⁠—an end to the limits of the self⁠—and an emergence from it in the form of rebirth, a waking up.’

The winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, the symbolic death and rebirth of the sun that has inspired festivals around the world all throughout history. I’ve often said that I appreciate winter because it is a reminder that nature wants me dead, and as much as I dislike being cold and the steady decline of daylight into darkness can dredge up the doldrums I also appreciate how winter is a good time to make friends with yourself spending cozy evenings indoors. This collection of brief essays, Winter Solstice, makes for a perfect read on just such a night and certainly instilled a much brighter and hopeful feeling about the winter. Which I definitely needed because winter here in Holland, Michigan is pretty brutal with a lot of lake effect snowfall and near totality of gray overcast skies all winter long. In each essay, Nina MacLaughlin’s gorgeous prose illuminates the seasonal celebration like the fires of a yule log, contrasting the darkness of winter with the warmth and drive to survive that we keep smoldering in our hearts. ‘Winter invites a turning in, a quieting, an upped interiority,’ she writes and follows suite through essays that probe the depths of ourselves as much as winter itself. ‘It's dark in there. How deep in the well will you go?’ Succinct and smart, Winter Solstice is a gorgeous meditation on the melancholy of winter and a poetic celebration of the solstice that makes for a perfect December treat.

‘What’s death in a world of stories?’

Something I truly appreciated about this collection about when ‘dark makes its annual inhale of light,’ was the incredible and intimate amount of storytelling that went into each examination, approaching insights in ways that resonated deeply with personal experiences that opened them up to a feeling of universality. It made the winter feel less bleak when presented as a shared narrative, especially as winter is symbolic of death and in winter we are much more fragile, the world more harsh, the stakes higher, yet we must press on.

‘In a world of stories, maybe a door exists that opens to the possibility that the ending’s not always the same. In a world of stories, maybe death is all potential, another means of moving on. And on we go, absorbed into the wet warm belly of eternity, or the roaring big black void, back here as a robin or a wren, in dusted orbit around another planet’s moon, riding on the light.’

The importance of the solstice to various cultures is touched upon briefly, reminding us that it is a shared experience as well, and one of the most fascinating to me was the prehistoric Newgrange tomb in Ireland, which is aligned on the winter solstice sunrise and opens up a great discussion on winter being like entering down into the depths of an idea ‘The boundaries begin to dissolve,’ she tells us in these moments of going under, ‘and yet: Here you are. Here you are, the winter tells us. An offer and a fact.'

Newgrange

MacLaughlin also brings in a lot of voices to weigh in as well, gathering quotes from familiar names such as Han Kang, Cicero, Herman Melville, poets such as Basho (‘Fireplace / On the wall / A shadow of the guest’) and Kobayashi Issa (‘Here, / I’m here– / the snow falling.’), and more. A favorite moment in the essays was when she positions Mary Ruefle’s poem Snow (read it HERE) and it’s lovely line ‘when it snows like this I feel the whole world has joined me in isolation and silence,’ in conversation with the song Then the Letting Go from Bonnie “Prince” Billy and Dawn McCarthy (I’ve long loved some Bonnie “Prince” Billy). All these different vantage points help widen the perspective and insights.

‘In his fevered novel Malicroix, Henri Bosco describes this almost-winter moment of the year, “when the world was poised on a pure ridge,” balanced between two seasons, casting “a glance back at the aging autumn, still misty with its wild moods, to contemplate deadly winter from afar.” The misty mood is behind us. We’re looking now at something dark and wilder.’

I love this passage on the misty autumn plunging into the dark depths of wild winter. MacLaughlin reminds us how in winter we return to the darkness but also our more inner, animalistic states. ‘It is the animal in us that knows the dark,’ she writes, drawing all of humanity out of our skins and into a more ancient, mythical experience of self ‘this season stirs that animal in us, and stirs the memories, ones that live in all of us, submerged so deep, of the ancient dark, of a time before gods, before form and words and light. Memories of helplessness. Somewhere, deep in, we remember. The animal in us remembers.’ Memories come up often here, and I quite enjoyed the discussion on how summer memories are filled with a feeling of expansive time whereas winter memories are a reminder of our mortal and finite existence.

‘We’re pulled back to childhood and, with the dark and cold, we experience our distance from it, and with that comes the knowing, too, that time is running out. Time gone and time left—winter delivers us this knowledge and with it comes the ache. The knowing rises from these shadows, from the layers of memory and understanding, from the tiny private fire out into the burning core of the stars. The memory of the ancient dark, the memory of your small self on a snow day, the lights in the neighborhood, the scent of pine needle or cinnamon, the wishes and disappointment,the loneliness of childhood. Winter holds it all in its cupped hands. And with it, the understanding, frank and cold, that you and the ones you love, all, at some point, end. The dark makes us see it.’

There are some great moments in here, such as discussion on Krampus and other winter lore where putting a form on our fears helps us cope, as well as a look at different plant life associated with the season and the stories behind them.

‘Winter reminds us: the dark was first.’

So celebrate the solstice with this lovely little collection. Curl up by the fire, face the fear of darkness and death and the hostilities of winter and keep a light always in your heart. The solstice is a time of rebirth and soon the world will awaken once again, she reminds us. A lovely little read and a perfect seasonal treat.

4.5/5

‘Winter tells the secrets of the longer, longest, endless dark and cold that was, and the longer, longest, endless dark to come. Grip tight, press hard. Such is winter love.’

[Candi · Rating 5 out of 5]

My reading and review-writing life have slowed to a snail’s pace this year, but this past autumn in particular has been rather stagnant. Before the year ends, however, I hope to share some brief thoughts on at least a couple more books I’ve had the pleasure of reading. This essay by Nina MacLaughlin is one of them. I grabbed this from a wonderful bookstore in Saratoga Springs called Northshire while at a conference there in early November. I frequented the store three times during my three-day visit! With today being the winter solstice, I thought this would be an appropriate time to post this. This is actually a collection of five essays. I found all of them to be quite lovely and just what I needed - nothing too heavy but instead quite comforting, much like the caramel hot chocolate a friend recently shared with me.

The prose is lyrical and dives into the darkness of winter yet offers hope for the lightening days. I don’t know about you, but I’m most certainly trying to take a positive spin on this time of year. While this might be the shortest day, or rather daylight, of the year, it’s a great consolation to me knowing that it can only get brighter from this point forward. MacLaughlin shares myths and legends, traditions, and her own ruminations on winter. I’m going to share a passage from each essay that resonated with me. I hope you bask in her words as much as I did. Should you decide to squeeze in an extra book before year’s end, this just might be the perfect one.

“What’s death in a world of stories? In a world of stories, maybe a door exists that opens to the possibility that the ending’s not always the same. In a world of stories, maybe death is all potential, another means of moving on. And on we go, absorbed into the wet warm belly of eternity, or the roaring big black void, back here as a robin or a wren, in dusted orbit around another planet’s moon, riding on the light.” (From Inhale the Darkness)

“Stand outside at midday in this short-day time of year, you’ll see your shadow at its longest, darkness stretching out from under you over the surface of the earth, reaching for something and inviting you to follow. Our shadows achieve their great height these days; they come into their power.” (From The Shadows Below the Shadows)

“In winter, we get inside each other. The erotics of the dark, cold season differ from those of summer – not the flirty sundressed frolic, not sultry August sweat above the lip, not tan lines, or sand in shoes or the exuberant spill of peony petals. It’s a different sort of smolder now. Quilted, clutching, we wolve for one another, ice on the puddles, orange glow from windows against deepest evening blue. For rare, magnificent moments, we halt time.” (From In Winter We Get Inside Each Other)

“I know the days are short, the sunsets now seem to say, but here, this fuchsia, this gold, this flame, they’re the best I know how to make, take what consolation you can. Winter is only just beginning, the season starts today, but it carries with it in its large felt sack the return of the sun. Winter begins, and the wheel spins itself toward light.” (From Burn Something Today)
“I know the feeling in my body when I am all the way here, when I am offering what light I have to you, the most precious thing I have, my attention, which is to say, my love. And I know the feeling in my body when it is returned, when that presence is offered back, when the spark of you is right here with me, even for a moment. It is not the words that speak the presence but the glow behind the eyes, the pulse from the heart communicated between us, across a table, beside you as we walk together on the sidewalk toward the square. I’m here, you’re here. We will not always be.” (From The Timing of the Light)

MacLaughlin has a summer solstice essay collection as well. Perhaps I’ll make another trip to that bookshop in Saratoga Springs when the time comes!

[Emma Griffioen · Rating 4 out of 5]

“What’s the start of the season for you? Is it: the first time you see your breath; the first potato-chip crisp of ice on a puddle; the first snow; the first mug of hot chocolate; tinsel; menorah; mistletoe? Is it: when the river freezes; when you hear a Christmas carol in CVS; when you lower the storm windows; see a wreath on a neighbor’s door; a candy cane; a persimmon; a pomegranate; eggnog in the dairy aisle; scarf around your throat; a certain pair of socks; the changed quality of blaze in sunset sky? Is it a creeping spider of malaise? A vague and frightening fuzz-edged feeling of hopelessness when the sun starts to sink too soon, a bottom giving way beneath you? A shadow at the back of the brain that, if you find yourself in too quiet a moment, gives an electric sizzle of static you can almost hear? A snarled black nest of fear in your chest and the upped urge to have another drink? The first fire? The first frost?” 🖤

[Alwynne · Rating 4 out of 5]

I first came across Nina MacLaughlin through her brief, arresting columns in Paris Review where she talked about the moon, the summer solstice and its wintry twin. Based in Cambridge, Mass., MacLaughlin’s an editor who later retrained as a carpenter – she still carves spoons – then returned to writing. Her pieces have something of a sculptural quality, shapes hewn from memories, books, and a fascination with the natural world. MacLaughlin’s known for her retelling of Ovid, shortlisted for a Lamda award, so it’s not unexpected to find copious references to Greek mythology and Roman poetry surfacing here. Observations on ice and the interplay of light and dark, by writers from Han Kang to Malacroix to Mary Ruefle set off spinning chains of association, from legends of menacing figures like Krampus to the sensations of skating on frozen lakes. There’s a celebration of the season’s turning but there’s a feeling of melancholy too, a keen awareness of mortality and fragility – made more acute because these date from the first pandemic winter. There’s often an easy grace, a lyricism to MacLaughlin’s roaming reflections but balanced by an earthiness and a fierce, underlying political awareness. She rounds off her collection with a section featuring a brief overview of plants associated with winter and outlines their connections to pagan belief and to folklore. There are moments when MacLaughlin’s associations are a little too free, her observations a little too breathless, but otherwise this is perfect reading for the gradual shift into the long nights of winter.

Thanks to Edelweiss and publisher Black Sparrow Press for an ARC

[liv ❁ · Rating 3 out of 5]

There are two parts to my feelings about this essay: the technical and the personal. On the technical side, I think this essay is good; it has some really great one liners and quotes some excellent literary material, but it felt a bit fragmented in flow.

On a personal note, this essay made me incredibly sad in a not-fun way. While I love winter and the solstice/christmas-time in theory, I come from a family who is not close and who hates traditions, so I am usually left feeling incredibly isolated on the holidays, and the solstice is close enough to encompass that. This essay was a very painful reminder of what I do not have and do not have means to gain this year because all of my friends are with the people they are much closer to, and I am pushed to the side, alone. So maybe I’ll read this during a year where I can feel more relatability about the happy traditions that I crave, because for now I am just sad and I suppose that is okay for this year but it definitely did not make for a good reading experience.

[Brendan Monroe · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's not the cold that makes me dislike winter — it's the darkness.

I don't think I'm alone in this.

We likely all know, from experience, the positive effect that sunlight has on our mood and what happens when we're without it. We get depressed.

Most of us, anyway.

Hence the increased prevalence of seasonal affective disorder (SAD) during the fall and winter months.

The darkness has other effects, too. It makes me more anxious, more paranoid — worried about what I've got going on tomorrow or the next day.

I'll be lying in bed at night and my mind will be wracked with worrisome thoughts, playing on repeat cringeworthy conversations from earlier that day, or 500 days ago, spending countless dark hours revisiting social slights and unpleasant encounters from bygone eras.

Yet at the same time, there's something about the darkness that I love.

It's full — charged with energy, with meaning, with mystery. You can read whatever you want into the darkness. It's harder to do that in the daylight, harder to recharge, to reflect.

I currently live in the Pacific Northwest, where the summer days are long. Excessively so. The peak days of June and July can see as many as 17 hours of sunlight.

When the days are clear, the weather warm, you feel called outside — guilty if you stay in and don't savor the light.

The darker days of fall and winter, by contrast, beckon you inside, urge you to warm up and recharge with a book or a good film.

Naturally we try and chase the darkness away, hanging up lights and illuminating our homes brightly, but we can only keep the darkness at bay for so long.

Nina MacLaughlin's wonderful "Winter Solstice" is a celebration of the darkness, of the dark days we're all too eager to escape. It may be labeled "an essay" but it's really poetry, best savored over a cup of hot cocoa, or maybe mulled wine. I came away from it more appreciative of the dark, of the shorter days that all too often fill me with dread.

Because as much as we look forward to the return of the sun at this time of the year, we will miss the darkness when it's gone. We'll miss the opportunity the darkness gives us to look inside and see ourselves, to realize that the darkness outside is not altogether different from the darkness we harbor inside.

We like to keep our fears and anxieties hidden in the light, but the darkness forces us to confront these fears and learn more about ourselves.

Those days full of light will return, so we best cherish the darker ones while they last.

[Ausma · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am someone who loathes winter nearly to the point of fear. When I inhale that cool, crisp air on the first chilly day of the season, my lungs feel dry as bone and my body tenses up in anticipation of the sheer dread and hopelessness to come. It is a time I feel so sapped of strength, a time I find so dark, so deep, like a gaping hole full of grief, and yet with seemingly no depth at all: barren, sharp, frozen, desolate.

Thankfully I stumbled upon this magical little book on a wintry November day, when the dread was threatening to set in. Nina MacLaughlin's Winter Solstice is like a beautiful prayer for winter. She acknowledges the starkness, the darkness, but finds the light, the tenderness, the hope. She holds the candlestick and leads the way for survival through winter, pointing to all the miracles I'm often too cynical to acknowledge or notice. In the scary barrenness of the wintry world, her words held me in their clutch like a fist clenched around a hand warmer. What in a lesser writer's hands would be an overwrought overflowing of sentimentality is, in MacLaughlin's deft prose, more like an intensity of emotion, an extension of warmth that feels like its own way of holding onto the fire within in a still, frozen, silent season.

Defined as "an essay," the book is broken down into five mini essays connected by the thread of winter and all its associated concepts: the depth and darkness of days and the white, powdery lightness of snow; the frigid, inhospitable outside world air versus the warmth of the home and hearth. MacLaughlin interestingly likens the 21st century to the winter of the history of our world — "our radioactive world, our world of fury and confusion," where war and poverty and pain and want and suffering reign and expand rapidly and seemingly infinitely. She manages to find the glimmer of hope in the miracles of the natural world — the seasonal flora, the blindingly white and miraculous snow, our rituals and ways of celebrating the season. Indeed, she writes of how the solstice itself demarcates a return to light; with each passing day, the sun's glow hangs above the horizon for just a few more minutes, promising relief to come.

Most poignant of all are her childhood memories, moments of sheer joy and peace frozen in perfection like scenes captured in a snow globe, and written with prose exuding such warmth that you feel transported into her childhood living room aglow in the light of the season. “I felt the spirit of every ornament alive, the spirit of the tree alive, my own self alive, and everything charged with wish and potential,” she writes. “I was a child then. And when I think about this memory, it cracks my heart with an ache I can barely stand.”

[Plateresca · Rating 4 out of 5]

'We peer into the abyss, tread into the mystery. It's a temporary death—an end to the limits of the self—and an emergence from it in the form of rebirth, a waking up.'

This is, as you see, prose poetry; very emotional, very evocative. I cannot say that I enjoyed each and every page of it, but I enjoyed it well enough, and I've certainly found it interesting and thought-provoking.

'So much magic is axed out of us, by the accumulating hurts of adulthood, our imaginations muffled by fear and loss, by the dull chores and arguments that separate us from the type of light and darkness that lives within us and outside us.'

An enjoyable seasonal read with pagan undertones.

[Shannon A · Rating 5 out of 5]

Maclaughlin’s beautifully detailed observations of the season transport the reader through the pages to discover warmth and light in the coldest part of the year.

These lines will remain with you even when there is no hint of snowflakes in the air.

—-

I don’t know how to explain it other than I literally hugged this book when I finished reading. I was so absorbed in her writing and didn’t want it to end.
I’ll never think of winter the same again.

I immediately restarted reading it after I finished it.

[Ann · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some nice thoughts scattered throughout but most of this wasn’t really my thing.

[Karen · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am unable to say anything meaningful about this book that offers such beautiful language and such keen observation. So here is a quote where the author talks about being in bed with your partner in the winter:

“In winter: the flash of wet light reflected in another’s eye, close to yours, half closed in the dim. That eye shining in the dark, that blurred wet glaze and shine, everything else in shadow, form and heat, that light for a flash as lid closes or shifts, that is a mysterious and singular light. That is the burning animal inside trying to run through the walls of its pen. I see in that flash the burning animal inside you. I feel my own there, too.”

[Carla Jean · Rating 4 out of 5]

I’ve already read two passages to a yoga class and recommended the book to a friend, so it’s at least four stars. The section “Burn Something Today” especially resonated (and I read most of it fireside).

[Lauren · Rating 3 out of 5]

Winter is my favorite season so I will consume and enjoy pretty much any content revolving around this restful time. This was an enjoyable enough read, but nothing that leaves a lasting impression.
This is a meditation on winter, its gentleness, its call for introspection and solitude, things I absolutely adore. There were some really beautiful reflections and moments in this, where the writing and breathless imagery really captures the magic and melancholy of winter. But then I found the moments in-between not as sincere, a sort of forced whimsy to the writing that didn't feel all that organic. I also just wanted a bit more from this in general, as an avid winter lover.
Still a worthwhile read to get you in the mood for the darker, colder months, just not something I feel all too strongly about or will come back to.

[C · Rating 1 out of 5]

Very very boring. And i adore winter!

[Madeline Church · Rating 4 out of 5]

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

[Elke C · Rating 4 out of 5]

Het zou een serieuze gemiste kans zijn als hier geen Nederlandse vertaling van zou verschijnen. Hoe graag zou ik het er eens naast willen kunnen leggen.

[Debs · Rating 5 out of 5]

I’m love this quiet little book so much. I’m buying a copy so I can reread it every winter. Cried twice.

[Irene · Rating 5 out of 5]

Viscerally touching descriptions of what winter feels like, of our connection to others when the sunlight and warmth are scarce and we must work harder to stay and feel alive. Beautifully written and thought-provoking.

[Rose · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truly a beautiful little book ✨

“Winter invites a turning in, a quieting, an upped interiority.
It's dark in there. How deep in the well will you go?”

[Jen Bracken-Hull · Rating 4 out of 5]

At one point Maclaughlin says that Northern ancestors at the summer solstice would ritualize pleading for the sun to stay as it is, a request never granted. At winter solstice they’d beg for it to return, a request that has never been denied.

I’m grateful and-equally-humbled by cycles and temporality. Nothing lasts forever. Neither the happiness nor the pain. What a beautiful essay this js, I highly recommend reading the whole thing.

“On a bridge across the river, a bit of graffiti in small neat letters reads: look at it all, it is all end full. All of it, look. All of it, ending. Every moment and everything held in every moment, all of it holding its end. The river and the coats and the fruits with all their colors. The bookcases and the blankets and the branches on the trees. Shoulders, a cardinal, the moon. Look at it all. The brothy golden glow of the kitchen in winter with a soup on the stove. Every embrace. Every spoon. The fire and the frost. It is all end full. Everything that hurts and everything that makes our hearts soar. The gap in the floorboards, the back of a grandmother’s hand, the smell of your friend’s mother’s car, the crumbs on the backseat. The evenings, the mornings, the weather, all the shifting weather. Look at it all. All the hellos and see you soons, brothers laughing. The quiet empty rooms, the last stop, a drink of water before bed. The special warmth between your legs, the riddles, the mud at the riverbank. The boots and the hooves, a flock of sheep on a hill. A clam shell, a vertebra, a church bell. Look at it all. A red scarf, a favorite mug, the eyes of a stranger on the sidewalk. Wind across a sand dune, an icicle off the gutter, your mother’s voice saying goodnight. It is all end full. The oceans and the shovels and the milk. Ladders, glass, ambulances. Dice in the palm, confusion, your tongue in your mouth. The naked press with another body, wanting, baths, bridges, feathers, fear and love and all the different kinds of light. In the light of the dark look at it all. It is all end full.”

[Lily Spar · Rating 5 out of 5]

About surrendering and digging in and appreciating the dark and the light in the dark and winter in its deepest freezes and most human moments.

“Winter invites a turning in, a quieting, an upped inferiority. It’s dark in there. How deep in the well will you go? Will you be able to find your way out? Time will tell. For now, right now, we are here.”

“After all, wouldn’t we all like to live deliciously?”

Short and full of rich language, I would recommend this to my fellow winter fearers and those of us who wish to find the light in the darkness.

[Ava Jax · Rating 5 out of 5]

Read this cover-to-cover the other day during a dark afternoon snowfall. I have no clue what my opinion of it would be in any other conditions. But anyways some of my thoughts while reading:

So much to sink into! To call it an essay as seems odd though. It felt like a carrier bag of poetic prose more than a linear discussion.

Seasons deeply shape how we process emotion, perceive ourselves, and interact with others. It reminded me of how Haikus are supposed to reference and only be written during the present season.

Time is a stillness. Winter is often viewed as otherworldly in fables.

‘The soul is thicker in winter. Thick enough to cast a shadow on the wall.’

When people first used Yule logs for fire they saved part of the trunk to carry the light from one year to the next!!

This rocked, thank you winter.

[Rebecca · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lovely little reading interlude focused around the winter solstice - traditions, memories, folklore, observations all wrapped up together in beautifully poetic language. I’m not sure how coherent the structure was but personally I enjoyed just letting it wash over me and it certainly made me think again about the little things around us that we take for granted. Also a good reminder that the days are already getting longer again!

[James Fraser · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nina MacLaughlin is one of the greatest contemporary practitioners of essay writing. MacLaughlin expertly meditates on the nature of darkness and light, coldness and warmth, through astronomical, literary, mythological, and personal insights with beautiful and poetic prose. In this book, “We peer into the abyss, tread into the mystery” (32).

Few sequels equal or surpass their original, but like "The Empire Strikes Back," "Winter Solstice" exceeds its expectations and then some. You need to read this book.

[Jewelianne · Rating 3 out of 5]

Maybe 3.5 stars? I found this book kind of frustrating. The subject matter is great, and there's some really interesting insights, but it's also very wandering, and stream of conscious at times. I'm all about metaphor and imagery, but sometimes I would sort of get lost/bored. Definitely a quieter read. I would consider revisiting.

[Mandy McKamie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Picked this Essay because I’m obsessed with books about winter. The prose was stunning and rich. It’s a lyrical meditation on winter. It echoed so many works from mythology to songs to poets.

It was wonderful. I both wanted to read it quickly and savor it.

[Nicole Bergen · Rating 4 out of 5]

A free-association prose-poem. I slowed right down to read this, which usually happens with poetry, even though this is, at first glance, an essay. It’s beautiful. I think I’ll also have to read Summer Solstice.

[eva · Rating 4 out of 5]

winter makes me insane 🩷

[Andreas · Rating 2 out of 5]

kinda pretty (sometimes), but rather directionless?

[Andrew Kline · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a collection of very poetic musings on the solstice and light and dark; I rarely feel confident reviewing something like this. But I enjoyed it and found the language comforting.