Красавица и други истории Quotes

“Оставих вкъщи жена си и децата: тази винаги присъстваща в ясния север на моята същност, винаги плаваща редом с мен, дори през мен, но все пак извън мен, формула на щастието.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Красавица и други истории

“Но неизменният извор на омая при тези четения бяха арлекиновските ромбове на обрамчените в бяла рамка витражи в двата края на верандата. Видяна през тези вълшебни стъкла, градината изглеждаше странно застинала и недостъпна. Погледнеш ли през синьото стъкълце, пясъкът се превръщаше в пепел и мастиленочерни дървета се понасяха в тропическо небе. Жълтото създаваше кехлибарен свят, разтворен в силна отвара от слънчева светлина. От червеното листакът хвърляше рубинени сенки по розовеещата като корал алея. Зеленото потапяше зеленината в още по-зелено зелено. И когато след този разкош обърнеш поглед към някое квадратче с обикновено, чистосърдечно стъкло със самотен комар или куцукащ паяк на него, все едно опитваш глътка вода, когато не си жаден, и виждаш проста бяла пейка под познатите дървета. Ала години по-късно точно през това стъкло копнее да надникне изгарящата от жад носталгия.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Красавица и други истории

“All my life I have been a poor go-tosleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me. I loathe Somnus, that black-masked headsman binding me to the block; and if in the course of years I have got so used to my nightly ordeal as almost to swagger while the familiar axe is coming out of its great velvet-lined case, initially I had no such comfort or defense, nothing — save a door left ajar into Mademoiselle’s room. That meek line of light was something I could cling to, since in absolute darkness my head would swim, just as the soul dissolves in the blackness of sleep.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Красавица и други истории

“Lessons are over and Mademoiselle is reading to us on the veranda where the plaited chairs smell of vanilla in the heat. The sun is everywhere — on the steps, on the mat, on the white window sills, where it repeats the hues of the stained glass. This is the time when Mademoiselle is at her very best.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Красавица и други истории

“Presently my attention would wander still further, and it was then perhaps that the rare purity of her rhythmic voice accomplished its true purpose. I looked at a creamy cloud and years later was able to visualize its exact shape. The gardener was pottering among the peonies. A wagtail took a few steps, remembered something, and then strutted on. Coming from nowhere, a comma butterfly settled on the threshold, basked in the sun with its fulvous wings spread, suddenly closed them just to show the tiny initial chalked on the under side, and as suddenly darted away. But the most constant source of enchantment was the rhomboids of colored glass inset harlequinwise in the crisscross panes of the side windows. The garden when viewed through these magic panes grew strangely still and aloof. If one looked through the blue glass the sand turned to cinders while inky-black trees swam in a tropical sky. The yellow one led to Cathay and tea-colored vistas. The red made the foliage drip ruby dark upon a pink-flushed footpath. The green soaked greenery in a greener green. And when after such richness one turned to a little square of normal savorless glass with its lone mosquito or lame daddy longlegs, it was like taking a draught of water when one is not thirsty, and one saw the first withered leaf lying on yonder bench and the blandly familiar birch trees. But of all the windows this is the pane through which parched nostalgia would long to peer now.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Красавица и други истории