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Best snow reading go
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Best snow reading go
>I will never have a winter with 4 months of snow to read with a coffee

why live?
Mason & Dixon. Anything by Tolstoy but specifically War & Peace and the short story Master and Man.

t. Canadian
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My back yard rn. Virginia. We usually don't get very much snow. It's actually been a warm winter so far.
Hva jeg snakker om når jeg snakker om langrenn by Thorkild Gundersen
Charles Dickens and Robert Frost are good starts, snowy poems are a delight.
James Joyce
Sherlock Holmes
Ernest Shackleton's South: the Endurance Expedition (warning: wrap up warm and have a large cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream)
Nikolai Gogol and Dostoevsky
Arthur Machen, Mary Shelley, Poe, Lovecraft - that weird fiction schtick is unbelievably comfy during winter.
kon tiki
Er den bra?
Snow Country
The Secret Story

The Snows of Kilimanjaro ?
my diary desu.
The Dead from Joyce's Dubliners
the silence of the lambs
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I downloaded Snow Country last night.
doesn't argentina get snow?
If On A Winter's Night A Traveler
What about Mason&Dixon?
Argentina doesn't need snow.

It's already white enough.
Fine choice, you will be rewarded.
move to canada homie, anywhere but vancouver should be pretty comfy for you, even ontario gets a decent amount of snow and we're having a really warm winter
from florida but now living where it actually snows, i work in a coffee shop which is cozy but honestly i would so much rather live where it's never cold
The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann
Kawabata's description of nature is always comfy.
Check thousand cranes after, ideal book for a rainy day in summer.
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>Winter reads thread
>Nobody mentions Jack London
>Durrr I wanna be comfy
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Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
The Castle by Kafka has some pretty good comfy bits believe it or not. Like the one chapter(I think it was 13) with K. In Klam's carriage. Pretty good snow reading desu.
A king without entertainment - Jean Giono

No possible contestation
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