Quote

I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise--a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames--but still a paradise.

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
Color
Hell
Skies
Stills
Elected
Still
Flames
Paradise
Sky
Whose
Deep

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The lost glove is happy.
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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.
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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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There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.
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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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Style and Structure are the essence of a book great ideas are hogwash.
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Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
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His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.
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And the rest is rust and stardust.
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Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.
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At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.
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My little cup brims with tiddles.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.
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My characters are galley slaves.
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The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.
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Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.
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Words without experience are meaningless.
Vladimir Nabokov
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Happy is the novelist who manages to preserve an actual love letter that he received when he was young within a work of fiction, embedded in it like a clean bullet in flabby flesh and quite secure there, among spurious lives.
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