Creating unfinished texts / Publicando textos inacabados
All writers have a set of favourite words. They recur page after page, offering the same shape over and over to the eyes of the attentive reader. To the unconscious reader, it’s their sound that echoes recalling themselves without an actual sound presence. I like to think of these word sets as small chests, holding the tremulous heart of personality, layers of leather and padlocks covering carefully their meaning. Secrecy is the master key in literature. One could think writers make use of them as the set of words of a child’s play, combining the only words
he possesses that can be possessed to them. The world is a much better /safer place when is restrained in confined to a single set of words, shaping a well-formed coherent mass pattern.
Nabokov’s set includes the whole shimmering of the world. Everything is sparkling with sunlight, from grass to snow. Every place smells like if it were blooming, or sometimes with the sweet scent of faded but still colorful flowers, all rainbow
hues extended like stained
meaningful spots of meaning. The melancholy of decay and failure is hazed by a fragant mist that suffocates it. Spring always happens at an emigré’s homeland, and homeland is always equivalent with youth. Raped youth and homeland are odorous and persistent like Russian olive’s scent. The colour of the peach resembles a nymphet’s skin, spring blooming all over it like a modern Daphne. Nabokov uses his childish word set to give life to a promising and eternal spring, words in flesh and bone, exuding honeyed balms and exploding colours. Language as a sensuous coat to protect the painful core of life. Memories are like withered trunks growing green again with the help of melodious words.
P.D.: Suggested readings: “Sounds” and “Wingstroke”