Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
"Yes, I'm here, come in...."
The doorknob creaked timidly, the flame of the runny candle tilted, and he hopped sidewise out of a rectangle of shadow, hunched, gray, powdered with the pollen of the frosty, starry night.
I knew his face—oh, how long I had known it!
His right eye was still in the shadows, the left peered at me timorously, elongated, smoky-green. The pupil glowed like a