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I don't belong to any club or group. I don't fish, cook, dance, endorse books, sign books, co-sign declarations, eat oysters, get drunk, go to church, go to analysts, or take part in demonstrations.

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
Book
Clubs
Declaration
Take
Sign
Cook
Group
Cooks
Declarations
Dance
Club
Endorse
Groups
Fish
Demonstrations
Books
Fishes
Oysters
Church
Belong
Analysts
Part
Drunk
Demonstration

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Only talent interests me in paintings and books. Not general ideas, but the individual contribution.
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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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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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In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
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Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.
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And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
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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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…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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Above all, beware of platitudes, i.e., word combinations that have already appeared a thousand times.... As a general rule, try to find new combinations of words (not for the sake of their novelty, but because every person sees things in an individual way and must find his own words for them).
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
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The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
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Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created it has its fatal flaw.
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I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
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A writer should have the precision of a poet and the imagination of a scientist.
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When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.
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Turning one's novel into a movie script is rather like making a series of sketches for a painting that has long ago been finished and framed.
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In reading, one should notice and fondle details.
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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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That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born.
Vladimir Nabokov