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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!
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
Mais
Despicable
Monster
Brutal
Monsters
Loved
Everything
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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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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All religions are based on obsolete terminology.
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...for the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.
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The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
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There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
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Do those clowns really believe what they teach?
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A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle.
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It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moments our main, if not only, handle to reality.
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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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The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.
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It is nothing but a kind of a microcosmos of communism - all that psychiatry', rumbled Pnin ... 'Why not leave their private sorrow to people? Is sorrow not, one asks, the only thing in the world people really possess?
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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I have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with.
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Although I do not care for the slogan art for art's sake, there can be no question that what makes a work of fiction safe from larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art.
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Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.
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The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.
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There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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The square root of I is I.
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Of all my Russian books, the defense contains and diffuses the greatest 'warmth' which may seem odd seeing how supremely abstract Chess is supposed to be
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