Rather than trying to scrape together two-hundred words of platitudinous musing about the changing of the seasons or some such, I’mma turn this column over to original Digster Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said it best in his 1909 essay Boston. Take it away, Ralphie:
“Who lives one year in Boston ranges through all the climates of the globe. And if the character of the people has a larger range and greater versatility, causing them to exhibit equal dexterity in what are elsewhere reckoned incompatible works, perhaps they may thank their climate of extremes, which at one season gives them the splendor of the equator and a touch of Syria, and then runs down to a cold which approaches the temperature of the celestial spaces.
“It is not a country of luxury or of pictures; of snows rather, of east-winds and changing skies; visited by icebergs, which, floating by, nip with their cool breath our blossoms. Not a luxurious climate, but wisdom is not found with those who dwell at their ease. Give me a climate where people think well and construct well,—I will spend six months there, and you may have all the rest of my years.”
Translation: if you’ve made it this far, you’re all the right kinds of fucked up.
Have a kickass summer!
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