Reading "Light in August"

I could not resist the shape. Yesterday, the first day of the month, I started reading Faulkner's Light in August in Central Park. The August light burnished the trees with a final coat of summer polish, but the gold was also funereal. Then a cloud moved, and the light was shown up to be a trick. The grotesque did not take very long to appear in the woods, in the novel.

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