So I haven't had much time to actually sit down and read Nabokov's memoir this past week. It's been on my to-do list of course.... along with a million other things that need attending to! I feel as if this week has leveled me completely. I'm sick (with strep), fatigued, and incredibly sour at the dismal weather (will winter come already and dispel all this horrid humidity)?
I shouldn't be using this journal entry as a font for all my myriad complaints. I should be writing insightful, impressive words about memory and Nabokov and human consciousness. But that would require actual thinking. And now, with my first college midterm looming precipitously over my head and an ungodly amount of Chinese homework lying fallow in my backpack I can't bring myself to remember or speculate on anything besides my next meal and the overall crapiness of this week.
I will say though, from the little pieces of his work I've actually had time to read, Nabokov seems to be right up my alley. He writes in a very exacting, eloquent fashion. I like to mull over his words, rubbing them together like sticks and stones in my mind, feeling the sparks singing my synapses as I make believe that I too could be a Russian aristocrat with an incredible talent for description and an elegant estate called Vrya to call home.
Why do writers have such cool lives?
On a slightly related not, the very first chapter of this memoir were familiar to me. As in I have read (and analyzed) those exact same words before on a SAT practice test I took once.
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