How murder happens
I have two sleeps before I end my month-long holiday in the Algarve, where I grew up. I went to the beach for probably the last time today and stood, as I usually do on return trips, chest deep and getting knocked by the Atlantic, and looking at the sea twinkle. Smelling, feeling, trying to implant a memory. The plangent sound of the surf has been with me all evening, that and a visual memory of the slow, grey-blue trough that only people who love playing in the waves get to see. After all this I feel far too preoccupied with the facts of my existence for writing, and for Nabokov. But here follows an interesting passage.
It occured to me that if I really were losing my mind, I might end by murdering somebody. in fact - said high-and-dry Humbert to floundering Humbert - it might be quite clever to prepare things - to transfer the weapon from box to pocket - so as to be ready to take advantage of the spell of insanity when it does come.
I'm grateful to have made life choices that put me far away from this taste of Humbert's thinking-man's insanity.