"...my future wife is probably doing her calculus homework right now..."

“Most people live through the day with this or that part of their mind in a happy state of somnolence: a hungry man eating a steak is interested in his food and not, say, in the memory of a dream about angels wearing top-hats which he happened to see seven years ago; but in my case all the shutters and lids and doors of the mind would be open at once at all times of the day. Most brains have their Sundays, mine was even refused a half-holiday.”

— Sebastian Knight in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, by Vladimir Nabokov (via)

I've had a terrible and stressful day. I have to move in a few days and I detest moving. This year's excursion back to Austin was a catastrophic failure. I am ruined. Thank Buddha for my Mistress. She called me and I was able to loose myself in our intellectual conversation of secret origins, missing histories and youthful romances. It added some levity to my agitated state. We are both age-gap inclined so I made her laugh by saying that my future wife is probably 15 at the moment and doing homework, she'll find me in a few years when she's 18. I was trying to emulate the same age difference between my mistress and her very lucky future husband. Making her laugh is the best. Even though all you read is my depressive side here, I think she would attest to how funny I am on the phone. Today I realized just how much truth there is to my principal personal maxim: "I like Smart Girls in Short Skirts", being that two of my closest girlfriends are a doctor in training and a lawyer. I should have been a professor. Teaching and introducing "Lolita" to a new class every semester. Annotating "The Dark Knight Returns" for fun as an extra credit project (I tried to do this in High School and I convinced my English teacher into reading the book and appreciating it). Making fun of Dave Eggers and a long list of elitist literary twats. Elevating the prose issue of Detective Comics by Grant Morrison into the curriculum. Obviously Batman would be my hero with a 1000 faces of choice for discussion. Visiting all the places in Canada portrait in Beautiful Loosers for summer classes on the one book that blew my mind open when I was 18. I would be a peculiar professor no? Affairs with students: optional. This is making me want to watch "Wonder Boys". It's the middle of the night and the silence dictates I put the kind of movie that feels like a safety blanket. Something to make me feel better. "Lost In Translation" it is.  


safe from creeping relatives and rust

Broken_wings_by_violynn-d4r1yri

On Discovering a Butterfly

 I found it and I named it, being versed
 in taxonomic Latin; thus became
 godfather to an insect and its first
 describer -- and I want no other fame.

 Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
 and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
 in the secluded stronghold where we keep
 type specimens it will transcend its dust.

 Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
 poems that take a thousand years to die
 but ape the immortality of this
 red label on a little butterfly.

Vladimir Nabokov
 broken wingsby *ipeksen 

Toska

IfUluvmoi
“Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.
No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

Vladimir Nabokov


a sudden smooth nether loveliness

Angela-a-true-loletaa

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 her tartan skirt she sits tying her shoe. “Dolores Haze, ne nontrez pas vos zhambes” (this is her mother who thinks she knows French).
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Ipsicon

 lo.lee.ta 

monotonous & unfocussed

AsiROW

12
Instead, there was a new distraction:
something in my memory flashing,
as if unfocussed, and then clearer,
only to vanish once again.
Then I became abruptly bored
by work with needle and with screw,
observing the shimmer in the pattern,
of monotonous infusoria,
unravelling the bowels of a grass snake.
No longer did the lab seem heaven;
I started to imagine how, at the vicar’s,
she and I would meet once more.

The University Poem, Vladimir Nabokov


+ Vladimir Nabokov, beyond the novels

+ 'Selected Poems': The Essential Nabokov In Verse


In spite of everything I loved you

“In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you—on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neck—even then. And afterwards—perhaps most of all afterwards—I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B…without looking, or, without lifting the pencil…or in some other way…we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn.” 

― Vladimir Nabokov

 billellsworth 

agony of insomnia

Alliwantissleep


“The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world.”
― Leonard Cohen

“Yet only a few hours later the light of Hell had gone out, and I writhed, I wrung my four limbs, yes, in an agony of insomnia, trying to find some combination between pillow and back, sheet and shoulder, linen and leg, to help me, help me, oh, help me to reach the Eden of a rainy dawn.”
— Vladimir Nabokov

+ If I Could See You Again - Yiruma


poetics & idiosyncratic coinages

Lolita by Marina Kozinaki

Hartman's analysis also applies on the level of Lolita's poetics, especially when the realities of death, aging, and ends creep into Humbert's narrative. Having just introduced his mother into the background of his childhood in the French Riviera, Humbert dismisses her summarily, recounting her sudden death with one abrupt gesture: "picnic, lightning" (10). She becomes the paradigm for the women in his life, all of whom enter the story in the shadow of their eventual deaths. Humbert's penchant for hapax logomena and idiosyncratic coinages parallel in language the foreshortened life of Lolita: despite their ostensible vibrancy, they are dying phrases, obsolete just after their initial utterance. A master of so many poetic devices, Humbert riddles the narrative with instances of tmesis, the figure Hartman identifies as the epitome of poetry's elided middles and over specified ends (344). From his evocation of "the Old and rotting World" (85) he left behind, to his self-characterization as "an enchanted and very tight hunter" (268), Humbert repeatedly pries apart common phrases to insert the world outside his solipsism. But unlike the classical model where necessity is parted for the sake of art, the order is reversed in Humbert's fantasy world: tmesis allows ends to rush back in. Images that traditionally evoke nostalgia become symptomatic of inevitable decay.
Lolita's Loose Ends: Nabokov and the Boundless Novel - Vladimir Nabokov by James Tweedie

 lolita by Marina Kozinaki via fuckyeahnymphets 

he doesn’t know that a world exists outside himself

Tumblr_lyoa6o0TlP1qags0oo1_500

"Vladimir Nabokov claimed that the “initial shiver of inspiration” for “Lolita” came from a newspaper account of an ape in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris that produced the first drawing ever made by an animal. “This sketch,” he reported, “showed the bars of the poor creature’s cage.” The story neatly encapsulates the tragedy and comedy of Humbert Humbert: for all his preternatural brilliance — no one of his kind has ever set such things down on a page — he knows less than nothing because he doesn’t know that a world exists outside himself."


kissing your dim dear face

X-Factor 232

“I cannot help feeling there is something essentially wrong about love. Friends may quarrel or drift apart, close relations too, but there is not this pang, this pathos, this fatality which clings to love. Friendship never has that doomed look. Why, what is the matter? I have not stopped loving you, but because I cannot go on kissing your dim dear face, we must part, we must part.”
Vladimir Nabokov

albumorartist

 X-Factor #232 

in the stars, my brain

Screen-Shot-2012-01-26-at-8.55.08-AM

Ipsicon



I had opted to be quiet. I had nothing nice to say. why be hurtful? Imagine how I felt when you spewed all the venom I held back right at me . If your goal was to constantly frustrate me, you win. I can't fucking find you. I've come to learn that you know how to torture me like the best of them.

“And then black night. The blackness was sublime.
I felt distributed through space and time:
One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand
Under the pebbles of a panting strand,
One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain,
In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain.”

 Canto Two, Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov/ reluctantly subject to your disposal... 

that unique design for which I yearn

CantgetENOUGH

Ipsicon

 

“In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you—on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neck—even then. And afterwards—perhaps most of all afterwards—I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B…without looking, or, without lifting the pencil…or in some other way…we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn.”
Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading


the way desire burns bluely

Ahlolitafromwhoknowswhere

Ipsicon

 

Nabokov’s Blues
William Matthews

The wallful of quoted passages from his work,   
with the requisite specimens pinned next
to their literary cameo appearances, was too good
a temptation to resist, and if the curator couldn’t,   
why should we? The prose dipped and shimmered   
and the “flies,” as I heard a buff call them

.....

it’s an accident Melissa rhymes, sort of, with Lolita,         
The scant hour we could lavish on the Blues
flew by, and we improvised a path through cars
and slush and boot-high berms of mud-blurred snow  
to wherever we went next. I must have been mute,
or whatever I said won from silence nothing  
it mourned to lose.

....

This is the sweet ache that hurts most, the way
desire burns bluely at its phosphorescent core:

just as you’re having what you wanted most,   
you want it more and more until that’s more   
than you, or it, or both of you, can bear.

now thou too must go; just here we part

MarieZucker4444


Thus life has been an endless line of land
receding endlessly.... And so that's that,
you say under your breath, and wave your hand,
and then your handkerchief, and then your hat.
To all these things I've said the fatal word,
using a tongue I had so tuned and tamed
that -- like some ancient sonneteer -- I heard
its echoes by posterity acclaimed.
But now thou too must go; just here we part,
softest of tongues, my true one, all my own....
And I am left to grope for heart and art
and start anew with clumsy tools of stone.
Vladimir Nabokov

 pauline&fritz 

sometimes as Lo

SHEWASLO

I am the book of Dolores B. Haze
otherwise known as Dolly
(sometimes as Lo) age twelve
and almost a quarter

I come with a curse

and my pages
are private

if you read me, be warned

I am the Book of Dolores
beware:

put me back in my box
and be happy

Kim Morrissey, Poems For Men Who Dream of Lolita


Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss

A-butterfly-he-has-always-wanted-to-catch

On Discovering a Butterfly

I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer -- and I want no other fame.

Wide open on its pin (though fast asleep),
and safe from creeping relatives and rust,
in the secluded stronghold where we keep
type specimens it will transcend its dust.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immortality of this
red label on a little butterfly.

Nabokov  

 a butterfly he has always wanted to catch By BEYOURPET 

fed by exile

Lolitaglassesred

Lolita is probably more important than The Odyssey. It is better written, at least.
» In Which These Are The 100 Greatest Writers Of All Time

Conrad, Nabokov, Naipaul - these are writers known for having managed to migrate between languages, cultures, countries, continents, even civilisations. Their imaginations were fed by exile, a nourishment drawn not through roots but through rootlessness; mine, however, requires that I stay in the same city, on the same street, in the same house, gazing at the same view. Istanbul's fate is my fate: I am attached to this city because it has made me who I am.
» Istanbul: Memories of a City by Orhan Pamuk


Her image

ByCarlosNunez2

Her image, as she entered and re-entered his sleep, rising apprehensively from a distant sofa or going in search of the messenger who, they said, had just passed through the draperies, took into account changes of fashion; but the Disa wearing the dress he had seen on her the summer of the Glass Works explosion, or last Sunday, or in any other antechamber of time, forever remained exactly as she looked on the day he had first told her he did not love her. That happened during a hopeless trip to Italy, in a lakeside hotel garden -- roses, black araucarias, rusty, greenish hydrangeas -- one cloudless evening with the mountains of the far shore swimming in a sunset haze and the lake all peach syrup regularly rippled with pale blue, and the captions of a newspaper spread flat on the foul bottom near the stone bank perfectly readable throught the shallow, diaphanous filth, and because, upon hearing him out, she sank down on the lawn in an impossible posture, examining a grass culm and frowning, he had taken his words back at once; but the shock had fatally starred the mirror, and thenceforth, in his dreams her image was infected with the memory of that confession as with some disease or the secret aftereffects of a surgical operation too intimate to be mentioned.

The gist, rather than the actual plot of the dream, was a constant refutation of his not loving her. His dream-love for her exceeded in emotional tone, in spiritual passion and depth, anything he had experienced in his surface existence. This love was like an endless wringing of hands, like a blundering of the soul through an infinite maze of hopelessness and remorse. They were, in a sense, amorous dreams, for they were permeated with tenderness, with a longing to sink his head onto her lap and sob away the monstrous past. They brimmed with the awful awareness of her being so young and so helpless. They were purer than his life. What carnal aura there was in them came not from her but from those with whom he betrayed her -- prickly-chinned Phrynia, pretty Timandra with that boom under her apron -- and even so the sexual scum remained somewhere far above the sunken treasure and was quite unimportant.

Nabokov, Pale Fire

 Carlos Nunez - nsfw