|The time of year that is dear to me is summer. But real summers, like those of Egypt or Greece, with their strong sun, triumphant noons and exhausted August nights. I cannot say, though, that I work more (I mean artistically so) during the summer. I get many impressions from summer forms and sensations; but I did not notice any direct input or translation thereof into literary work. Mind you, I say directly; because artistic impressions sometimes remain unexploited for a while, provoke other thoughts, are transformed by new influences, and when they are crystallized in written form it is not easy to remember what was the instance of the first pretext, whence these written words really derive.