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August
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“Oh, these damp, sultry days of August! how oppressive they are to mind and body!”
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“August is the mute month, / In a doze, / Leaf-laden and lackluster, / Comatose ... ”
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“August is a month when if it is hot weather it is really very hot.”
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“... breathe the sweetness that hovers in August ...”
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“August is a wicked month.”
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“Never return in August — / Along the leaves will be rust / And over the hedges, dust, / And, in the air, vague thunder and silence burning ... / Choose some happier time for your returning.”
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“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.”
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“... the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for.”
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“The August day came out at them like a parched and coated tongue ...”
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“... nothing happens in August — except when something really happens in August. World War I began in August, Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait began in August, al Qaida was preparing to bring down the World Trade Center in August. August, in other words, is the time when all of us should prepare our backup plans, chart our reversals of course, [and] think through possible paradigm changes.”
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“She had always disliked August, the month without drama, the turn of the year, with summer fading and autumn not yet ready to take its place.”
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“August is ripening grain in the fields blowing hot and sunny, the scent of tree-ripened peaches, of hot buttered sweet corn on the cob. Vivid dahlias fling huge tousled blossoms through gardens and joe-pye-weed dusts the meadow purple.”