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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
Hell
Skies
Stills
Elected
Still
Flames
Paradise
Sky
Whose
Deep
Color
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I think it is all a matter of love.
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His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.
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Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.
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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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Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.
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As to the rest, I am no more guilty of imitating 'real life' than'real life' is responsible for plagiarizing me.
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The pleasures of writing correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading
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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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Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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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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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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Although I do not care for the slogan art for art's sake, there can be no question that what makes a work of fiction safe from larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art.
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The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
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We all have such fateful objects -- it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another -- carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of specific significance for us: here shall John always stumble there shall Jane's heart always break.
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We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.
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There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.
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