nabokov wrote :: This door I liked to keep ajar; through it I drowsily looked at the shimmer of steam above the mahogany bath, at the fantastic flotilla of swans and skiffs, at myself with a harp in one of the boats, at a furry moth pinging against the reflector of the kerosense lamp, at the stained-glass window beyond, at its two halberdiers consisting of colored rectangles.  Bending from my warm seat, I liked to press the middle of my brow, its ophyron to be precise, against the smooth comfortable edge of the door and then roll my head a little, so that the door would move to and fro while its edge remained all the time in soothing contact with my forehead.  A dreamy rhythm would permeate my being.  The recent "Step, step, step," would be taken up by a dripping faucet.  And, fruitfully combinging rhythmic pattern with rhythmic sound, I would unravel the labyrinthian frets on the linoleum, and find faces where a crack or a shadow afforded a point de repere for the eye.  I appeal to parents: never, never say, "Hurry up," to a child.