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My loathings are simple. stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: writing and butterfly hunting.
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
Pleasure
Pleasures
Known
Hunting
Simple
Soft
Music
Oppression
Writing
Cruelty
Men
Stupidity
Intense
Loathing
Crime
Butterfly
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.
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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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But in my arms she was always Lolita.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
Vladimir Nabokov
Burn pedants in pale fire. Accept no fashions. Be your own fashion. Do not rely on earlier triumphs. Be new at each appearance.
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I think it is all a matter of love.
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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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Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.
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Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.
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It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moments our main, if not only, handle to reality.
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The square root of I is I.
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for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.
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Discussion in class, which means letting twenty young blockheads and two cocky neurotics discuss something that neither their teacher nor they know.
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I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.
Vladimir Nabokov
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
Vladimir Nabokov
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.
Vladimir Nabokov
There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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The sun is a thief: she lures the sea and robs it. The moon is a thief: he steals his silvery light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.
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I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
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Use unlikely materials. Who would choose Pnin as hero, but how did we live before Pnin?
Vladimir Nabokov