Vladimir Nabokov. Un hombre ocupado
Vladimir Nabokov. A BUSY MAN
On a quiet summer night he turned thirty-three. Alone in his room, clad in long underpants, striped like those of a convict, glassless and blinking, he celebrated his unbidden birthday. He had not invited anybody because he feared such contingencies as a broken pocket mirror or some talk about life's fragility, which the retentive mind of a guest would be sure to promote to the rank of an omen. Stay, stay, moment—thou art not as fair as Goethe's—but nevertheless stay. Here we have an unrepeatable indivi