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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition

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
Mere
Number
Rest
Numbers
Real
Repetition

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.
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There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
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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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Do those clowns really believe what they teach?
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It was an interesting thing to do. Why did I write any of my books, after all? For the sake of the pleasure, for the sake of the difficulty. I have no social purpose, no moral message I've no general ideas to exploit, I just like composing riddles with elegant solutions.
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There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.
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I don't think in any language. I think in images.
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while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.
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Perhaps if the future existed, concretely and individually, as something that could be discerned by a better brain, the past would not be so seductive: its demands would be balanced by those of the future.
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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
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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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Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.
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Let all of life be an unfettered howl.
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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés.
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Non-Russian readers do not realize two things: that not all Russians love Dostoievsky as much as Americans do, and that most of those Russians who do, venerate him as a mystic and not as an artist.
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He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.
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The rich philistinism emanating from advertisements is due not to their exaggerating (or inventing) the glory of this or that serviceable article but to suggesting that the acme of human happiness is purchasable and that its purchase somehow ennobles the purchaser.
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