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. 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. It's eleven p.m. 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 . . . My sweet excitement . . .
Today I can't write about anything except my longing for 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 . . . I don't know how I'll survive the week.
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. Such agitation-and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine-mounds of happiness. 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. I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations.
When you and I were at the cemetery last time, I felt it so piercingly and clearly: you know it all, you know what will happen after death-you know it absolutely simply and calmly-as a bird knows that, fluttering from a branch, it will fly and not fall down . . . And that's why I am so happy with you, my lovely, my little one. And here's more: you and I are so special; the miracles we know, no one knows, and no one loves the way we love.
What are you doing now? For some reason I think you're in the study: you've got up, walked to the door, you are pulling the door wings together and pausing for a moment-waiting to see if they'll move apart again. I'm tired, I'm terribly tired, good night, my joy. Tomorrow I'll write you about all kinds of everyday things. My love.
Today I can't write about anything except my longing for 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 . . . I don't know how I'll survive the week.
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. Such agitation-and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine-mounds of happiness. 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. I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations.
When you and I were at the cemetery last time, I felt it so piercingly and clearly: you know it all, you know what will happen after death-you know it absolutely simply and calmly-as a bird knows that, fluttering from a branch, it will fly and not fall down . . . And that's why I am so happy with you, my lovely, my little one. And here's more: you and I are so special; the miracles we know, no one knows, and no one loves the way we love.
What are you doing now? For some reason I think you're in the study: you've got up, walked to the door, you are pulling the door wings together and pausing for a moment-waiting to see if they'll move apart again. I'm tired, I'm terribly tired, good night, my joy. Tomorrow I'll write you about all kinds of everyday things. My love.
( Vladimir Nabokov )
[ Letters to Vera ]
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