the butterfly without a name just came and went. he really had no name: he didn’t play pretend. the butterfly without a name was only briefly seen:
a hunter saw him sail across a meadow green. they didn’t talk, the hunter didn’t stalk, there was no sound, and of all this extreme no-naming scheme no evidence was ever found.
when i step out into our garden on an early summer morning, i often find butterflies playing with each other. the devotion of nabokov to butterflies has always fascinated me. these beings – butterflies – are as ethereal and real as the characters of a novel. they are and they aren’t, they’ve got names and yet they’re nameless. – this piece was written for the 7th > language > place carnival – “unwritten language/unnamed places” hosted by julia davies. otherwise, it’s still jane austen month over at the speh residence, with “northanger abbey” being read aloud to little treasure, and with father-daughter collaboration continuing at 100 days & nights.