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I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

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
Local
Treatment
Misery
Art
Palliative
Nothing
Articulate
Melancholy
Locals

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I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
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You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
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Curiously enough, one cannot read a book one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, and active and creative reader is a rereader.
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The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.
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A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
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The lost glove is happy.
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There is only one school of literature - that of talent.
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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.
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We are most artistically caged.
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We think not in words but in shadows of words.
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And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion.
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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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Don't touch me I'll die if you touch me.
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I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.
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Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
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I confess, I do not believe in time.
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All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
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A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
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