This summer I wrote almost nothing and read almost nothing, and spent most of my evenings in a borrowed garden watching things grow at a speed I could not see.
By September the leaves were coming down, and I found myself thinking of Rivière’s view from the Trocadéro gardens in autumn: bare trees, leaves blowing across the path, a man stooping against the wind, and the tower faint in the distance. Nothing much is happening. It is the most exact picture of the end of a season I know.
The writing comes back in the autumn. It always does.