Dylan.

"She had never realized, she said again and again (as if intent to reclaim the past from the matter-of-fact triviality of the album), that their first summer in the orchards and orchidariums of Ardis had become a sacred secret and creed, throughout the countryside. Romantically inclined handmaids, whose reading consisted of Gwen de Vere and Klara Mertvago, adored Van, adored Ada, adorded Ardis’s ardors in arbors. Their swains, plucking ballads on their seven-stringed Russian lyres under the racemose in bloom or in old rose gardens (while the windows went out one by one in the castle), added freshly composed lines—naïve, lackey-daiscal, but heartfelt—to cyclic folk songs. Eccentric police officers grew enamored with the glamor of incest. Gardeners paraphrased iridescent Perisan poems about irrigation and the Four Arrows of Love. Nightwatchmen fought insomnia and the fire of the clap with the weapons of Vaniadas’s Adventures. Herdsmen, spared by thunderbolts on remote hillsides, used their huge “moaning horns” as ear trumpets to catch the lilts of Ladore. Virgin chatelaines in marble-floored manors fondled their lone flames fanned by Van’s romance. And another century would pass, and the painted word would be retouched by the still richer brush of time. 'All of which,' said Van, 'only means that our situation is desperate.' " - Nabokov, "Ada, or Ardor;" author seen below in another language: