My drives to Ashland, Oregon always inspire something artistic. Something about the bare and minimal landscape appeals to my eye. This trip I was feeling especially creative. I am also reading Nabokov's autobiography Speaking, Memory (which apparently he translated from Russian while he was also in Ashland). It was a strange coincidence that made me even more sensitive to its meaning and inspired by its poetry.
It begins with:
the cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existance is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
If it is true that great art inspires other great art, I have Nabokov to thank for this series.
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