A review by spacetime03
The Gift by Vladimir Nabokov

“ought one not to reject any longing for one’s homeland besides that which is with me, within me, which is stuck like the silver sand of the sea to the skin of my soles, lives in my eyes, my blood, gives depth and distance to the background of life’s every hope? some day, interrupting my writing, i will look through the window and see a Russian autumn.” 

“oh, don’t look at me, my childhood, with such big, frightened eyes.”  

“the fierce ecstasy i would experience if only…if only what? what can i do with his soul? this is what kills me…i am fiercely in love with his soul — and this is just as fruitless as falling in love with the moon.” 

“with passionate impatience, he was already looking for the creation of something new, something still unknown, genuine, corresponding fully to the gift which he felt like a burden inside himself.”