Thursday, June 10, 2010

Some Nabs to ease my aching heart

"Okay," she said co-operatively, and bending toward her warm upturned russet face somber Humbert pressed his mouth to her fluttering eyelid. She laughed, and brushed past me out of the room. My heart seemed everywhere at once. Never in my life -- not even when fondling my child-love in France -- never --

Night. Never have I experienced such agony. I would like to describe her face, her ways -- and I cannot, because my own desire for her blinds me when she is near. I am not used to being with nymphets, damn it. If I close my eyes I see but an immobilized fraction of her, a cinematographic still, a sudden smooth nether loveliness, as with one knee up under a tartan skirt she sits tying her shoe.

(Ahh. I know. I know.)


  1. For my money, Nabokov is the best writer ever. Many come close. None surpasses. Not even Scotty FitzG.