I don't feel well today, some kind of imp's virus has been nibbling at the edges of my mind, making writing and even reading a sleepy chore. But I wouldn't want to miss mentioning that it's the one hundred and eighth birthday of Vladimir Nabokov. And though the man is dead, the man's novels are as alive as they were when he first published them. When I grow strong enough I will get back to the old British edition of Nabokov's Nikolai Gogal that my dear wife gave me for our anniversary. And later, I plan to write a little, tuneless paean in VN's honor.