Vladimir Nabokov playing chess with his wife, Vera.

{photo. via a portrait of the writer}

The fascination of writers and their wives impress on my mind in a sort of dreamy musing from time to time.

Were their first meeting as romantic or as poignant as the books he writes? Is she an endless marvel and inspiration? Is he as severe as anyone to critique literary works but just as likely to reserve his smiles only to his wife?

This musing could take hours and a few nights of my time and will only let itself rest when there’s a different subject to moon over. And the cycle goes on.


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