Vladimir Nabokov. Una cuestión de honor
At about four he shuffled into the dining room and drank a glass of soda water. A mirror near which he passed reflected his striped pajamas and thinning, wispy hair. I'm going to look like my own ghost, he thought. But how can I get some sleep? How?
He wrapped himself in a lap robe, for he noticed that his teeth were chattering, and sat down in an armchair in the middle of the dim room that was slowly ascertaining itself. How will it all be? I must dress soberly, but elegantly. Tuxedo? No, that would be idiotic. A black suit, then... and, yes, a black tie. The new black suit. But if there's a wound, a shoulder wound, say... The suit will be ruined