The reason, I think, why thinkers do not make good writers of stories is that they are often too cluttered by their own thoughts, too distracted by the chemistry of thinking, to convey what is purposeful. They dabble their words in the lake of richness, believing that because they find such joy in expounding on the waters there, their readers too must enjoy that same process of discovery. And the story thus remains for an oddly long duration at that single turgid point, swimming from shore to shore, deep diving at instances of intrigue, but never meandering in an adventurous spirit towards some distant place of wonder. This especially bores readers; for what they wish to see is a movement of life and not, as is so tempting to write about, a prolix examination of its every frame.
When I read the stories of Nabokov, which have so far resisted the usurping efforts of other similar short stories and remains as my absolute favorite, I read them always with an unwavering interest. Every line reads splendidly, often almost magically, and every line contributes to a grander whole. And though he regularly brandishes his creativity and puts a metaphor to everything describable, it is far from that dreadfully dry ‘thinking of thoughts’. Furthermore, were his characters to reveal at every juncture their deepest thoughts and not hide them in their movements and words, would not the reader be left with no mystery to chase?