Vladimir Nabokov. Mademoiselle O
Vladimir Nabokov. MADEMOISELLE O
Very lovely, very lonesome. But what am I doing there in that ster eoscopic dreamland? Somehow those two sleighs have slipped away, they have left my imaginary double behind on the blue-white road. No, even the vibration in my ears is not their receding bells, but my own blood singing. All is still, spellbound, enthralled by that great heavenly O shining above the Russian wilderness of my past. The snow is re