#naboko

“Bourbon Street (in a town named New Orleans) whose sidewalks, said the tour book, ‘may [I liked the 'may’] feature entertainment by pickaninnies who will [I liked the 'will’ even better] tap-dance for pennies’ (what fun)”

When I was fourteen I became sort of obsessed with Vladimir Nabokov for a while. There were only two books by him available to me via the public library and my high school’s library: Lolita and Transparent Things.

A few nights ago I had a dream that I was sitting in a bathroom stall, skipping class to read Transparent Things. This is something that I actually did fairly often, skip class to read books somewhere else. I liked memorizing passages of my favorite books. (This is the only one I still remember.) 

Suddenly I was in a vast white room, alone, and sitting cross-legged on the floor. My book was gone, and I was dressed all in gray. I heard over and over again, from a a disembodied voice that became distorted over time: 

“Here's the person I want. Hullo, person! Doesn't hear me.Perhaps if the future existed, concretely and individually, as something that could be discerned by a better brain, the past would not be so seductive: its demands would be balanced by those of the future. Persons might then straddle the middle stretch of the seesaw when considering this or that object. It might be fun.But the future has no such reality (as the pictured past and the perceived present possess); the future is but a figure of speech, a specter of thought. Hullo, person! What's the matter, don't pull me. I'm not bothering him. Oh, all right. Hullo, person... (last time, in a very small voice).”

Over, and over, and over again.

I wasn’t alarmed, and I wasn’t concerned, I wasn’t even curious. I was content to listen.