He came out of there, darkly flushed,
wild-eyed, and she was shocked to see
that his face was a mess of unwiped tears.
"I search, John, for the viscous
and sawdust," he said tragically.
"I'm afraid there is no soda, she
said with her lucid Anglo-Saxon restraint.
"But there is plenty of whisky in the
dining-room cabinet. However, I suggest
we both have some nice hot tea instead."

—Vladimir Nabokov






is for Poetry.      





Peel back the layers, and you find either other layers or something unanswerable; therefore we like layers. We like a lot of layers everywhere, glide on them, look-not-too-closely at them, paste them back when others peel them up.