Vladimir Nabokov. Nube, castillo, lago
Vladimir Nabokov. CLOUD, CASTLE, LAKE
So he sighed a little, and decided to go. He borrowed an aluminum flask from friends, repaired his soles, bought a belt and a fancy-style flannel shirt—one of those cowardly things which shrink in the first wash. Incidentally, it was too large for that likable little man, his hair always neatly trimmed, his eyes so intelligent and kind. I cannot re member his name at the moment. I think it was Vasiliy Ivanovich.
He slept badly the night before the departure. And why? Because he had to get up unusually early, and hence took along into his dreams the