Gissa Bokcitatet

En rustik trappa ledde upp till ett loft. Bonden placerade sin knotiga hand på det knotiga räcket och riktade ett gutturalt utrop mot de övre regionernas mörker. "Garh! Garh!" Detta namn ges visserligen åt båda könen men är i strikt mening maskulint, och konungen väntade sig att få se en barbent bergsgosse stiga fram på loftet liket en fjunig ängel. I stället uppenbarande sig en okammad ung slarva iklädd endast en mansskjorta som nådde henne till de skära skenbenen och ett par alltför stora skor. Efter ett par ögonblick återkom hon som i ett förvandlingsnummer med det gula håret alltjämt stripigt och fritt hängande men med den smutsiga skjortan ersatt av en smutsig pullover och benen täckta av ett par manchesterbyxor. Hon blev tillsagd att visa främlingen till en plats varifrån han lätt kunde nå passet. En butter och sömnig uppsyn suddade ut den eventuella lockelse hennes trubbnosiga, runda ansikte kunde ha utövat på traktens herdar, men hon åtlydde sin fars önskan nog så villigt. Hans hustru nynnade på en urgammal visa medan hon grep sig an med grytor och kastruller.

Detta var min stickreplik. "På tal om romaner", sade jag, "så minns du kanske att vi en gång kom överens, du och din man och jag, om att Prousts oslipade mästerverk var en väldig, grotesk saga, en sparrisdröm helt utan kontakt med några tänkbara människor i det historiska Frankrike, ett sexuellt travestissement och en kolossal fars, ett snillets vokabulär och poesi men inget mer än så, orimliga ohövliga värdinnor, låt mig tala till punkt är du snäll, och ännu ohövligare gäster, mekaniska Dostojevskijgräl och Tolstojnyanser av snobbighet som upprepas och utvecklas till det outhärdliga, underbara havslandskap, smältande avenyer, nej, avbryt mig inte, effekter av ljus och skugga som kan tävla med de största engelska skaldernas, en flora av metaforer beskriven - av Cocteau,tror jag - som en hägring av hängande trädgårdar, och - jag är inte färdig än - en absurt mekanisk konstruktion till kärlekshistoria mellan en blond ung skurk (den fiktive Marcel) och en föga övertygande jeune fille med påklistrad barm, Vronskijs (och Ljovins) grova hals och kinder som bakdelen hos en amorin; men - låt mig nu avsluta i bästa sämja - vi hade fel, Sibyl, vi hade fel när vi frånkände vår lille beau ténébreux förmågan att väcka human interest: det finns där, det finns där - kanske i en ganska sjuttonhundratalsk eller rent av sextonhundratalsk tappning, men det finns där. Var snäll och ta en titt, titt och tätt, i den här boken" [räcker fram den], "du hittar ett fint bokmärke i den, inköpt i Frankrike, jag vill att John ska behålla den. Au revoir, Sibyl, jag måste gå nu. Jag tror att min telefon ringer."

Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake
Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque,
A dull dark white against the day's pale white
And abstract larches in the neutral light.
And then the gradual and dual blue
As night unites the viewer and the view,
And in the morning, diamonds of frost
Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed
From left to right the blank page of the road?
Reading from left to right in winter's code:
A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat:
Dot, arrow pointing back...A pheasant's feet!
Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse,
Finding your China right behind my house.
Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose
Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes?

Immediately after my dear friend's death I prevailed on his distraught widow to forelay and defeat the commercial passions and academic intrigues that were bound to come swirling around her husband's manuscript (transferred by me to a safe spot even before his body had reached the grave) by signing an agreement to the effect that he had turned over the manuscript to me; that I would have it published without delay, with my commetary, by a firm of my choice; that all profits, expect the publisher's percentage, would accrue to her; and that on publication day the manuscript would be handed over to the Library of Congress for permanent preservation. I defy any serious critic to find this contract unfair. Nevertheless, it has been called (by Shade's former lawyer) "a fantastic farrago of evil", while another person (his former literary agent) has wondered with a sneer if Mrs Shade's tremulos signature might not have been penned "in some peculiar kind of red ink". Such hearts, such brains, would be unable to comprehend that one's attachment to a masterpiece may be utterly overwhelming, especially when it is the underside of the weave that entrances the beholder and only begetter, whose own past intercoils there with the fate of the innocent author.
As mentioned, I think, in my last note to the poem, the depth charge of Shade's death blasted such secrets and caused so many dead fishs to float up, that I was force to leave New Wye soon after my last interview with the jailed killer. The writing of the commetary had to be postponed until I could find a new incognito in quiter surroundings, but practical matters concerning the poem had to be settled at once. I took a plane to New York, had the manuscript photographed, came to terms with one of Shade's publishers, and was on the point of clinching the deal when, quite casually, in the midst of the vast sunset (we sat in a cell of walnut and glass fifty stories above the progression of scarabs) my interlocutor observed: "You'll be happy know, Dr Kinbote, that Professor So-and-so [one of the member of the Shade committee] has consented to act as our adviser in editing the stuff."
Now "happy" is something extremely subjective. One of our sillier Zemblan proverbs says: the lost glove is happy. Promptly I refastened the catch of my briefcase and betook myself to another publisher.

When he waked he listened for the first breakfast-bell on the steamer, wondering why his stateroom had grown so small. Turning, he looked into a narrow, triangular cave, lit by a lamp hung against a huge square beam. A three-cornered table within arm's reach ran from the angle of the bows to the foremast. At the after end, behind a well-used Plymouth stove, sat a boy about his own age, with a flat red face and a pair of twinkling grey eyes. He was dressed in a blue jersey and high rubber boots. Several pairs of the same sort of foot-wear, an old cap, and some worn-out woolen socks lay on the floor, and black and yellow oilskins swayed to and fro beside the bunks. The place was packed as full of smells as a bale is of cotton. The oilskins had a peculiarly thick flavour of their own which made a sort of background to the smells of fried fish, burnt grease, paint, pepper, and stale tobacco; but these, again, were all hooped together by one encircling smell of ship and salt water. Harvey saw with disgust that there were no sheets on his bed-place. He was lying on a piece of dingy ticking full of lumps and nubbles. Then, too, the boat's motion was not that of a steamer. She was neither sliding nor rolling, but rather wriggling herself about in a silly, aimless way, like a colt at the end of a halter. Water-noises ran by close to his ear, and beams creaked and whined about him. All these things made him grunt despairingly and think of his mother.