Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world {but singularly enough not verse-I am a miserable rhymester}, I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do-pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web.
( Vladimir Nabokov )
[ Pale Fire ]
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