Some years I change my wardrobe so I can write a column about changing my wardrobe later. Things are getting more and more late. In the past, you were supposed to start dusting your coat, putting away your swimsuits, locking your t-shirts, and reviving your socks around mid-September. If you don’t care now, in some latitudes cold is a conversational entelechy: Let’s see if the cold will come, how warm it is for this time of year. Or just as a joke: This year, winter falls on a Thursday. While beaches and pools were filling up in October, swimsuits were resisting the penalty area. In her diary book ‘On a Trip’ (Scandinavian), which describes her travels in the interior parts of England, Italy, Greece and Spain, Virginia Woolf says that “sometimes the weather is so cold that you forget it later”. What we don’t forget is the warmth, but we forget the way this writer writes his surname, I always tend to put it with one or more, Wooolf, as if it were a scream, a long and strange goal chant. The manias of one’s mind are the flaws of one’s subconscious. We do not know whether Woolf will change clothes or choose to change cars, trains or buses. The representation of time is fixed in volume and is perhaps predominant in the description of coldness, humidity, blizzard and rain. His prose doesn’t leave you cold.
