I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed...

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.

Vladimir Nabokov Quote About Yellow, Tangible, Littles: I Could Isolate Consciously Little...
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