Lucy:
Well, look here! A
big yellow butterfly! It’s unusual to see one this time of year unless, of
course, he flew up from Brazil... I’ll bet that’s it! They do that sometimes,
you know... They fly up from Brazil, and they...
Linus:
This is no
butterfly... This is a potato chip!
Lucy:
Well, I’ll be! So
it is! I wonder how a potato chip got all the way up here from Brazil?
PS n.2: 19th Century' Huxley's "Player on the Other Side" (excerpt)
Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every one of us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a game of chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primary duty to learn the names and the moves of the pieces; to have a notion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving and getting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with a disapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing a pawn from a knight? ...The player on the other side is hidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, and patient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.
Would Nabokov, as a writer, fit into Huxley's description of "one's adversary" Fiction is not a game of life and fortune, is it (except for the author or editors)?