Vladimir Nabokov. Terror
While I traveled back, while I sat at her bedside, it never occurred to me to analyze the meaning of being and nonbeing, and no longer was I terrified by those thoughts. The woman I loved more than anything on earth was dying. This was all I saw or felt.
She did not recognize me when my knee thudded against the side of her bed. She lay, propped up on huge pillows, under huge blankets, herself so small, with hair brushed back from the forehead revealing the narrow scar on her temple ordinarily concealed by a strand brushed low over it. She did not recognize my living presence, but by the slight smile that raised once or twice the corners of her lips, I knew that she saw me in her qu