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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
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It's a pity one can't imagine what one can't compare to anything. Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
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My little cup brims with tiddles.
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And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.
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Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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We all have such fateful objects -- it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another -- carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of specific significance for us: here shall John always stumble there shall Jane's heart always break.
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There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
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Human thought, flying on the trapezes of the star-filled universe, with mathematics stretched beneath, was like an acrobat working with a net but suddenly noticing that in reality there is no net.
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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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A good laugh is the best pesticide.
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All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
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I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
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He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.
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Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
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The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.
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My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.
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