It is June 1959. You are twelve years old, and in one week you and your sixth-grade classmates will be graduating from the grammar school you have attended since you
were five. It is a splendid day, late spring its most lustrous incarnation, sunlight
pouring down from a cloudless blue sky, warm but not too warm, scant humidity, a soft
breeze stirring the air and rippling over your face and neck and bare arms.
From Paul Auster, Winter Journal. Copyright 2012 by Paul Auster
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