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I don't read reviews about myself with any special eagerness or attention unless they are masterpieces of wit and acumen, and I never reread them.

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
Read
Masterpieces
Never
Eagerness
Masterpiece
Reviews
Wit
Unless
Special
Acumen
Attention
Reread

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.
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There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.
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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Human thought, flying on the trapezes of the star-filled universe, with mathematics stretched beneath, was like an acrobat working with a net but suddenly noticing that in reality there is no net.
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If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.
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I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.
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I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
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Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
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Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
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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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You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
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...for the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.
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I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.
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I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.
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Life is a message scribbled in the dark.
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All great novels are great fairy tales.
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Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers and reason corrects the feverish beat.
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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 have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with.
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