Vladimir Nabokov. La visita al museo
Vladimir Nabokov. THE VISIT TO THE MUSEUM
We found ourselves in a hall of considerable dimensions. Brown books, with a half-baked look and coarse, foxed pages, lay open under glass on a long table. Along the walls stood dummy soldiers in jack boots with flared tops.
"Come, let's talk it over," I cried out in desperation, trying to di rect M. Godard's evolutions to a plush-covered sofa in a corner. But in this I was prevented by the custodian. Flailing his