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The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
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
Bored
Enchanting
Days
Insipid
Even
Dreamy
Kind
Expectancy
Make
Dragged
Like
Devoid
Idleness
Previous
Sluggishly
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
I should allow only my heart to have imagination and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.
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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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You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
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The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.
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An active and creative reader is a re-reader.
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The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
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And the rest is rust and stardust.
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Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created it has its fatal flaw.
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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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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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The tiny madman in his padded cell.
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The lost glove is happy.
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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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I don't think in any language. I think in images.
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We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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My characters are galley slaves.
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Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
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