The framing meta narrative as a biting critique of literary criticism makes it an interesting and funny read but the poetry itself is also beautiful and Nabokov has a way with words like none other…
“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff -and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!”
Also recommend reading poetry out loud (to get a feel for its rhythmic nature) and subscribing to the poetry newsletter of The Paris Review they send you a poem every day!!
