The Wunderkammer of the Mild Colonial Boy, Esq., a Reactionary Tory Gentleman, who armed only with a Steampowered Babbage Engine and Pure Intentions, wanders the Time Streams and Aetheric Plane gathering an Eccentric Hodgepodge of Curiousities, Frivolities, Whimsicalities and Nonsense.
Q. Why is your Tumblelog called "My Ear-Trumpet Has Been Struck by Lightning"?
A. Because "My Grandmother's Ear-Trumpet Has Been Struck by Lightning" wouldn't fit in the available space.
Q. Why is your Tumblelog called "My Ear-Trumpet Has Been Struck by Lightning"?
A. Because "My Grandmother's Ear-Trumpet Has Been Struck by Lightning" wouldn't fit in the available space.
Nabokov was often afflicted with a hyper-aestheticism that makes his verse at times cold meats from Ronald Firbank’s table (the verse reveals the underbelly of Nabokov’s prose): the poems are fatty with words like “semi-pavonian,” “lyriform,” “macules,” “marron,” “cacodemons” and such, with lines like “she took me by my emberhead” or “They burn the likes of me for wizard wiles/ and as of poison in a hollow smaragd/ of my art die.
--Wm. Logan, “Guys & Dove” (via lardr)
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