“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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