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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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
Make
Halved
Grapefruit
Economically
Breakfast
Bring
More quotes by 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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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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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.
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The square root of I is I.
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Beauty plus pity-that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.
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Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
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Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.
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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
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Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.
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There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
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Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
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Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveler's helmet. Stay inside or you perish.
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It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.
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Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.
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I have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with.
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My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.
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Solitude was corrupting me.
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There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.
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Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.
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Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
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