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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.

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
Traditional
Loves
Environment
Upon
Change
Fallacy
Lungs
Doomed
Rely

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The tiny madman in his padded cell.
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... my mind lay limp in an empty world.
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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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a person hoping to become a poet must have the capacity of thinking of several things at a time.
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Perhaps if the future existed, concretely and individually, as something that could be discerned by a better brain, the past would not be so seductive: its demands would be balanced by those of the future.
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And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: O rainbow-colored gods. . .
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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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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And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear. I swear that I am happy...What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me-my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift...I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing-yes, really absorbing! ... I am happy-yes, happy!
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Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
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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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The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
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He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.
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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
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