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I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my 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
Art
Sonnet
May
Prophetic
Thinking
Refuge
Immortality
Pigments
Angels
Lolita
Angel
Sonnets
Share
Pigment
Secret
Durable
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Only talent interests me in paintings and books. Not general ideas, but the individual contribution.
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As to the rest, I am no more guilty of imitating 'real life' than'real life' is responsible for plagiarizing me.
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I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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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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Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.
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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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All great novels are great fairy tales.
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While a few pertinent points have to be marked, the general impression I desire to convey is of a side door crashing open in life's full flight, and a rush of roaring black time drowning with its whipping wind the cry of lone disaster.
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The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
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At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.
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You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
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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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I have no ear for music. When I attend a concert, I endeavor gamely to follow the sequence and relationship of sounds but cannot keep it up for more than a few minutes. Visual impressions, reflections of hands in lacquered wood, a diligent bald spot over a fiddle, take over, and soon I am bored beyond measure by the motions of the musicians.
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I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.
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I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life.
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I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
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Derivative writers seem versatile because they imitate many others, past and present. Artistic originality has only itself to copy.
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