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The square root of I is I.

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
Square
Squares
Root
Roots

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Life is a message scribbled in the dark.
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for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.
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But in my arms she was always Lolita.
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Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
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Religion has the same relation to man's heavenly condition that mathematics has to his earthly one: both the one and the other are merely the rules of the game. Belief in God and belief in numbers: local truth and truth of location.
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A good laugh is the best pesticide.
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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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Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
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There is an old American saying 'He who lives in a glass house should not try to kill two birds with one stone.
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I have never seen a more lucid, more lonely, better balanced mad mind than mine.
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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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Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.
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The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
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There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.
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Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.
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There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.
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Memory overshadows the present and dims the future into something thicker than its usual pea soup.
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It is strange how a memory will grow into a wax figure, how the cherub grows suspiciously prettier as its frame darkens with age-strange, strange are the mishaps of memory.
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