I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations. And I am floating with you, in you, aflame and melting-and a whole life with you is like the movement of clouds, their airy, quiet falls, their lightness and smoothness, and the heavenly variety of outline and tint-my inexplicable love. Such agitation-and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine-mounds of happiness. My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? How strange that although my life’s work is moving a pen over paper, I don’t know how to tell you how I love, how I desire you. I’m gloomy and fearful: silly thoughts are swarming-that you’ll stumble as you jump out of a carriage in the underground, or that someone will bump into you in the street.
Today I can’t write about anything except my longing for you.
now: I’m trying with all the force of my soul to see you through space my thoughts plead for a heavenly visa to Berlin via air.
You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed-you put a glint of happiness on everything-always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged-and I don’t know when I love your eyes more-when they are open or shut. My delightful, my love, my life, I don’t understand anything: how can you not be with me? I’m so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. Nabokov died in Montreux, Switzerland in 1977. In 1940, he became a refugee in the United States, where he wrote his most famous works: Bend Sinister, Lolita, Pnin, and Pale Fire. Petersburg, Russia and married Vera Slonim in 1925.
Nabokov was born on April 23, 1899, in St. The following is from Letters to Vera, a collection of letters from Vladimir Nabokov to his wife.
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