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This then is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow
sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies.
At this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me,
gliding into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe. I
have camouflaged what I could so as not to hurt people. And I
have toyed with many pseudonyms for myself before I hit on a
particularly apt one.
Vladimir Nabokov, 1955, p. 280