Nabokov's "Christmas"

Below is the ending to Nabokov's short story, "Christmas." It is one of my favorite passages in what has been a book full, so far, of wonderful images. Here's the scene: the father is wandering around the room of his dead son, who collected bugs, agonized by grief and planning to kill himself.

This is actually a typical Nabokovian theme -- a horrible tragedy overshadowed by the beauty of life. It works beautifully here, though it can be frustrating. Characters tend to walk around speaking about the beauty of the pavement, the trees, the birds, and then Nabokov will slip in one line like, "oh, and what a horrible tragedy that my baby was stillborn!" Those Russians. Anyway, the writing here speaks for itself. No more from me.

"It had emerged from the chrysalid because a man overcome with grief had transferred a tin box to his warm room, and the warmth had penetrated its taut leaf-and-silk envelope; it had awaited this moment so long, had collected its strength so tensely, and now, having broken out, it was slowly and miraculously expanding. Gradually the wrinkled tissues, the velvety fringes, unfurled; the fan-pleated veins grew firmer as they filled with air. It became a winged thing imperceptibly, as a maturing face imperceptibly becomes beautiful. And its wings -- still feeble, still moist -- kept growing and unfolding, and now they were developed to the limit set for them by God...

And then those thick black wings, with a glazy eyespot on each and a purplish bloom dusting their hooked foretips, took a full breath under the impulse of tender, ravishing, almost human happiness."