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My own ultraviolet darling. 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
Ultraviolet
Lolita
Darling

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I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
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Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created it has its fatal flaw.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious it has been set free.
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Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés.
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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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You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
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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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Usually I read several books at a time - old books, new books, fiction, nonfiction, verse, anything - and when the bedside heap of a dozen volumes or so has dwindled to two or three, which generally happens by the end of one week, I accumulate another pile.
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She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.
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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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Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!
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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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My loathings are simple. stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: writing and butterfly hunting.
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I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.
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It is strange how a memory will grow into a wax figure, how the cherub grows suspiciously prettier as its frame darkens with age-strange, strange are the mishaps of memory.
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