Reading Nabokov makes me think that there is an absolute plethora of amazing literature out there that I must sink my hands elbows feet knees soul into before it is too late. I am reminded of the beauty of madness, how I am always drawn to authors who write in a slightly confusing way, with an air of derangement to their already off-kilter complexes.
The poem itself doesn’t exactly constitute amazing and elegant writing (I wish you would stop trying to rhyme because ever so often your stanzas drip drop and trail off in a hazy mess) but anyone who knows how to deal with death in a strangely delicate yet crashing manner has will always have my heart.
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.
