No, I didn't write them.
It's the opening lines of a poem by Vladimir Nabokov — from his semi-famous novel (which both he and his wife Vera considered his greatest literary accomplishment, as do I) called Pale Fire.
In fact, both the novel and the poem are titled Pale Fire, and that title comes from a line in Shakespeare — specifically, Timon of Athens:
“The moon is an arrant thief whose pale fire she steals from the sun.”
I quoted Nabokov’s opening couplet here because it’s so thematically similar to this excellent original post which you wrote.
Just incidentally, and as I have said so many times throughout my life — including here, on Medium, for when I submitted answers to interview questions — Pale Fire, the novel (as distinguished from Nabokov’s ingenious poem “Pale Fire” inside the novel) is without any doubt among the strangest novels ever written, in all the world’s literature. The only other novel I could put on the same level of strangeness, though in an entirely different way, is Titus Groan, which I also love, by an Englishman named Mervyn Peake (1911–1968).
Nabokov’s poem “Pale Fire” is long — 4 cantos totaling 999 lines. Line 1000 is left unwritten and is up to the reader to surmise. If I may, however, I’ll spoil it for you and for any other good reader who might chance upon this comment: line 1000, unwritten in the book, is the exact same line as the first line of the poem. It’s a deliberate, highly symbolic echo of the opening: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain.” Full stop at the end, with a period.
Yet as long as the poem “Pale Fire” is, it composes only about one quarter of Nabokov’s entire novel Pale Fire — if that.
“Pale Fire” the poem is without any question, in my opinion, the most beautiful, remarkable, original poem ever to appear inside a novel, and the poem alone is worth reading, completely apart from the novel as a whole, no context needed to appreciate the poetic mastery at work. Nabokov was a brilliant poet and famous for his poetry — especially in his youth — though not at all remembered for it now.
Pale Fire the novel itself is also brilliant, yet it’s also cryptic and at first — for a minimum of 50 pages — horribly confusing. It’s also indescribably strange.
If you ever read it, I’ll offer you an invaluable tip right now, which will at first make no sense, and then, once you start reading it, will frustrate the living daylights out of you — and then, after approximately 50 pages, will begin to make sense. You’ll start to understand what Nabokov is doing.
My invaluable tip to all would-be readers of Pale Fire the novel is to read it beginning to end sequentially but do definitely take the time to interrupt your sequential reading by flipping to the back of the book and reading each and every footnote in full — many of which are quite long, and many of which take you to other references. Put yourself through the trouble of doing that: interrupting your sequential reading to flip back and forth, back and forth, and read all the footnotes (and their references) in full, and then go back to your sequential reading. At first, as I say, it won’t make any sense. You’ll feel confused. You’ll feel as though you’ll never be able to keep it straight. You’ll feel it’s not worth the effort. And then suddenly and almost magically, you’ll glimpse what Nabokov is doing and has done— something no other writer I know of has attempted.
The constant flipping to the back of the book to read all the bizarre and divagating footnotes will unquestionably have you throwing your hands up in the air — at first, I repeat — and you’ll almost certainly experience an overwhelming urge to abandon the novel. As a matter of fact, I’ve read that particular novel loses over 75 percent of its readers early on for this precise reason. But if you allow yourself 50 or so pages to keep at it — keep interrupting your sequential reading at each and every footnote and read each and every one of those footnotes and their references in full — you will, I can promise you, glimpse something you cannot believe. Something wildly original, something inexpressibly daring, and something undeniably brilliant and beautiful.
The following is a link to the entire poem “Pale Fire” — not the novel. The poem can be read with total pleasure and appreciation, completely out of context with the novel. Nor will reading the poem out of context spoil anything about the novel as a whole. That promise I make to you.
Here’s “Pale Fire” the full poem:
https://genius.com/John-francis-shade-pale-fire-a-poem-in-four-cantos-annotated
I’d also like to share here, if I may, the full opening stanza of Nabokov’s poem — with you in particular, Ms. Barchi — because you saw the undeniable beauty in those first two lines, and the full opening stanza matches that beauty completely:
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane.
I was the smudge of ashen fluff — and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate
Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate:
Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass
Hang all the furniture above the grass,
And how delightful when a fall of snow
Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so
As to make chair and bed exactly stand
Upon that snow, out in that crystal land.
One other thing, at the risk going on far too long here:
I also, the other day, almost posted in the comments the following poem as well — written by a different writer, who happens to be my favorite poet of all time.
That poem, too, is about this exact same subject-matter: a bird flying into a window.
This poem is called “Impact,” and in my opinion it’s every bit as beautiful as Nabokov’s, and yet it’s completely different and much shorter. It’s also stand-alone — by which I mean: it’s not part of a novel or a longer piece. The only reason I didn’t post the following poem in my comment the other day is that it’s nowhere to be found online, and I didn’t have the time to type it all in from an old book of his I have but wasn’t sure where it was located. Today, however, about one hour ago, I went searching among my bookstacks and finally found that old book of poems inside of which “Impact” appears. I’ve uploaded a photo of it:
I know this is an over-long reply, but I appreciated your comment very much, and I thank you for your reply to me, and for reading this long follow-up comment, and for loving Nabokov’s opening lines, which have meant so much to me over the years, as both a writer and a reader.
