Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, December 9, 1942

Still reading in "Random Harvest"—a fine description of autumn in London brings forcibly to the front of my mind, the ache that I am feeling over the complete loss of this past autumn. First the too long drawn out labor on my frames, then the dull interim between finishing them and New York which I attempted to fill in with rearranging the studio, then the trip itself to New York, finally my illness—capped by an unusually early settling down of autumn, as things remembered from a beautiful dream, and there is a feeling of intense frustration and loss, that seems unbearable. Not only that, but the various pictures I have started of this season, haunt me, and I know they must stand idle for another year—Another year—there may not be another year—and if there is, it too may bring its own disturbances and duties, that will cause me to say again—"Well, in another year­­———"—

 Charles E. Burchfield, December 9, 1942