My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident {picnic, lightning} when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style {I am writing under observation}, the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
( Vladimir Nabokov )
[ Lolita ]
www.QuoteSweet.com