Russian author and critic Nina Berberova (1901-1993) is not particularly famous, but those who do know and read her are great fans of her beautiful prose and stories full of irony and character. This picture is of Nina in 1928 and she was clearly quite the looker.

I had a chance to meet Nina Berberova in Philadelphia right before she died but I opted to do something else that afternoon. It was one of those missed encounters that could have changed my life and I could have been like the granddaughter she'd never had and run errands for her, made sure she had enough tea and lemon, listened to her tales about traveling around the world and escaping Russia after the Revolution. Or she might have just told me to please leave her alone because I was giving her a headache with all my stupid questions, but at least I would have known otherwise.

It is painful. Sometimes we are just really scattered-brained and stupid. We meaning me.

Night passed, and the moon like an hour hand moved along, rising and falling on the celestial dial strewn with stars....

Nina Berberova, The Italics Are Mine