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The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
Vladimir Nabokov
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Vladimir Nabokov
Age: 77 †
Born: 1899
Born: January 1
Died: 1977
Died: January 1
Autobiographer
Chess Composer
Chess Player
Journalist
Lepidopterist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
St. Petersburg
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov
Vladimir Sirin
Vl. Sirin
Wladimir Nabokoff-Sirin
V. Sirin
Feeling
Ink
Words
Miraculous
Feelings
Journal
Become
Blank
Stills
Visible
Still
Invisible
Writing
Pages
Written
Clamoring
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
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And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: O rainbow-colored gods. . .
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Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.
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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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Because you took advantage of my disadvantage.
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I always call him Lewis Carroll Carroll, because he was the first Humbert Humbert.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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Only ambitious nonentities and hearty mediocrities exhibit their rough drafts. It's like passing around samples of sputum.
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Beauty plus pity-that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.
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Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.
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Style and Structure are the essence of a book great ideas are hogwash.
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I was also supposed to quiz my various companions on a number of important matters such as nostalgia, fear of unknown animals, food fantasies, nocturnal emissions, hobbies, choice of radio program, changes in out look and so forth.
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There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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All the seven deadly sins are peccadilloes but without three of them, Pride, Lust, and Sloth, poetry might never have been born.
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The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
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No difference exists between American and European manners. A proletarian from Chicago can be just as Philistine as an English duke.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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Only talent interests me in paintings and books. Not general ideas, but the individual contribution.
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I think it is all a matter of love.
Vladimir Nabokov