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Memory overshadows the present and dims the future into something thicker than its usual pea soup.

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
Future
Overshadows
Something
Thicker
Peas
Soup
Usual
Memory
Memories
Present
Dims

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Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!
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I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust
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Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.
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By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.
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No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.
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The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
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Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive. Remembered ones dress up for the occasion and sit still. Memory is a photo-studio de luxe on an infinite Fifth Power Avenue.
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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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Adultery is a most conventional way to rise above the conventional.
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There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.
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All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.
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The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.
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And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: O rainbow-colored gods. . .
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Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.
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Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?
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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
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Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
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I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita.
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