Subject
Nabokovian Pastiche
From
Date
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EDNOTE. I'm delighted that my recent suggestion that someone might
compose a Nabokovian pastiche (which I offered when posting subscribers'
comments on the Flintstones/ American literary classics parody in the
New Yorker) has resulted in this gem from Jansy Mello. Enjoy! -- SES]
One more push to loosen the blinds and a grid of shadows enclosed the
walls. A dizzy moth suddenly flew into focus while quick steps on the
wet walk announced a knock at the door. The furniture with its burden
of clothes hung out for two seconds on the window pane before night
followed him. Carefully folding her shirt and his coat, she arranged
their shoes side by side, toes watching the dresser. On the opposite
side of the street a double set of eyes was still watching the window
before the tender pattern of nudity turned into the disgusting lamp-lit
bare arm of a man in his underclothes.
Genoveva crossed the room several times before she sat in front of her
husband to read the evening news. Indeed, for optical and animal
reasons sexual love is less transparent than many other much more
complicated things. One must take the plunge.
Clattering shades and a distant voice suggested something, something
those something nights and the stars, and the cars, and the bars and the
barmen. A call came from below - "Uglowowgloowoo?" - but they
remained quiet until she turned the TV on. An uncertain patch of night
revealed the absence of her neighbor's binoculars. People are always
exploding when we try to freeze them in a frame. If we look at the
abyss too long a neighbor will stare back at us. After deodorant and
shampoo ads filled the screen, President Mark Anthony's vociferous
speech asserted its rights before she fell asleep:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Citizens, soldiers, wives and mothers! Brothers
and sisters! The revolution has brought to the fore problems of unusual
difficulty. Wives, soldiers and mothers! The hydra of the reaction may
still raise its head. . . !"
Too late for the next day, Genoveva waited until the water come to a
boil before she poured herself a cup of tea and prepared to wash the
dishes with Sugar Plum bubbles. She extracted a nutcracker from the
foamy bath to rest it safely by the sink. She must hurry now. Perhaps
if the future existed, concretely and individually, the past would not
be
so seductive. She knew quite well that she must soon leave all these
comforts behind and the little room with its wilted flowers beneath an
ever dripping balcony. She must reach for the sudden largeness of the
street.
"Make a note, make a note, these details do not matter," she mumbled,
adding a dozen eggs to her shopping list.
Still shivering despite the rising heat, she felt the itch of distant
eyes once again exploring her back. Stepping lightly away, she cupped
her hands and arranged her hair as if checking their roundness. Only
her head tilted while she moved with a new stiffness. The fringe of her
red skirt winked after she turned the corner. The lights urged her
forward. She secreted a course as invisible as the house she carried in
the memory of her shoulders. Red. A siren broke the rules and forced
her into a little run. A cold wind swept leaves and discarded candy
wrappings that stuck against her ankles. Walk! She limped a couple
more steps before a great truck carrying beer rumbled up, immediately
followed by a small pale blue sedan with the white head of a dog
looking out, after which came another great truck, exactly similar to
the first. Red. Hullo, person! Doesn't hear me - then the lights
turned green and life went on as usual.
"One will go home now," she told herself after the late shopping was
done. John was already waiting for her in the garden. Bernice helped
her with the bags and waved a good-bye.
"I guess it's your husband under that oak, isn't it?"
"No, it's an elm," she replied, and closed the door.
Search the archive: http://listserv.ucsb.edu/archives/nabokv-l.html
Contact the Editors: mailto:nabokv-l@utk.edu,nabokv-l@holycross.edu
Visit Zembla: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/zembla.htm
View Nabokv-L policies: http://web.utk.edu/~sblackwe/EDNote.htm
compose a Nabokovian pastiche (which I offered when posting subscribers'
comments on the Flintstones/ American literary classics parody in the
New Yorker) has resulted in this gem from Jansy Mello. Enjoy! -- SES]
One more push to loosen the blinds and a grid of shadows enclosed the
walls. A dizzy moth suddenly flew into focus while quick steps on the
wet walk announced a knock at the door. The furniture with its burden
of clothes hung out for two seconds on the window pane before night
followed him. Carefully folding her shirt and his coat, she arranged
their shoes side by side, toes watching the dresser. On the opposite
side of the street a double set of eyes was still watching the window
before the tender pattern of nudity turned into the disgusting lamp-lit
bare arm of a man in his underclothes.
Genoveva crossed the room several times before she sat in front of her
husband to read the evening news. Indeed, for optical and animal
reasons sexual love is less transparent than many other much more
complicated things. One must take the plunge.
Clattering shades and a distant voice suggested something, something
those something nights and the stars, and the cars, and the bars and the
barmen. A call came from below - "Uglowowgloowoo?" - but they
remained quiet until she turned the TV on. An uncertain patch of night
revealed the absence of her neighbor's binoculars. People are always
exploding when we try to freeze them in a frame. If we look at the
abyss too long a neighbor will stare back at us. After deodorant and
shampoo ads filled the screen, President Mark Anthony's vociferous
speech asserted its rights before she fell asleep:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Citizens, soldiers, wives and mothers! Brothers
and sisters! The revolution has brought to the fore problems of unusual
difficulty. Wives, soldiers and mothers! The hydra of the reaction may
still raise its head. . . !"
Too late for the next day, Genoveva waited until the water come to a
boil before she poured herself a cup of tea and prepared to wash the
dishes with Sugar Plum bubbles. She extracted a nutcracker from the
foamy bath to rest it safely by the sink. She must hurry now. Perhaps
if the future existed, concretely and individually, the past would not
be
so seductive. She knew quite well that she must soon leave all these
comforts behind and the little room with its wilted flowers beneath an
ever dripping balcony. She must reach for the sudden largeness of the
street.
"Make a note, make a note, these details do not matter," she mumbled,
adding a dozen eggs to her shopping list.
Still shivering despite the rising heat, she felt the itch of distant
eyes once again exploring her back. Stepping lightly away, she cupped
her hands and arranged her hair as if checking their roundness. Only
her head tilted while she moved with a new stiffness. The fringe of her
red skirt winked after she turned the corner. The lights urged her
forward. She secreted a course as invisible as the house she carried in
the memory of her shoulders. Red. A siren broke the rules and forced
her into a little run. A cold wind swept leaves and discarded candy
wrappings that stuck against her ankles. Walk! She limped a couple
more steps before a great truck carrying beer rumbled up, immediately
followed by a small pale blue sedan with the white head of a dog
looking out, after which came another great truck, exactly similar to
the first. Red. Hullo, person! Doesn't hear me - then the lights
turned green and life went on as usual.
"One will go home now," she told herself after the late shopping was
done. John was already waiting for her in the garden. Bernice helped
her with the bags and waved a good-bye.
"I guess it's your husband under that oak, isn't it?"
"No, it's an elm," she replied, and closed the door.
Search the archive: http://listserv.ucsb.edu/archives/nabokv-l.html
Contact the Editors: mailto:nabokv-l@utk.edu,nabokv-l@holycross.edu
Visit Zembla: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/zembla.htm
View Nabokv-L policies: http://web.utk.edu/~sblackwe/EDNote.htm