When she met her husband, she felt that he was the greatest writer of his generation; to that single truth she held strong for 66 years. An American admirer happened upon the Nabokovs in Italy in 1967. They were walking down a mountain trail, butterfly nets in hand. Nabokov was jubilant; earlier in the day, he had sighted a rare specimen he had been looking for. He had gone back for Vera so she could be with him when he made his capture.
E é isto, cínicos e cépticos profissionais de todo o mundo: o amor está vivo e por necessário efeito de contágio, também a literatura!