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The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
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
Nonsensical
Nonsense
Evolution
Sense
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers and reason corrects the feverish beat.
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In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
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Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
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There was no Lo to behold.
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Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
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I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
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You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
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He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.
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A philistine is a full-grown person whose interests are of a material and commonplace nature, and whose mentality is formed of the stock ideas and conventional ideals of his or her group and time.
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And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
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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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I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
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Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.
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The sun is a thief: she lures the sea and robs it. The moon is a thief: he steals his silvery light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.
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His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.
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Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
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We think not in words but in shadows of words.
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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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There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
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When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.
Vladimir Nabokov
