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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
More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
The lost glove is happy.
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No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
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An active and creative reader is a re-reader.
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...and the red sun of desire and decision (the two things that create a live world) rose higher and higher, while upon a succession of balconies a succession of libertines, sparkling glass in hand, toasted the bliss of past and future nights.
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All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual, and only the individual reader is important to me. I don't give a damn for the group, the community, the masses, and so forth.
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There was no Lo to behold.
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She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.
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My characters are galley slaves.
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I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny.
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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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My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.
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We are most artistically caged.
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Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
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...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
Vladimir Nabokov
I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.
Vladimir Nabokov
I was weeping again, drunk on the impossible past.
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It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.
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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
Vladimir Nabokov
