Vladimir Nabokov's writing is like a great gin - unlike wine it does not require time produce its greatest effects. They apparent immediately.
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...our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness - Nabokov...Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins...
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Journey into the Heart of Darkness
Our black cat roamed about the new house, having spent a few anxious days adjusting to the move and finding its sense of space, smell and new physical location. It was Sarah’s cat first up, and then after I had moved in with, after a period of a few months, I grew fond of the delicate and timid creature and consequently regarded him as my own. With my fingers I would play with his cheeks and mouth, a game he found tantalising and which I subsequently had trouble terminating with him. He kept returning and gesturing for more, to recommence the small joyous interaction, before he would accept it had finished and retire to the old flower patterned couch in the living room on which he would perch himself for several hours, rest, unless an unexpected visitor or barrage of bodies into the room would force him to leave, at which point he would climb the wooden stairs and sleep inside the upstairs cupboard, inside the children’s bedroom. Opposite this room was the room that Sarah and I would sleep in and should the appropriate occasion arise, he would enter through the connecting wooden door, uniquely carved with the words ‘Featherhead’, and place himself on the laundry basket for a short snooze until things quietened and he could return to those spots about the house that he preferred - Mifune.
