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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation

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
True
Pounce
Revelation
Butterfly
Revelations
Forgotten
Upon
Artist

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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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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Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon
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We are most artistically caged.
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My little cup brims with tiddles.
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I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
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Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
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Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Words without experience are meaningless.
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The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.
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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 see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window.… Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.
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I am probably responsible for the odd fact that people don't seem to name their daughters Lolita any more. I have heard of young female poodles being given that name since 1956, but of no human beings.
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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
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The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
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Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
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And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.
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Pnin slowly walked under solemn pines. The sky was dying. He did not believe in an autocratic God. He did believe, dimly, in a democracy of ghosts. The souls of the dead, perhaps, formed committees, and these, in continuous session, attended the destinies of the quick.
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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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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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