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She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
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
School
Ten
Lola
Always
Standing
Slacks
Line
Dolores
Arms
Lolita
Feet
Dotted
Lines
Dolly
Morning
Sock
Four
Plain
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Life with you was lovely—and when I say lovely, I mean doves and lilies, and velvet, and that soft pink ‘v’ in the middle and the way your tongue curved up to the long, lingering ‘l.’ Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too.
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Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?
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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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A good laugh is the best pesticide.
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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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Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
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And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: O rainbow-colored gods. . .
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My Carmen, I said (I used to call her that sometimes) we shall leave this raw sore town as soon as you get out of bed. ... Because, really, I continued, there is no point in staying here. There is no point in staying anywhere, said Lolita.
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But that mimosa grove-the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since-until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.
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A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
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I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.
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The square root of I is I.
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And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.
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You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
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We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.
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Adultery is a most conventional way to rise above the conventional.
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And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
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