Jesse Jarnow

pnin

More summer reading, sickness this time Nabokov.

It was getting quite dark on the sad campus. Above the distant, sale still sadder hills lingered, under a cloud bank, a depth of tortoise-shell sky. The heart-rending lights of Waindellville, throbbing in a fold of those dusky hills, were putting on their usual magic, though actually, as Pnin well knew, the place, when you got there, was merely a row of brick houses, a service station, a skating rink, a supermarket.

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