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And the rest is rust and stardust.

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
Rust
Rest

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I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
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And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.
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A toothache will cost a battle, a drizzle cancel an insurrection.
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What surprises you in life? The marvel of consciousness -- that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidts the night of non-being.
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And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
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Chess problems demand from the composer the same virtues that characterize all worthwhile art: originality, invention, conciseness, harmony, complexity, and splendid insincerity
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It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.
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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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My own ultraviolet darling. Lolita
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The tiny madman in his padded cell.
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Ada girl, adored girl, [...] I'm a radiant void. I'm convalescing after a long and dreadful illness. You cried over my unseemly scar, but now life is going to be nothing but love and laughter, and corn in cans. I cannot brood over broken hearts, mine is too recently mended.
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The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
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Solitude was corrupting me.
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I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.
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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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Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after.
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if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.
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