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I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.
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
Past
Weeping
Drunk
Impossible
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
I see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window.… Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.
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A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.
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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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Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.
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Imagination without knowledge leads no farther than the back yard of primitive art, the child's scrawl on the fence, and the crank's message in the market place. Art is never simple.
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All great novels are great fairy tales.
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for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.
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I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
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...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
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Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
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Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
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Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
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As to the rest, I am no more guilty of imitating 'real life' than'real life' is responsible for plagiarizing me.
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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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Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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Here lies the sense of literary creation to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in kindly mirrors of future times. . . . To find in objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern . . .
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And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.
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Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
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