As in Spain at another time the summer started with the images of the beach of Ana Obregón, my particular summer does not start until I buy the book Un été avec del año. This is how I spent this summer with Paul Valéry – “Je hume ici ma future fumée, / Et le ciel chante à l’âme consumée / Le changement des rives en rumeur” –. But for the moment, it's still my favorite summer that I spent with Montaigne. Among other things, because it allows my conscience to delay the reading of its complete attempts.

In addition, except for these things, I do not particularly like summer. I often want the summer to end. Not so much as a seasonal summer season, who doesn't appreciate some sun on the skin, some sea breeze on the face, some ice cream on the newly released shirt. But if the official, the month of August, you have to go somewhere, do something, be handsome with it (we deserve everything that happens to us, and more). More deeply, I want to think that I want to end the summer to start wanting the next summer to come. Because it is known that desire is always much more alive than reality.

Once in a while some surprise: summer begins, without much enthusiasm, without much laziness, as if it were another summer. And, what is life, you end up in these lines, trying to fill the gap of my beloved Santi Leoné (and, of course, unable to fulfill it). We will take a course together (I guess we will end up getting fond). A course with the best moments of humanity.