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Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts.

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
Daily
Cured
Mental
Woe
Parts
Myths
Private
Vulgar
Continue
Application
Believe
Greek
Psychology
Credulous
Myth
Woes

More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov

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My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.
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Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
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A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.
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The future is but the obsolete in reverse.
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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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Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture.
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I am not, and never was, and never could have been, a brutal scoundrel.
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I witness with pleasure the supreme achievement of memory, which is the masterly use it makes of innate harmonies when gathering to its fold the suspended and wandering tonalities of the past.
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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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Old birds like Orlovius are wonderfully easy to lead by the beak, because a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.
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And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
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Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.
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Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
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All colors made me happy: even gray. My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs.
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In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
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Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you love me thus!
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Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
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It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moments our main, if not only, handle to reality.
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Those Eggheadsareterrible Philistines. A realgood head is not oval but round.
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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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