His Wings Were Failing, But He Refused

Pnin Slowly Walked Under Solemn Pines. The Sky Was Dying. He Did Not Believe In An Autocratic God. He Did Believe, Dimly, In A Democracy Of Ghosts. The Souls Of The Dead, Perhaps, Formed Committees, And These, In Continuous Session, Attended The Destinies Of The Quick.

My Mind Speaks English, My Heart Speaks Russian, And My Ear Prefers French.

For I Do Not Exist: There Exist But The Thousands Of Mirrors That Reflect Me.

All The Information I Have About Myself Is From Forged Documents.

A Cluster Of Stars Palely Glowed Above Us, Between The Silhouettes Of Long Thin Leaves; That Vibrant Sky Seemed As Naked As She Was Under Her Light Frock. I Saw Her Face In The Sky, Strangely Distinct, As If It Emitted A Faint Radiance Of Its Own.