I’m in the middle of reading one of Nabokov’s letters to Vera, which is mostly a detailed stream about his work: pages of meticulous thoughts, professional rants, revisions of drafts, reflections, and all the intertwined threads of their intellectual life. Then suddenly, without any warning, the words “And I love you” appear. Just those four words, slipped right into the current of his professional feedback on his writings and ideas like a quiet heartbeat beneath it all. And as if nothing happened, he goes right back to talking about language and structure. But for someone whose heart catches on small, beautiful things, those words couldn’t go unnoticed. So I go back, rereading them, absolutely captivated... And I like it so much, I find myself thinking: instead of simply lamenting the loss of such writing in the hurried, distracted modern age we live in, or trying to revive it in the abstract, I will become it. I’ll begin writing like that. Letters, messages, not just to someone special, but to friends, to family, to anyone who matters to me. I’ll drop those moments into the middle of everyday things: in between talk of errands, philosophies, updates, ideas, and all the little things that wear and warm us, the soft edges and the clutter of the everyday... suddenly, without warning, I’ll say: And I love you. Then I’ll move on, just as Nabokov did, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ⋆˙⟡♡ Because love, the truest kind, doesn’t always need a pedestal. Sometimes it just needs a place to rest, quietly, between the lines. As a quiet constant. Eternal in its understatement.
⋆𓂃 ࣪ ˖ for those who still pause for fleeting things, entries from the pages folded into margins 🜍 ⟡ ⟢
