Novembre by the American Tonalist painter, Lowell Birge Harrison, has been one of my favorites ever since I discovered it while researching Where the Light Falls—probably because I am fond in general of the gray-and-gold waning of fall color in November. I have to say, though, it's very odd here in the Northeast this year. Highs in the sixties. Warm, not wan. I've begun reading The Sentence by Louise Erdrich for my library book club and was struck by this sentence last night by this: "The act of walking down a beautiful November street, comfortable in only a thin sweater, was an infected sort of pleasure" (p. 50). Climate change, books, life, death, and I haven't even gotten to the lockdown section to see whether the novel becomes a major entry to my Pandemic Art category!