Jansy Mello: In note 244.23; and nothing is fuller than an empty mind, we read Cf. 294-16-18  “This created a vacuum into which rushed a multitude of trivial reflections. A pantomime of rational thought.”  […] Thanks to the link with atemporality, the meaning of the sentence related to “trivial reflections, pantomime of rationality” is not necessarily as negative as it appears to be at first sight. It might be indicative of that other kind of “thought” process related to perception and the senses, or to Bergson’s atemporality where there’s a rejection of utilitarian thinking and logic.“…And the highest enjoyment of timelessness […] This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone.[…]

P S   - But, actually, Van’s observation seems to be doubly negative if one reads the entire sentence* when to be conscious of details and natural life becomes an agony because his beloved is absent from the entire landscape (Van’s “magic method”  against “the loss, the loss, the loss” is what is named a “denial”).

It’s my impression that the iteration of “vacuum into which rushes…” was not a random occurrence but an inclusion of “pain and filth” into the formerly ecstatic feeling of oneness with sun and stone…  

However, the suggestive “timelessness, or atemporality” still retains an indication of Bergson’s duration (“la durée”). But now V. Nabokov has added another twist to Van’s associations about the “Time of the strong”:
“but for Log’s sake, let us not confuse Time with Tinnitus, and the seashell hum of duration with the throb of our blood. Philosophically, on the other hand, Time is but memory in the making. In every individual life there goes on from cradle to deathbed the gradual shaping and strengthening of that backbone of consciousness, which is the Time of the strong.”
It must include pain and loss…

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*- “It was a quarter to six on the wristwatch hanging from the net of the hammock. His feet were stone cold. He groped for his loafers and walked aimlessly for some time among the trees of the coppice where thrushes were singing so richly, with such sonorous force, such fluty fioriture that one could not endure the agony of consciousness, the filth of life, the loss, the loss, the loss. Gradually, however, he regained a semblance of self-control by the magic method of not allowing the image of Ada to come anywhere near his awareness of himself. This created a vacuum into which rushed a multitude of trivial reflections. A pantomime of rational thought. Ada, I, ch.41

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