Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
There, with his legs intertwined and one patent-leather shoe twitching, he again examined the pearl-gray photograph, the childlike eyes and shaded lips of the London beauty who had been his wife. The first night after her self-inflicted death he followed a woman who smiled at him on a foggy street corner, taking revenge on God, love, and fate.
And now came this Isabel with that red smear for a mouth. If one could only...
He clenched his teeth and the muscles of his strong jaws rippled. His entire past life seemed a shaky row of varicolored screens wit