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Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
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
Crimson
Lips
Large
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More quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
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I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.
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My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
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My God died young. Theolatry i found Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs God but was I free?
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It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.
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If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.
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My little cup brims with tiddles.
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A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
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No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
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Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.
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There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me.
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For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
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I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.
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The more gifted and talkative one's characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.
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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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I have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with.
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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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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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When I receive a new novel from a hopeful publisher - hoping that I like the book as much as he does - I check first of all how much dialog there is, and if it looks too abundant or too sustained, I shut the book with a bang.
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