The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
Vladimir NabokovDark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .
Vladimir NabokovBy God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
Vladimir Nabokov