I chose the title for the post primarily because I love how the word December sounds. I've seriously considered naming one of my characters December. Well, if you can name a kid Hashtag Jameson, then I don't see why you can't name a fictional character December.
Anyway, the real reason for this post is the observation that the semester is nearly over. This morning in American Lit we began Emily Dickinson, and to my great delight we will end the semester on that high note. The last author we studied was Walt Whitman, and, truth be told, I cannot figure out why people think he's so fabulous. His Song of Myself (title kinda says it all) is 1700 and then some lines long, and not one of those lines is perceptive. He just states stuff like it is (or isn't but he thinks it is.) I guess you could say it's reflective, but reflection usually leads to perception. In sharp contrast, Emily Dickinson writes poems of two stanzas, eight lines, or of similar length, and not only do they show effort and contain beautiful metaphors, but they're perceptive. This woman actually knows what she's writing about. For instance: He knew no more that he was poor/ Or that his frame was dust-/ He danced along the dingy Days/ And this Bequest of Wings/ Was but a book - What Liberty/ A loosened spirit brings -
Very different, no?
For the record, I think that poem is very true. No matter what sorrows this world offers, a book is the best way to escape them for a little while - either by reading a book, or by writing one.