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Nicolas

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The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov

by Vladimir Nabokov

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Nicolas said: " "Sounds" - Beautiful prose

"Wingstroke" - One of my favourites. Funny and beautiful descriptions
The next day Isabel did not appear until lunchtime.
Since the morning the sky had been blindingly white and the sun had been moonlike. Then snow began falli "Sounds" - Beautiful prose

"Wingstroke" - One of my favourites. Funny and beautiful descriptions
The next day Isabel did not appear until lunchtime.
Since the morning the sky had been blindingly white and the sun had been moonlike. Then snow began falling, slowly and vertically. The dense flakes, like ornamental spots on a white veil, curtained the view of the mountains, the heavily laden firs, the dulled turquoise of the rink. The plump, soft particles of snow rustled against he window panes, falling, falling without end. If one watched them for long, one had the impression the entire hotel was slowly drifting upward.

On the high stools at the metal counter sat three men, all three wearing white gaiters, their legs retracted, sucking through straws on bright color drinks. On the other side of the bar, where varicolored bottles sparkled on the shelves like a collection of convex beetles, a fleshy, black-mustachioed man in a cherry-colored dinner jacket was mixing cocktails with extraordinary dexterity. Kern and Monfiori selected a table in the bar's velvet depths. A waiter opened a long list of beverages gingerly and reverently, like an antiquary exhibiting a precious book.

"Wait, will you," interrupted Kern. "I want to tell you that I have decided to kill myself . . . ."
Monfiori gave him an opaque, attentive look, covering his glass with his palm. He was silent for a time.
"Just as I thought," he began with unexpected gentleness. "tonight, as you were watching the people dancing, and before that, when you got up from the table . . . There was something about your face . . . The crease between the brows . . . That special one . . . I understood right away . . ." He fell silent, caressing the table's edge.
"Listen to what I'm going to tell you," he continued, lowering his heavy, purplish eyelids with their wartlike lashes. " I search everywhere for the likes of you - in expensive hotels, on trains, in seaside resorts, at night on the quays of big cities." A dreamy little sneer fleeted across his lips.
"I recall, in Florence once . . ." He raised his doelike eyes. "Listten Kern - I'd like to be present when you do it . . . May I?"

"A Matter of Chance" - Heartbreaking and tragic ...more "

Oct 26, 2019 02:08PM · see review