Vladimir Nabokov Quotes
My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
Vladimir Nabokov
Quotes to Explore
We're all concerned about sports rights being so expensive. Obviously, we are funded by the licence fee payers, so it's not always easy to compete with those who can get greater revenue.
Gary Lineker
What I have found most surprising is the amount of damage we have done to environment in the course of my lifetime - not even five and a half decades.
Pat Cadigan
When I go a stretch without tweeting, I will occasionally get an email from my mom, checking in. I always find this amusing but also gratifying: Thanks to Twitter, I can keep in touch with my parents and let them in on what I'm doing in a way that even the regular phone calls of a doting daughter can't do.
Rachel Sklar
I like men who paint or write or do something creative.
Olga Kurylenko
Part of Michael's uniqueness, I think, comes from the fact that he worked with music. He had a tape which he gave me with many different compositions, really eclectic. These pieces of music were sources of inspiration.
Madeleine Stowe
The more you are getting older, you lose a little something. Of course there is another advantage, because of your long experience you can use it.
Haile Gebrselassie
I came to Harlem from West Virginia when I was three, after my mother died. My father, who was very poor, gave me up to two wonderful people, my foster parents.
Walter Dean Myers
Women as a raw demographic unit exercise incredible power across every element of American life.
Rachel Sklar
Vitia erunt donec homines
Tacitus
My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
Vladimir Nabokov
