"Ah, yes," he said, shifting a little in his seat. A faint voice in the back of his head reminded him why he never liked that book. He could remember dark rivers of hair, features just a little too young. True, he'd been much younger then... but still.
How could she have known why he hated the text. It was not Nabokov's writing, but the memories he'd had. He sighed a little and shoved the thought away, shelving it as best he could.
"Yes, a famous text... if less than ideal in many minds," he said finally, realizing he'd managed to stay silent a bit too long. "It is, perhaps, not my preferred reading. Of my homeland's stories, I prefer the folklore."
Oh yeah, that was a real increase in the 'happy mood' of the room. Russian folklore.