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…She was, obviously, one of those women whose polished words may reflect a book club or bridge club, or any other deadly conventionality, but never her soul.

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
Book
Bridges
Never
Clubs
Obviously
Conventionality
Whose
Polished
Words
Deadly
Women
Bridge
May
Reflect
Soul
Club

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My heart was a hysterical unreliable organ.
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The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
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Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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There was no Lo to behold.
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There is an old American saying 'He who lives in a glass house should not try to kill two birds with one stone.
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Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.
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All religions are based on obsolete terminology.
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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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Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?
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Happy is the novelist who manages to preserve an actual love letter that he received when he was young within a work of fiction, embedded in it like a clean bullet in flabby flesh and quite secure there, among spurious lives.
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A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
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Nothing revives the past so completely as a smell that was once associated with it.
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Only talent interests me in paintings and books. Not general ideas, but the individual contribution.
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It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.
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Dostoevky's lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity - all this is difficult to admire.
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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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Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.
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