The Nature of Electricity

‘The dead, the gentle dead – who knows? –

In tungsten filaments abide,

And on my bedside table glows

Another man’s departed bride.

And maybe Shakespeare floods a whole

Town with innumerable lights,

And Shelley’s incandescent soul

Lures the pale moths of starless nights.

Streetlamps are numbered, and maybe

Number nine-hundred-ninety-nine

(So brightly beaming through a tree

So green) is an old friend of mine.

And when above the livid plain

Forked lightning plays, therein may dwell

The torments of a Tamerlane,

The roar of tyrants torn in hell.’

Pale Fire, Vladimir Nabokov,

Pale Fire Cover


3 thoughts on “The Nature of Electricity

  1. Pingback: Books Read in 2013 | The cat that walks by herself

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