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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
Weeping
Drunk
Impossible
Past
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
In this crazy mirror of terror and art a pseudo-quotation made up of obscure Shakespeareanisms (Chapter Three) somehow produces, despite its lack of literal meaning, the blurred diminutive image of the acrobatic performance that so gloriously supplies the bravura ending for the next chapter.
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Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.
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There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
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There was no Lo to behold.
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A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
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Do those clowns really believe what they teach?
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Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.
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Adultery is a most conventional way to rise above the conventional.
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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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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.
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Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
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There is only one school of literature - that of talent.
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Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
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Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.
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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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There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
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We think not in words but in shadows of words.
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And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
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Old birds like Orlovius are wonderfully easy to lead by the beak, because a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.
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