Vladimir Nabokov. Una carta que nunca lleg? a Rusia
I am so lighthearted that sometimes I even enjoy watching people dancing in the local cafe. Many fellow exiles of mine denounce indignantly (and in this indignation there is a pinch of pleasure) fashionable abominations, including current dances. But fashion is a creature of man's mediocrity, a certain level of life, the vulgarity of equality, and to denounce it means admitting