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and he says the novel has as its only purpose to provide aesthetic bliss.
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So, here is inutile loveliness coming
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just from seeing the landscape as a stranger.
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Humbert goes on:
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There might be a line of spaced trees silhouetted against the horizon,
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and hot, still noons above a wilderness of clover,
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and Claude Lorrain clouds inscribed remotely into misty azure
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with only their cumulus part conspicuous
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against the neutral swoon of the background.
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Or again, it might be a stern El Greco horizon,
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pregnant with inky rain, and a passing glimpse of some mummy-necked farmer,
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and all around alternating strips of quicksilverish water and harsh green corn,