The darkness in August is the finest darkness of all. It lacks the luminous transparency of June’s, the sheer ripeness of its potentialities, yet is quite unlike the impenetrable depths of autumn’s or winter’s darkness. What was with us before and now is gone, spring and summer, lingers on in August’s darkness, whereas what is to come, autumn and winter, is a time into which we can only peer, a time of which we are not yet a part.
Once again, KOK's descriptive language blows me away. That and the inversion of Faulkner's title. Amazing.
