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And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.
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
Dying
Wipers
Full
Windshield
Action
Drizzle
Presently
Cope
Unable
Driving
Tears
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
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There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.
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Of all my Russian books, the defense contains and diffuses the greatest 'warmth' which may seem odd seeing how supremely abstract Chess is supposed to be
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Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James.
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The future is but the obsolete in reverse.
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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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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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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Literature was not born the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him.
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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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I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
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I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
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My own ultraviolet darling. Lolita
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An active and creative reader is a re-reader.
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Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.
Vladimir Nabokov
My characters are galley slaves.
Vladimir Nabokov
That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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There was no Lo to behold.
Vladimir Nabokov
