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
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