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A major writer combines these three - storyteller, teacher, enchanter - but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer.

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
Makes
Enchanter
Three
Predominates
Writing
Combines
Storyteller
Majors
Major
Writer
Teacher

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To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.
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Solitude was corrupting me.
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The lost glove is happy.
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for better or worse, it is the commentator who has the last word.
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I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life.
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do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
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...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.
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I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.
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There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.
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Do not be angry with the rain it simply does not know how to fall upwards.
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Do those clowns really believe what they teach?
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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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What surprises you in life? The marvel of consciousness -- that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidts the night of non-being.
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My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.
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And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.
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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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I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
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There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
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And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.
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The pleasures of writing correspond exactly to the pleasures of reading
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