Vladimir Nabokov. De horas y mareas
Vladimir Nabokov. TIME AND EBB
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I was born in Paris. My mother died when I was still an infant, so that I can only recall her as a vague patch of delicious lachrymal warmth just beyond the limit of iconographic memory. My father taught music and was a composer himself (I still treasure an ancient program when his name stands next to that of a great Russian); he saw me through my college stage and died of an obscure blood disease at the time of the South American War.
I was in my seventh year when he and I, and the sweetest grand mother a chil