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There is the first satisfaction of arranging it on a bit of paper after many, many false tries, false moves, finally you have the sentence you recognize as the one you are looking for.
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
Firsts
False
First
Satisfaction
Many
Recognize
Writing
Finally
Arranging
Trying
Paper
Tries
Bits
Sentence
Looking
Moves
Moving
Sentences
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious it has been set free.
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And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.
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Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
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The good, the admirable reader identifies himself not with the boy or the girl in the book, but with the mind that conceived and composed that book.
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I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.
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…She was, obviously, one of those women whose polished words may reflect a book club or bridge club, or any other deadly conventionality, but never her soul.
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All great novels are great fairy tales.
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We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.
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You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
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In reading, one should notice and fondle details.
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I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.
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I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling
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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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The lost glove is happy.
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Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
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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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My little cup brims with tiddles.
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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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Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
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Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
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