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At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.
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
Told
Mother
Wanted
Eight
Paint
Air
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
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I have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with.
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Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.
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Burn pedants in pale fire. Accept no fashions. Be your own fashion. Do not rely on earlier triumphs. Be new at each appearance.
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She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.
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The social or economic structure of the ideal state is of little concern to me. My desires are modest. Portraits of the head of the government should not exceed a postage stamp in size. No torture and no executions. No music, except coming through earphones, or played in theaters. Freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of art.
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A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.
Vladimir Nabokov
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
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It is hard, I submit, to loathe bloodshed, including war, more than I do, but it is still harder to exceed my loathing of the very nature of totalitarian states in which massacre is only an administrative detail.
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Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
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I don't want an elderly gentleman from Vienna with an umbrella inflicting his dreams upon me.
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At a very early stage of the novel's development I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it.
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I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.
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I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
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Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.
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The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.
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You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
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I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
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To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.
Vladimir Nabokov
