I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
(William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury)
With August comes an awareness of summer, summer no longer mid-, but in decline, on its long, slow way out, burning itself up as it goes. There is a great nostalgia in it, wistful sadness for the waking glory lost, the potential more than likely unfulfilled, fading and making-do begun.
As I have said before, to me The Sound and the Fury captures the feeling of summer as nothing else can, the quintessence of summer. So I must either read it again now, for the umpteenth time, or try Light in August for a change.
image: James McNeill Whister, Nocturne, Grey and Silver