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Imagine me I shall not exist if you do not imagine me try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.
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
Exist
Iniquity
Shall
Discern
Imagine
Trembling
Doe
Smiling
Littles
Forest
Little
Forests
Even
Harm
Trying
Smile
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Words without experience are meaningless.
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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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Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
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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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But in my arms she was always Lolita.
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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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Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts.
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Style and Structure are the essence of a book great ideas are hogwash.
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I confess, I do not believe in time.
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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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Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
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The commentator may be excused for repeating what he has stressed in his own books and lectures, namely that offensive is frequently but a synonym for unusual and a great work of art is of course always original, and thus by its very nature should come more or less as a shocking surprise.
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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.
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A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.
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