Started reading Nabakov's Ada. I have to read each sentence twice, practically, since they have a tendency to run on... though he writes beautifully, as if he were making love to the English language.

If Nabakov had a blog, I wonder what it would look like. Here is my impression:

The young man arose in a groggy stupor, trodded towards the looking glass, speckled with pate a dents, a vague reminder, filigree on laticework, of last evening's inebriate jubilee, peering within, as though searching for his very own metamorphisis, kafkaesque, behind the shadow of overgrown whiskers, to a visage unfortunately familiar, blah blah blah.