Vladimir Nabokov Quotes
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I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
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I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise--a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames--but still a paradise.
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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.
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while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.
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The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
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I don't want an elderly gentleman from Vienna with an umbrella inflicting his dreams upon me.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
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All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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My principal failing as a writer is the lack of spontaneity; the nuisance of parallel thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
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Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.
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...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.
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Whatever his secret was, I have learnt one secret too, and namely: that the soul is but a manner of being - not a constant state - that any soul may be yours, if you find and follow its undulations. The hereafter may be the full ability of consciously living in any chosen soul, in any number of souls, all of them unconscious of their interchangeable burden.
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I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling
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All religions are based on obsolete terminology.
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Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you love me thus!
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Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.
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There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.
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A good laugh is the best pesticide.
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Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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Life with you was lovely—and when I say lovely, I mean doves and lilies, and velvet, and that soft pink ‘v’ in the middle and the way your tongue curved up to the long, lingering ‘l.’ Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too.