The End of "Sebastian Knight"

Finished S.K. earlier in the week. Have also downloaded to my Kindle Pnin (read it years ago and loved it) and Invitation to a Beheading (pretty certain I've never read it).

Something I've experienced on various modes of transportation (but no one puts a finger on it better, or funnier, than Nabokov):

Ah, that bulky monster rolling on my left was a woman; eau-de-Cologne and sweat struggling for ascendancy, the former losing.

The ending (winding down with the train's clickety-clack in your ears) is probably my fave part. I only grind out part:

And then the masquerade draws to a close. The bald little prompter shuts his book, as the light fades gently. The end, the end. They all go back to their everyday life (and Clare goes back to her grave)--but the hero remains, for, try as I may, I cannot get out of my part: Sebastian's mask clings to my face, the likeness will not be washed off. I am Sebastian, or Sebastian is I, or perhaps we both are someone whom neither of us knows.