Today I deemed two whole letters to me worthy of my attention. The following are the letters and the replies.
PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME THE RATHER LOOSE REFERENCE YOU MADE TO NABOKOV (WHO, BY THE WAY, WAS AN EXPATRIATE FOR MOST OF HIS LIFE AND QUITE, I DARESAY, REMOVED IN HIS PROSE STYLE FROM TRADITIONAL RUSSIAN LITERATURE) IN THIS POST. ONE SIMPLY DOES NOT FEEL LIKE NABOKOV. NO ONE CAN SULLY HIS MEMORY BY FEELING LIKE HIM. FEELING LIKE NABOKOV IS LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE RESURRECTED CHRIST. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE GOD. LIKE SAYING YOU FEEL LIKE THE GREATEST GENIUS THAT EVER LIVED, EVER. ACTUALLY, THAT IS SOMETHING YOU WOULD SAY, BEING KARL. THIS TRAIN OF LOGIC HAS LED ME TO THE SOLUTION TO MY QUESTION.
JULIE ANNE (yes it is truly I. although, as you have probably surmised by now, I'm normally way too cool to comment on your dear lovely little blog, I simply had to stoop to it this time. I can now be satisfied, having made a complete fool of myself. the end.)"
Dearest Julie Anne,
As you are aware I'm sure, I am German by birth. Wiemar German, if we're going to be specific- not this new Germany, what with all the done up blouses and such. Why! In Wiemar Germany, my mother, who was a very beautiful woman you know, used to walk around topless most days. All the beautiful women did. And the men dressed in an incredibly dapper fashion; far more dapper than today. Now of course, that terrible woman runs it- one wonders if she's ever been kissed, hm?
My point being, darling dewdrop, is that Nabokov is far more Russian than I shall ever be- even if he lived elsewhere for most of his life.
Of course, the reference is twofold- I was changing tense, something Nabokov is rather fond of, as I'm sure a certain boy is fond of your neck, no? However, I must admit that I felt like Nabokov at that moment. I suddenly felt the urge to write on index cards, so I went to the nearest library and discovered that they have no books, only computers. I then remember that I have my own library, so I went there and got distracted by reading Pynchon's Vineland and Dylan's Chronicles, Volume 2. Eventually- after remembering what I was there for, I took exactly two hundred and thirty eight index cards and sketched a collection upon them in a car. I felt that Nabokovian. Do I feel like the resurrected Christ? Non- Christianity is terribly unfashionable these days. But of course I feel like God, I am God. You then imply that Nabokov is the greatest genius ever; yet if this was the case the entire world would explode in a fit of confusion, as everybody knows I'm the greatest genius ever. Even Cathy "Ohio" Horyn thinks so, and she makes pies out of meat (boo! hiss!)
You end up realizing that I am indeed the greatest genius ever, therefore purging yourself of the sins you created. See me afterwards.
Dear uncle Karl,
Don't you think it's demode to lie about your age? If not, it's a mystery that you clasmates are older than you.
Why must you sully a kiss upon my skin? The short answer is: no. I never had classmates because classmates implies equals, and I have no equals. Therefore, they're not older than me as they don't exist.