Quote

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

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
Mind
Incurable
Corrected
Illness
Loneliness
Situation
State
States

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!
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My God died young. Theolatry i found Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs God but was I free?
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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Life is a message scribbled in the dark.
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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear. I swear that I am happy...What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me-my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift...I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing-yes, really absorbing! ... I am happy-yes, happy!
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Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
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if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.
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My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.
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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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Look at this tangle of thorns.
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There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
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You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.
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Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.
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Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
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I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
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Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.
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The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
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