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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. . .

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
Start
Crowds
Ample
Would
Gods
Luminous
Like
Invisible
Colored
Throw
Rainbow
Rise
Discourse
Embrace
Address
Arms
Addresses
Open
Vast

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Alas! In vain historians pry and probe: The same wind blows, and in the same live robe Truth bends her head to fingers curved cupwise And with a woman's smile and a child's care Examines something she is holding there Concealed by her own shoulder from our eyes.
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Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
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There is the first satisfaction of arranging it on a bit of paper after many, many false tries, false moves, finally you have the sentence you recognize as the one you are looking for.
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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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Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
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I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
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A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.
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Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.
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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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All religions are based on obsolete terminology.
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I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.
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Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.
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There are some varieties of fiction that I never touch - mystery stories, for instance, which I abhor, and historical novels. I also detest the so-called powerful novel - full of commonplace obscenities and torrents of dialog.
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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
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My characters are galley slaves.
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