Vladimir Nabokov - Lolita, Chapter Two lyrics

I was born in 1910 in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pa** around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had old wine, j**els and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alphinist, and granddaughter of the two Dorset parsons, experts in the obscure subjects--paleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the mudges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill , in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. My mother's elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father's married and then neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it on a rainy day and forgotten it by the time the weather had cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the rigidity--the fatal rigidity--of some of her rules. Perhaps she wanted to make of me, in the fullness of time, a better widower than my father. Aunt Sybil had pink, trimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She wrote poetry. She was poetically superstitious. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and she did. Her husband, a great traveler in perfumes, spent most of his time in America, where eventually he founded a firm and acquired a bit of real estate. I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me, the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue great one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flanneled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed towards me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father, bought me expensive bonbons. Her mon cher petit papa took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables, and I adored and respected him and felt for him whenever I overheard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness. I attended an English day school a few miles from home, and there I played rackets and fives, and got excellent marks, and was on perfect terms with the schoolmates and teachers alike. The only definite s**ual events that I can remember as having occurred before my thirteenth birthday (that is, before I first saw my little Annabel) were: a solemn, decorous and purely rhetorical talk about pubertal surprises in the rose garden of the school with an American kid, the son of a then celebrated motion-picture actress whom he seldom saw in the three-dimensional world; and some interesting reactions on the part of my organism to certain photograph, pearl and umbra, with infinitely soft partings, in Pichon's sumptuous La Beaute Humaine that I had filed from under a mountain of marble-bound Graphics in the hotel library. Later, in his delightful debonair manner, my father gave me all the information he thought I needed about s**; this was just before we were sending me, in the autumn of 1923, to a lycee in Lyon (where we were to spend three winters); but alas, in the summer of that year, he was touring Italy with Mme d R. and her daughter, and I had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult.