“Nothing happened—or perhaps everything happened, and his destiny simply forked at that instant, as it probably does sometimes at night, especially in a strange bed, at stages of great happiness or great desolation, when we happen to die in our sleep, but continue our normal existence, with no perceptible break in the faked serialization, on the following, neatly prepared morning, with a spurious past discreetly but firmly attached behind.” - V. Nabokov, from Ada, or Ardor (via petitchou)
See original: "Nothing happened—or perhaps everything happened, and his destiny simply forked at that instant, as..."
