In Praise of Fallen Leaves: Cyril Connolly’s Garden Wisdom

September 10, 1903

On this day, dear readers of the garden and admirers of literary wit, we celebrate the birth of Cyril Connolly, whose sharp pen and keener eye would forever change how we perceive the subtle beauties of our gardens' decay.

While others might chase the fleeting glory of spring's first flush, Connolly dared to champion autumn's more sophisticated charms.

Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.

Such delightful irreverence from the pages of The Unquiet Grave!

How gloriously he challenged the established order, this bold critic who would later shape literary London through his editorship of Horizon magazine and his incisive columns in The Sunday Times.

What gardener among us has not felt that peculiar satisfaction of an autumn morning, when the air holds its first hint of frost, and the fallen leaves create a tapestry more intricate than any Persian carpet?

Let us imagine, if you will, standing in your own garden as the September light slants golden through the trees.

These are the moments Connolly understood so well – when the garden reveals its deeper truths, not in the brazen display of spring bulbs, but in the subtle interplay of shadow and substance.

The astute gardener knows that fallen leaves are not mere debris to be hastily cleared away, but rather nature's own manuscript, writing next season's promise into the soil.

Consider how these autumn gifts protect tender roots through winter's chill, slowly transforming themselves into the very essence of life-giving humus.

Would Connolly not have appreciated the modern gardener's understanding of the leaf litter ecosystem?

How delighted he might have been to learn that those fallen leaves he so admired harbor countless beneficial insects, serving as natural nurseries for next spring's butterflies!

In his role as a literary critic, Connolly frequently championed the unconventional, much like those of us who now advocate for leaving fallen leaves in our borders rather than pursuing that outdated notion of pristine autumn "clean up."

Through his work at The Observer and beyond, he taught us to question accepted wisdom and find beauty in unexpected places.

As we celebrate this literary giant's birthday, perhaps we might honor him best by walking our autumn gardens with newly appreciative eyes.

Observe how the low sun gilds each fallen leaf, transforming decay into glory. Note the rich tapestry of browns and golds that no spring garden, for all its gaiety, can hope to match.

Consider his words the next time you reach for the rake or leaf blower.

What secrets might those fallen leaves harbor?

What winter shelter might they provide?

What spring glory might they enable through their slow transformation into garden gold?