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There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

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
Camouflage
Shade
Stood
Sun
Disfigured
Masked
Nakedness

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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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I do not see any essential difference between abstract and primitive art. Both are simple and sincere. Naturally, we should not generalize in these matters: It is the individual artist that counts.
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All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.
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The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
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I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling
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I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
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There is only one school of literature - that of talent.
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We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
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You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
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Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
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The future is but the obsolete in reverse.
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Caress the detail, the divine detail.
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There was no Lo to behold.
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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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Don't touch me I'll die if you touch me.
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Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.
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The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
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Pnin slowly walked under solemn pines. The sky was dying. He did not believe in an autocratic God. He did believe, dimly, in a democracy of ghosts. The souls of the dead, perhaps, formed committees, and these, in continuous session, attended the destinies of the quick.
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