With vague admiration and vague horror he observed how awesomely, how elegantly and how flexibly, move by move, the images of his childhood had been repeated (country house … town … school … aunt), but he still did not quite understand why this combinational repetition inspired his soul with such dread. He felt one thing keenly: a certain vexation that he had gone so long without noticing the cunning sequence of moves; and now, recalling some trifle—and there had been many of them, and at times so skillfully presented, that the repetition was almost concealed—Luzhin was indignant with himself for not having reflected, for not taking the initiative, but with trustful blindness letting the combination unfold. But now he resolve to be more circumspect, to keep an eye on the further development of these moves, if there was to be one—and of course, of course, to maintain his discover in impenetrable secret, to be merry, extraordinarily merry. But from that day on there was no rest for him—he had, if possible, to contrive a defense against this perfidious combination, to free himself of it, and for this he had to foresee its ultimate aim, its dire direction, but this did not yet appear feasible. And the thought that the repetition would probably continue was so frightening that he was tempted to stop the clock of life, to suspend the game for good…

- Vladimir Nabokov, The Defense. New York: Vintage, 1990. Pg. 214.