The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Jonas Hassen Khemiri Reads Vladimir Nabokov

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

Pavl Romanovich's Letter to the Old Hag

After his recent fit of sustained locacity everything seemed uncannily quiet. Pavl Romanovich spoke again this time in the sibilant tones that stinking old bitch he said she and she alone pimp them together I always found her disgusting and didn't conceal it from the Noshka what a bitch you've seen I think around 60 hair dyed rich wrong fat so fat that she looks round backed it's a big pity that Nicholas is out let him call me as soon as he returns to Berlin. He sat on my couch and shed cigarette ashes on my polychrome cushions yet the event which would once have given me divine pleasure now did not glad in me one bit good people had

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