The last of the four books season series—Autumn, Winter, Spring, and now Summer. Written as simple essays by day and month on everyday topics. On one page you learn something about bats, on the next a deeply revealing anecdote, then a beautiful description of an ice cube, or the perfect description of an Eggleston photo. All four of these books are interesting throughout.

Bats can’t glide the way birds do, a bat has to flap its wings to stay airborne, and this demands a lot of energy: its heart beats five hundred times a minute. In winter, when there are no insects to be found, it hibernates, a state where life processes are reduced to a minimum and it approaches the border with death, for then its heart beats only four times per minute.
In the north, where I grew up, not speaking about emotions and not displaying emotions has always been an ideal, and this has probably been so because nothing has been spontaneous, everything has always had to be planned, saved up, hardly anything has been available for one’s immediate enjoyment, but has always had to be postponed, has always been stored for later. That I didn’t stop crying uninhibitedly as a small child but just kept on crying for the least little thing was considered a failing, for in that way I showed myself incapable of saving, delaying, waiting, but squandered it all straight away at the same time as I also revealed secrets about myself and thereby my weakness.
There are few things I like better and find more beautiful or mysterious than trees.
Each ice cube is a tiny triumph, a tiny piece of winter that has been transported into summer, where its coldness is no longer something unpleasant that one has to protect oneself against but rather something pleasant that one opens oneself up to with relish.
Eggleston is interested in people and sees them, in my eyes, from such a long distance that it is as if he were photographing animal species, tropical birds or animals of the African savannah, while at the same time what is particular to them, to each individual specimen, shows through.
Karl Ove KnausgaardSummer