despair...

i haven't read this one. last night i began.

from the foreword:

'the ecstatic love of a young writer for the old writer he will be some day is ambition in its most laudable form. this love is not reciprocated by the older man in his larger library, for even if he does recall with regret a naked palate and a rheumless eye, he has nothing but an impatient shrug for the bungling apprentice of his youth.'

--v. nabokov

what about the woman? maybe some day i'll report.

oh, this other bit from the foreword was good, too. observe:

'hermann and humbert are alike only in the sense that two dragons painted by the same artist at different periods of his life resemble each other. both are neurotic scoundrels, yet there is a green lane in paradise where humbert is permitted to wander at dusk once a year; but hell shall never parole hermann.'

so far, like most experience with nabokov, i am transfixed.

new yarn. new socks. i've dubbed these the "good and plenty" socks because they resemble colorwise the movie theater candy favorite of my elder brothers. yum. black licorice. i doubt, however, that i will ever produce the horrid "sugar baby" sock, "jujube" sock or "bit o' honey" sock. some things should not be subject to imitation.

i'm in a quoting mood. reap it. here:

'i've arrived very young in a very old world."

hmm. perhaps a misquote. a hundred thousand pardons, i've only strained the juice.

i may not post for a few days. i need to dust the squirrel army. but really i made that up. the squirrel part, not the absence. fear not. i'll return to grace you with my girlish wonder and inane...inanities. ttfn.