story of a disappointment

Some days I just don't understand the world at all. When the low pressure system conspires with my decreasingly adequate spectacle prescription and the fact that I haven't eaten any sufficient protein in over 24 hours, I stumble around the house, in front of a glaring computer screen, over a hungry cat, and I spill Whiskas milk on a freshly washed mat. I try to read Nabokov while the letters dance all over the page, I drink three more coffees than usual, eat two more steaks than usual, and every sound at the front door (a postman! a delivery man! a Jehovah's Witness!!) sends my palpitating heart into the depths of my womb. Idea! I'll hide on the sofa until it (the heart) claws it's way back into my mediastinum.

It's not too difficult writing like Nabokov, although I accept with regret that such a style would be scarcely congruous with a detective novel.

Even so, I am tempted by the ease with which word count escalates into literary novel heights, when one employs sarcasm and aloof distance to such a delightful end (somebody, stop me!).

Interestingly (to my recent musings anyway) Nabokov's own translation of "Lolita" into Russian (his mother tongue) includes a "Postscriptum" in which Nabokov states:

"Story of this translation is the story of a disappointment. Alas, that 'wonderful Russian language' which, I imagined, still awaits me somewhere, which blooms like a faithful spring behind the locked gate to which I, after so many years, still possess the key, turned out to be non-existent, and there is nothing beyond that gate, except for some burned out stumps and hopeless autumnal emptiness, and the key in my hand looks rather like a lock pick."

I know just how he feels.

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