In questi giorni continuo a leggere e rileggere senza pausa i saggi di Nabokov che compongono Lectures on Literature. Mi fa arrabbiare che sappia scrivere con tale lucidità in inglese. Eppure… eppure… nei suoi scritti c’è un tale amore per la letteratura, la scrittura e i libri in generale, a cui è difficile, almeno per me, resistere.
Literature was born not on the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature. […} Going back for a moment to our wolf-crying woodland little woolly fellow, we may put it this way: the magic of art was in the shadow of the wolf that he deliberately invented, his dream of the wolf; then the story of his tricks made a good story. When he perished at last, the story told about him acquired a good lesson in the dark around campfire. But he was the little magician. He was the inventor.
Postato da: IM