Help Me, Will

Memory works in strange ways. You can go a year and not think about something, and then wake up one morning thinking about one of your favorite books - in this case, Nabokov's Pale Fire. For some reason, I woke up with the first / last lines of the poem on my mind - "I am the shadow of the waxwing slain / by the false azure of the windowpane" - and it's been turning over and over in my head all day.

Then Jeff mentions Nabokov in his blog, and I email him about it, and then realize the strange coincidence. And then, being halfway to my own blog, I hop on here to write about it. How does that work exactly? I haven't thought of Pale Fire in a long time, probably since I moved here. I don't even think I thought about it when I was shelving my books (my Nabokov runs in a pack in my library, I've got all his books in one large clump).

Maybe I should get it out and read it again, but I'm still busy with the Stephen Brust Taltos books toward which Jon directed me.