just had a heated discussion with an old flame
about our taste in books.
I just finished this really cool book (to me) by vladimir nabakov called laughter in the dark. His prose is fantastic and the situational shit he puts his characters through is awesome. The way he describes things is just…magic. Like when describing the moment a man grows conscious of his daughter’s death he talks about the acidity of an orange, a whisper across the street, dashing glances but lets the reader figure out plot based on snapshots.
Anyway, I was reading him some passages and over the phone I hear grunts. And maybe I shouldn’t take these seriously but I ask him what’s wrong. He doesn’t like what nabakov chooses too describe. Instead of the imagery like the setting of the sun or the colors of the apartment, the book focuses on the psychological climate. To him it’s dreary where to me it’s magic.
It’s fun trying to understand differences in people. But accepting them is a whole different story.
