PICS
I just finished reading Speak, Memory which is the autobiography of Vladimir Nabokov. It was very interesting and there were many moving and delightful moments. There is also a really amusing pseudo-review at the end written by Nabokov. He sometimes published under the pseudonym "Vladimir Sirin" in the 1920s to 1940s, to mask his identity from critics. And he made cameo appearances in some of his novels, such as the character "Vivian Darkbloom" (an anagram of "Vladimir Nabokov"), who appears in both Lolita and Ada, or Ardor. I found this really funny, it's from the pseudo-review -
In fact, Nabokov has gone a step further and under the mask of Sirin has projected a tertiary persona called Vasili Shishkov. This action was the outcome of a ten-year-old feud he had been carrying with the most gifted of the émigré critics, George Adamovich, who had rejected at first, then reluctantly accepted and finally admired with many an enthusiastic flourish Sirin's prose, but still kept pooh-poohing his verse. With the sporting co-operation of a review's editor, Nabokov-Sirin assumed the name of Shishkov. On an August day in 1939 Adamovich, reviewing in the Russian- language newspaper Posledni ja Novosti (published in Paris) the 69th issue of the quarterly Sovremennyja Zapiski (also published in Paris), lavished inordinate praise on Shishkov's poem The Poets and suggested that at this late date the Russian emigration might have at last produced a great poet.
In the fall of the same year, in the same newspaper, Sirin described at length an imaginary interview he had had with "Vasili Shishkov". In a groggy but still game reply Adamovich said that he doubted it was a hoax but added that Sirin might be inventive enough to enact inspiration and genius that would greatly surpass his, Sirin's, capacities.
Particularly nice things about butterflies -
And the next moment I was among them. Over the small shrubs of bog bilberry with fruit of a dim, dreamy blue, over the brown eye of stagnant water, over moss and mire, over the flower spikes of the fragrant bog orchid (the nochnaya fialka of Russian poets), a dusky little Fritillary bearing the name of a Norse goddess passed in low, skimming flight. Pretty Cordigera, a gemlike moth, buzzed all over its uliginose food plant. I pursued rose-margined Sulphurs, gray-marbled Satyrs. Unmindful of the mosquitoes that furred my forearms, I stooped with a grunt of delight to snuff out the life of some silver-studded lepidopteron throbbing in the folds of my net. Through the smells of the bog, I caught the subtle perfume of butterfly wings on my fingers, a perfume which varies with the species- vanilla, or lemon, or musk, or a musty, sweetish odor difficult to define. Still unsated, I pressed forward. At last I saw I had come to the end of the marsh. The rising ground beyond was a paradise of lupines, columbines, and pentstemons. Mariposa lilies bloomed under Ponderosa pines. In the distance, fleeting cloud shadows dappled the dull green of slopes about timber line, and the gray and white of Longs Peak.
I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness-in a landscape selected at random-is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern-to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.
x
NOV 05, 2011 06:07 AM
NOV 05, 2011 06:14 AM
NOV 05, 2011 06:21 AM
I find myself thinking the same things. It's difficult to face the shortness of life when we know we need so much of our living time for work, sleep and eat. I try to think I just need to enjoy the little things, as hapiness and life is definitely in everything we do.
I actually also finished reading the biography of Sonia Ghandi, such a moving life.
Have a nice weekend sweetheart 
NOV 05, 2011 06:47 AM
NOV 05, 2011 06:48 AM
NOV 05, 2011 07:03 AM
NOV 05, 2011 07:21 AM
I don't spend a ton of time on the way I look. I often laugh at myself because I go shopping so often buying nice clothes and more and more pairs of shoes. Which I almost never wear. I'm the guy with a big scruffy beard wearing stuff thats years and years old because its worn in and comfortable. I only shower every other day unless I'm working a physical job and I beginning to smell!! My nails have gotten rather long lately too. They are clean so I don't mind its just sometimes I get looks for being a man with long nails. But appearances don't matter to me weather it be mine or someone else's. A persons quality isn't determined by that in my world. Ive realized long ago we don't have much time in this world. I try enjoy every instant. Especially the really meaningful ones like my own personal eternity an endless moment of pure happiness. While I shine shine positivity in ever dark corner around me 
NOV 05, 2011 07:47 AM
supergalactic
United Kingdom
February 2010
NOV 05, 2011 07:50 AM
i confess ibelieve in time- i just dont understand it. 
work feeds on life and thought and creativity, not good .....
NOV 05, 2011 07:52 AM
NOV 05, 2011 08:52 AM
A wise man told me that every choice has its benefits and its drawbacks. This little notion has provided great comfort as I've struggled to find perfection in all things, like selecting the ideal cave or the right shoes. I have to admit though, that it doesn't seem to apply to knowing you.
NOV 05, 2011 09:06 AM
NOV 05, 2011 10:00 AM
NOV 05, 2011 11:47 AM
That's brilliant - I had no idea about Sirin, let alone Shishkov! I love that Adamovich somehow attempts to paint himself back into relevance by suggesting that Nabokov might have "transcended his own talent by play-acting"
I suppose critics are necessary in creative fields but I always find myself thinking that, the only reason they are employed as such is because they're incapable of the work itself. Oh look, I'm critiquing a critic! (in case you hadn't had your dose of irony yet today).
As far as the ability to turn into a clever animal to avoid unpleasant situations and the drudgery of societal obligation, I'm pretty sure I managed a great hairy sloth today and exercised a spectacular economy of movement by lying in bed until 4pm. Hopefully I'll feel some kind of remorse by tomorrow which will inspire me to get up at a reasonable hour and get some exercise or do, for instance, anything at all.
That bit about time and vacuums filled with the stuff of dreams and butterflies was exquisite though. Like your voice. Have I mentioned that I really like your voice? xo
PAGE:
1 | 2 | 3