The moon’s an arrant thief
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun
I’m reading, for the first time, Pale Fire, by Nabokov. Wow.
And all the time, and all the time, my love, You too are there, beneath the word, above The syllable, to underscore and stress The vital rhythm. One heard a woman's dress Rustle in days of yore. I've often caught The sound and sense of your approaching thought. And all in you is youth, and you make new, By quoting them, old things I made for you
Can he do that when he’s not seriously trying? And I thought The Golden Gate was marvellous - I had no idea the notion. feel, tone was lifted from Pale Fire; and that while Seth’s bathetic tetrameter’s aren’t too tongue-in-cheek, Nabokov could toss out this stuff to write a bigger, more peculiar and ambitious book. Quite remarkable.
