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We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

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
Destroys
Adult
Adults
Loved
Lives
Often
Fierceness
Love
Premature
Marked

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.
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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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It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.
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I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
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A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle.
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...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.
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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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Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers and reason corrects the feverish beat.
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A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.
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I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.
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She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.
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I am sentimental,’ she said. ‘I could dissect a koala but not its baby. I like the words damozel, eglantine, elegant. I love when you kiss my elongated white hand.
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My heart was a hysterical unreliable organ.
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There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.
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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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A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.
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How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!
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I have never seen a more lucid, more lonely, better balanced mad mind than mine.
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Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you love me thus!
Vladimir Nabokov