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That speckled creature that bolted across my path might be tamed.
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That lake between those trees will be called Lake Opal or,
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more artistically, Dishwater Lake.
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That mist is a mountain-- and that mountain must be conquered.
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Up a trackless slope climbs the master artist,
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and at the top, on a windy ridge,
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whom do you think he meets?
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The panting and happy reader,
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and there they spontaneously embrace
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and are linked forever if the book lasts forever.
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So, this is Nabokov's beautiful evocation of how writer and reader
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meet at the summit of this misty mountain of the imagination.