It´s early in the morning. I´m back on my balcony in Klenovica after I have spent one week in Zagreb. And I´m reading - this time stories of Vladimir Nabokov. Short, pithy stories abundant with sonds and visual impressions. In the mids of it there are emigrants from Imperial Russia - people wrenched out of their country, their families and friends seeking a breath of their old world. Masterly, beautifuly expressed sadness that affects ones heart.
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