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Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon

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
Window
Glows
Moon
Mellow
Stand
Bowl
Black
Bowls
Like
Honey
Drop
Golden
Sky

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Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after.
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In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
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A toothache will cost a battle, a drizzle cancel an insurrection.
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I am probably responsible for the odd fact that people don't seem to name their daughters Lolita any more. I have heard of young female poodles being given that name since 1956, but of no human beings.
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Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
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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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The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own.
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Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
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All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter.
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Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.
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Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.
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Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
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I always call him Lewis Carroll Carroll, because he was the first Humbert Humbert.
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I don't think in any language. I think in images.
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There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
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Pnin slowly walked under solemn pines. The sky was dying. He did not believe in an autocratic God. He did believe, dimly, in a democracy of ghosts. The souls of the dead, perhaps, formed committees, and these, in continuous session, attended the destinies of the quick.
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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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