Details of a Sunset

I'm working my way, very slowly, through Vladimir Nabokov's short stories. It's very dense, description-heavy reading, and I don't normally make it through more than 15 pages at a time. The man simply sees pages and pages of unique metaphors and adjectives and old memories in basic images. It's like he can't resist shooting off in a wild tangent with each new description. Case in point, a beautiful description from the short story Details of a Sunset.

"[T]he flush of a fiery sunset filled the vista of the canal, and a rain-streaked bridge in the distance was margined by a narrow rim of gold along which passed tiny black figures."

Every story seems to have three or four lines like that, and you must read very carefully to catch them. I read with a pen in my hand. If I don't, I'll breeze by that passage, thinking, "Afternoon. Bridge. Check." But with Nabokov, the point is the journey, not so much the destination.