In Canto One of his poem John Shade (the poet in VN's novel Pale Fire, 1962) describes a winter morning and mentions a pheasant's footprints in the snow:
Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake
Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque,
A dull dark white against the day's pale white
And abstract larches in the neutral light.
And then the gradual and dual blue
As night unites the viewer and the view,
And in the morning, diamonds of frost
Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed
From left to right the blank page of the road?
Reading from left to right in winter's code:
A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat:
Dot, arrow pointing back... A pheasant's feet!
Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse,
Finding your China right behind my house.
Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose
Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes? (ll. 13-28)
"Dot, arrow pointing back" may hint at Turgenev's poem in prose Vorobey ("The Sparrow") and the Viardot family with whom Turgenev lived ("on the edge of someone else's nest"). A Russian writer, Ivan Turgenev (1818-1883) is the author of Dvoryanskoe gnezdo ("Home of the Gentry," 1859). Gnezdo means in Russian "nest." In Canto One of his poem Shade describes his childhood and mentions a preterist, one who collects cold nests:
I was an infant when my parents died.
They both were ornithologists. I've tried
So often to evoke them that today
I have a thousand parents. Sadly they
Dissolve in their own virtues and recede,
But certain words, chance words I hear or read,
Such as "bad heart" always to him refer,
And "cancer of the pancreas" to her.
A preterist: one who collects cold nests.
Here was my bedroom, now reserved for guests. (ll. 71-80)
A futurist poet, Vladimir Mayakovski (1893-1930) lived with the Brik family (btw., Lilya Brik's younger sister, Elsa Triolet, was married to Louis Aragon, a French poet, 1897-1982). In his 1926 travelogue Moyo otkrytie Ameriki (“My Discovery of America”) Mayakovski describes his 18-day transatlantic journey from La Coruña, Spain, to Vera Cruz, Mexico, aboard the French liner Espagne and compares the ship to a fly crawling over a mirror surface:
Океан — дело воображения.
И на море не видно берегов, и на море волны больше, чем нужны в домашнем обиходе, и на море не знаешь, что под тобой.
Но только воображение, что справа нет земли до полюса и что слева нет земли до полюса, впереди совсем новый, второй свет, а под тобой, быть может, Атлантида, — только это воображение есть Атлантический океан. Спокойный океан скучен. 18 дней мы ползем, как муха по зеркалу. Хорошо поставленное зрелище было только один раз; уже на обратном пути из Нью-Йорка в Гавр. Сплошной ливень вспенил белый океан, белым заштриховал небо, сшил белыми нитками небо и воду. Потом была радуга. Радуга отразилась, замкнулась в океане, и мы, как циркачи, бросались в радужный обруч. Потом — опять плавучие губки, летучие рыбки, летучие рыбки и опять плавучие губки Сарагоссова моря, а в редкие торжественные случаи — фонтаны китов. И все время надоедающая (даже до тошноты) вода и вода.
Океан надоедает, а без него скушно.
Потом уже долго-долго надо, чтобы гремела вода, чтоб успокаивающе шумела машина, чтоб в такт позванивали медяшки люков.
In Canto Three of his poem Shade describes IPH (a lay Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter) and says that he is ready to become a floweret or a fat fly, but never, to forget:
L'if, lifeless tree! Your great Maybe, Rabelais:
The grand potato. I.P.H., a lay
Institute (I) of Preparation (P)
For the Hereafter (H), or If, as we
Called it - big if! - engaged me for one term
To speak on death ("to lecture on the Worm,"
Wrote President McAber). You and I,
And she, then a mere tot, moved from New Wye
To Yewshade, in another, higher state.
I love great mountains. From the iron gate
Of the ramshackle house we rented there
One saw a snowy form, so far, so fair,
That one could only fetch a sigh, as if
It might assist assimilation. Iph
Was a larvorium and a violet:
A grave in Reason's early spring. And yet
It missed the gist of the whole thing; it missed
What mostly interests the preterist;
For we die every day; oblivion thrives
Not on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives,
And our best yesterdays are now foul piles
Of crumpled names, phone numbers and foxed files.
I'm ready to become a floweret
Or a fat fly, but never, to forget. (ll. 501-524)