The system of his delusions had been the subject of an elaborate paper in a scientific monthly, which the doctor at the sanitarium had given to them to read. But long before that, she and her husband had puzzled it out for themselves. “Referential mania,” the article had called it. In these very rare cases, the patient imagines that everything happening around him is a veiled reference to his personality and existence. He excludes real people from the conspiracy, because he considers himself to be so much more intelligent than other men. Phenomenal nature shadows him wherever he goes. Clouds in the staring sky transmit to each other, by means of slow signs, incredibly detailed information regarding him. His inmost thoughts are discussed at nightfall, in manual alphabet, by darkly gesticulating trees. Pebbles or stains or sun flecks form patterns representing, in some awful way, messages that he must intercept. Everything is a cipher and of everything he is the theme. All around him, there are spies. Some of them are detached observers, like glass surfaces and still pools; others, such as coats in store windows, are prejudiced witnesses, lynchers at heart; others, again (running water, storms), are hysterical to the point of insanity, have a distorted opinion of him, and grotesquely misinterpret his actions. He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being.

Vladimir Nabokov, “Signs and Symbols”

The greater part of the day she sat in one of the rooms or sometimes even in the hall – in any place where the heavy mists of her thoughts happened to overtake her – and pondered over this or that detail of her married life. It seemed to her he had always been unfaithful. And now she remembered and understood (as one learning a new language might remember once seeing a book in that tongue when one did not yet know it) the red stains – sticky red kisses – which she had noticed once on her husband's pocket handkerchief.

Paul did all he could to distract her thoughts. He never referred to Albinus. He changed some of his pet habits – that of spending Sunday morning at the turkish baths for instance. He brought her magazines and novels; and they talked about their childhood, their parents long dead and that fair-haired brother of theirs who had been killed on the Somme: a musician, a dreamer.

One hot summer day when they had gone to the Park they watched a small monkey which had escaped from its owner and was up in a tall elm tree. Its little black face in a crown of gray fluff peered out of the green leaves, then was gone and a branch rustled and shook several feet higher. In vain did its master try to tempt it down by means of a soft whistle, a large yellow banana, a pocket mirror which he flashed and flashed.

“It won't come back, it's hopeless; it will never come back,” she murmured, and burst into tears.

Vladimir Nabokov, Laughter in the dark

Pnine revêtit son complet marron (payé par la conférence à Crémona), et après un lunch rapide à l'Œuf et moi, il gagna la gare routière de Waindell en traversant le parc enneigé, où il arriva du reste avec près d'une heure d'avance. Il ne se fatigua pas à dégager les raisons mystérieuses pour lesquelles exactement Liza avait éprouvé cet urgent besoin de le voir à son retour de St Bartholomew, le collège voisin de Boston, où son fils serait inscrit dès la prochaine rentrée, tout ce qu'il savait, c'est qu'une vague de bonheur écumait et se soulevait derrière la barrière qui allait s'ouvrir maintenant, d'un moment à l'autre. Cinq autocar arrivèrent, et dans chacun d'eux, il distingua clairement Liza qui lui faisait signe par la vitre, cependant qu'elle même, ainsi que les autres voyageurs, faisait la queue pour descendre, puis, l'un après l'autre, les cinq autocars furent vidés, et elle n'était toujours pas là. Brusquement, il entendit sa voix sonore (« Timofeï, zdrastvouï ! ») derrière lui, et pivotant sur ses talons, il la vit sortir du seul autocar dont il eut décidé qu'il ne la transportait pas. Quel changement notre ami aperçut-il chez elle ? Quel changement pouvait-il y avoir, seigneur Dieu ! Elle était là. Elle avait toujours chaud et était toujours pleine d'énergie, quel que fût le froid, et maintenant, son manteau de loutre était grand ouvert sur son chemisier plissé, comme elle enveloppait de son bras le visage de Pnine, et qu'il respirait le parfum de pamplemousse de son cou, et qu'elle s'exclama : « Oh ! il a de magnifiques nouvelles dents ! » Il l'aida à s'installer dans un taxi, son écharpe brillante et diaphane s'accrocha dans quelque chose, et Pnine glissa sur le trottoir, et le chauffeur dit : « Attention, Monsieur », et il s'empara du sac de Liza que Pnine portait, et tout cela avait déjà pris place auparavant, dans exactement cette même succession.

Vladimir Nabokov, Pnine (tr. Michel Chrestien)