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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
Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?
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The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.
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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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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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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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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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Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.
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I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it.
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When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.
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All religions are based on obsolete terminology.
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Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
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Solitude was corrupting me.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
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I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
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My characters are galley slaves.
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Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.
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Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.
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The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.
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