Pale Fire
Vladimir Nabokov is one of my favorite authors. When this bird smashed against the window and left its imprint, it reminded me of the opening lines of Nabokov's Pale Fire:I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff—and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.
A couple of high-resolution pics of the unfortunate bird (click below). The eye and beak are visible, and details of the feathers. The imprint came from the oils on the bird's feathers (BTW contrary to Nabokov's this one did not die!)
Nabokov's novels are among the top 100 written in the English language. Pale Fire in particular shows Nabokov's genius. The poem component of the book is a sad but beautiful read. Nabokov doesn't write just to tell a story. He writes for the beauty of the language; he exemplifies "writing as an art form." You find yourself enjoying re-reading the pages.
