The woman went on. She had not looked back. She went out of sight up the road: swollen, slow, deliberate, unhurried, and tireless as augmenting afternoon itself. She walked out of their talking too; perhaps out of their minds too.

There's nothing grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask.

I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.

Но някъде отвъд кипналото щастие се съвещаваха смутени сенки — и колко съжалявам, че не се вслушах в тях!

Written By Vladimir Nabokov

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