A sunset, almost formidable in its splendor, would be lingering in the fully exposed sky. Among its imperceptibly changing amassments, one could pick out brightly stained structural details of celestial organisms, or glowing slits in dark banks, or flat, ethereal beaches that looked like mirages of desert islands. I did not know then {as I know perfectly well now} what to do with such things-how to get rid of them, how to transform them into something that can be turned over to the reader in printed characters to have him cope with the blessed shiver-and this inability enhanced my oppression.
In Vladimir Nabokov's "Speak, Memory," the author reflects on the overwhelming beauty of a sunset, describing it as both formidable and splendid. He captures the intricate details of the sky, such as vibrant celestial forms and shimmering horizons that resemble dreamy islands. This vivid imagery evokes a deep sense of wonder, showcasing the transient nature of such experiences that leave a lasting impression.
Yet, amid this beauty, Nabokov expresses a struggle with the challenge of translating these profound sensations into words. His inability to convey the richness of the moment to the reader intensifies his feelings of oppression. This highlights the artist's predicament of grappling with the limitations of language when faced with the vastness of extraordinary experiences.
