A Poet Reflects

"And suddenly it was supremely clear to me that, for centuries, the world had been blooming, withering, spinning, changing solely in order that now, at this instant, it might combine and fuse into a vertical chord the voice that had resounded downstairs, the motion of your silken shoulder blades, and the scent of pine boards."

—Vladimir Nabokov, from “Sounds,” in The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (Vintage International, 1997)

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