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Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.

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
Yesterday
Names
Best
Crumpled
Yesterdays
Piles
Foul

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A good laugh is the best pesticide.
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Age indomitably, in the European manner. Do not finish your labours young. Be a planet, not a meteor. Honor the working day. Sit at your desk.
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The compensation for a death sentence is the knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned.
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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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I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
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I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.
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Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.
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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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while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.
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if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.
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The general impression is that fifteen year-old Dolly remains morbidly uninterested in sexual matters, or to be exact, represses her curiosity in order to save her ignorance and self-dignity.
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At a very early stage of the novel's development I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it.
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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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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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We think not in words but in shadows of words.
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Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
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Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac) and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as nymphets.
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