Summer: romance. Journeys, quests, magic, talking animals, damsels in distress.
Autumn: Tragedy. Isolation and decline, fatal flaws and falls, the throes of heroes.
Winter: Satire. Anti-utopias, inverted worlds, the embrace of the tundra: the embrace of wintry thoughts.
Spring: Comedy. Weddings, apple blossom, maypoles, no more misunderstandings—away with the old, on with the new.
We keep waiting for something to go wrong with the seasons. But something has already gone wrong with the genres. They have all bled into one another. Decorum is no longer observed.
“All moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday.” James Joyce