Gods

by Nabokov, Vladimir

This is both perhaps just-too-long and read by a just-too-tired head; maybe just assume the intent is to separate the yolks from the hen’s asses… or something. Kudos to you if you make it…

Despite not wanting to overwhelm the Internet(s) with too many Russians in too short a time, Vlad is really a nomad, as we all know, no more or less a Russian than I am a humvee. And yes, I can refer to him as Vlad, just as I can spin that obscene metaphor: this is how tired I am, and these are the liberties bestowed on me by the potentate of the podcast alone. If not here, then where?

So then, Nabokov, the book can be found here if you want to buy it. The first hardcover edition came out, what, six, seven years ago, the jacket featuring the title (The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov) in blockish paper-cut-out letters, lepidoptery-pinned to a pale blue background. It was a fantastic effect, and I was sure it hadn’t been achieved digitally– it was that good. So good, in fact, that this was going to be the basis for a tattoo. But, elas, the jacket’s long-gone, before ink could be set to skin, and further printings have abandoned this design, and I can’t reproduce it. That said, the pages are all intact, and every word worth marking on my person, if only I had the girth (maybe one day). This, with the disclaimer noted that it’s too long to be read aloud (over TWENTY MINUTES!) and that I was too tired to try (but there’s nobody to stop me), is among the best.

Article written by miette

Miette has been podcasting the best of world literature's short fiction since March 2005, when she was just a pup.

2 Responses

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  1. Scoor
    Scoor March 15, 2005 at 5:10 am |

    One of my very favorite stories by my very favorite author. I’d like to read aloud one by him myself, but I’m afraid of you-know-what laws here in crackdown America. Still, I might risk it, too. Why not? Good advertising, I say…

  2. miette
    miette October 27, 2010 at 10:31 am |

    Of the many idiotic things I’ve written in this space over the years, I cannot believe the thing about Nabokov’s national identity came from my fingers. They must have been drunk. Or haunted.

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