I've always been a sucker for narrative artists who mess around, cleverly or joltingly or what have you, with the compression and expansion of time. I understand that his motivation was largely to do with a self-imposed deadline of 52 composing days, but I do love that Stendhal expended so much verbiage and so much elaborate description of hero Fabrizio del Dongo for most of the length of The Charterhouse of Parma, only to wrap up the story, which was intended to make up a whole second volume and which contains, among other things, the book's only explanation of the title, in five pages or so. What bloody brilliant nerve. Jacques Rivette employed a similar tactic in his 1965 film adaptation of Diderot's The Nun. The always modern D.W. Griffith divides Way Down East into two halves; the first half spans years, the second only a couple of days; both are of about equal length. Reading Nabokov's time games, and Borges', are like witnessing multiple rounds of three-dimensional chess.