Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle
Published two weeks after his seventieth birthday, Ada, or Ardor is one of Nabokov's greatest masterpieces, the glorious culmination of his career as a novelist. It tells a love story troubled by incest. But more: it is also at once a fairy tale,
Characters
I don’t know. I adore you. I shall never love anybody in my life as I adore you, never and nowhere, neither in eternity, nor in terrenity, neither in Ladore, nor on Terra, where they say our souls go.
Dreamlined dash—
When we remember our former selves, there is always that little figure with its long shadow stopping like an uncertain belated visitor on a lighted threshold at the far end of an impeccably narrowing corridor.
A mist of brimming tears, agonies of un-resolvable adoration.
Bless the starling and damn the Stardust!
It contained, perhaps, a glowworm of strange truth.
I’m all enchantment and ears.
Go on from here, Ada, please!
If we want life’s sundial to show its hand, we must always remember that the strength, the dignity, the delight of man is to spite and despise the shadows and stars that hide their secrets from us.
She was induced to conceal from him, the concealer, her awareness of what he concealed.
Her charm was too compelling not to be tasted in secret and too sacred to be openly violated.
We touch in silhouette.
I’d like to taste the inside of your mouth.
Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive.
That despair of desire.
For the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.
We simply speak with our wounds; wounds procreate.