Reading-wise

Finished Cosmos, sparingly dipping into Dziennik (kind of saving it for my trip to Germany/Poland this summer), and am re-reading Nabokov's Speak, Memory (third time, first time via Kindle).

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From Speak:

My old (since 1917) quarrel with the Soviet dictatorship is wholly unrelated to any question of property. My contempt for the émigré who "hates the Reds" because they "stole" his money and land is complete. The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

     And finally: I reserve for myself the right to yearn after an ecological niche:

          ... Beneath the sky

          Of my America to sigh

                 For one locality in

                       Russia.