Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
Kern rolled over onto his other side—gingerly, so his chest would not burst from the convex blows.
"Can't go on like this," he mumbled into the pillow, forlornly folding up his legs. He lay for a while on his back peering at the ceiling, at the wan gleams that had penetrated, as piercing as his ribs.
When his eyes closed again, silent sparks started to glide in front of him, then infinitely unwinding transparent spirals. Isabel's snowy ey