Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
"There I pined, and could not stop sobbing. I had barely grown used to it, and lo, there was no more pinewood, just blue-tinted cinders. Had to do some more tramping. Found myself a wood—a wonderful wood it was, thick, dark, and cool. Yet somehow it was just not the same thing. In the old days I'd frolic from dawn until dusk, whistle furiously, clap my hands, frighten passersby. You remember yourself— you lost your way once in a dark nook of my woods, you and some little white dress, and I kept tying the paths up in knots, spinning the