Vladimir Nabokov. Terra Incógnita
Vladimir Nabokov. TERRA INCOGNITA
"He's a clown," I softly informed Gregson, "a Shakespearean clown."
"Clow, clow, clow," Gregson answered, "clow, clow—clo, clo, clo.... Do you hear," he went on, shouting in my ear. "You must get up. We have to move on."
The rock was as white and as soft as a bed. I raised myself a little, but promptly fell back on the pillow.
"We shall have to carry him," said Gregson's faraway voice. "Give me a hand."
"Fiddlesticks," replied Cook (or so it sounded to me). "I suggest we enjoy some fresh meat before he dries up. Fa, sol, mi, re."
"He's sick, he's sick too,&