Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
Vladimir Nabokov. El duende del bosque
He fell silent. His eyes glistened like wet leaves, his arms were crossed, and, by the wavering light of the drowning candle, some pale strands combed to the left shimmered so strangely.
"I know you too are pining," his voice shimmered again, "but your pining, compared to mine, my tempestuous, turbulent pining, is but the even breathing of one who is asleep. And think about it: not one of our Tribe is there left in Rus'. Some of us swirled away like wisps of fog, others scattered over the world. Our