If last weekend’s flitting chill and George R. R. Martin have been telling us anything, it’s this: Winter is coming. Winter is coming hard.
That coat that’s been hanging in the back of your closet is going to be your best friend for the next three to five months. Break out the scarves and the gloves and the fancy thermal hats, and above all, be prepared to face down a lot of cold snow.
Winter is either the greatest or worst season depending on whom you ask—the pinnacle or the atrophied husk of a year. Winter bars things like swimming or sun bathing, to the chagrin of lake bros and those girls laying on Bascom Hill soaking up the golden rays. It’s certainly anathema to all those Oompa Loompa tanners.
So what is to be done with winter? Usually, the descending cold is a signal for cloister. Get yourself inside with a comfy sweater and a hot toddy and just don’t leave. Think a walk would be nice? Look outside. You’re either insane or Minnesotan; those two aren’t always mutually exclusive either.
And when you’re forced indoors, you’re naturally going to need something to do with your time. There’s a limit to how far you can take television, movies, video games, web surfing or staring into the frigid abyss with nothing but your ennui staring back at you in the wan windowpane. Like, if the power goes out. You’re screwed. I mean, what else are you going to do?
If I may meekly proffer, you could, oh, I don’t know, read a book.
Winter is really the only season conducive to getting a ton of reading done. Now, a “ton” differs from person to person, but really, winter is the only season of the year that openly derides going outdoors for long periods of time and, bluntly, what else are you going to do?
Here’s an illustrative example: In 1886, early spring, Theodore Roosevelt had his boat stolen by thieves from its mooring on the Little Missouri River. Now, rather than, say, buy another boat, he decided to pursue the thieves, when there was still ice on the river, when ice was breaking in massive shards and frigid hillocks and temperatures were cold—a.k.a. the worst possible time to be traveling in North Dakota in the 1880’s.
Long story short, Teddy caught those thieves, and he read “Anna Karenina” to boot, in its entirety, in the midst of all this. The apparent message: Don’t steal T.R.’s boat or he will run rampant across the Dakota prairie in vehement pursuit, and he’ll read a massive tome while doing it to spite you.
Granted, this is Theodore Roosevelt we’re talking about. He probably read Dickens while simultaneously wrestling bears with his right pinky finger. But ignoring the feat of reading one of the largest Russian classics in the history of world literature while managing to chase down some petty boat thieves, the point here is clear: If Theodore Roosevelt can read in winter, so can you.
And if you’re at a loss on how to start, here are a few tips:
1) Think big.
You’re more or less stuck with winter—why not make the most of it? Theodore Roosevelt certainly did. I mean, it’s not every day (or week or month or year or life) that you get to chase wily boat thieves, but, hey, you’re stuck indoors. Why not read something large?
2) Read something that mirrors the environment.
Pick something to mirror the outdoors. Don’t go for something that is all sunny and light and soothing—it’ll probably depress you. When T.R. read “Anna Karenina” he felt that “[his] surroundings were quite grey enough to harmonize well with Tolstoï.” Go for the grey monoliths—“Bleak House,” “War & Peace,” “Les Miserables,” all those big, brooding 19th Century masterpieces that spring, summer and fall never give you a chance to read.
3) Take your time.
This ties back to the whole “winter is going to force you back indoors whether or not you want to unless somebody steals your prized river boat.” Because, let’s face it, you probably don’t have a boat. Hell, UW students don’t even have a river. All you’ve got is time. Cold, frost-laced time. If you want to make the most of it, then find a book worth digging into during those frigid hours. It sure as hell beats shoveling snow.
