I have - well, had, back when I actually wrote - moments of attaining a brilliantly sardonic, to me very entertaining, narrative voice. I turn, or turned, into a middle-aged (late 50's or early 60's) man; a British Lord and a fierce defender of the Upper House, he would have been a delighted ally of the Iron Lady had they co-existed, he sports a cane, I think, to wack youngsters approprietly over the head; he would never set foot in the Lower House ("Abolish the other House!") for the sole reason that it is not an arena fit for enlightened debate; he's a dandy of sorts, and takes his Martell alone, though an aged port'll do if you happen to be out; Oh, and he has a general dislike of women.

We're old friends, now, he and I. Though he hasn't come out to play in a while, other than in passing in fluttering paragraphs on narrative voice in Psychology papers - which, I might add, cost me my 6 - he is very much alive, and has taken on a Humberty apparell. I read somewhere that one does not read Nabokov and remain unchanged, whoever wrote it was right, my Lord has acquired a liking for nymphets since we last spoke.

Cross-posted to LJ, for the sheer heck of it.