Adultery is a most conventional way to rise above the conventional. Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes From Vladimir Nabokov Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity. Vladimir Nabokov creativity inspirational thinking I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth. Vladimir Nabokov sunset heart memories Words without experience are meaningless. Vladimir Nabokov meaningless I cannot help feeling there is something essentially wrong about love. Friends may quarrel or drift apart, close relations too, but there is not this pang, this pathos, this fatality which clings to love. Friendship never has that doomed look. Why, what is the matter? I have not stopped loving you, but because I cannot go on kissing your dim dear face, we must part, we must part. Vladimir Nabokov loving-you kissing feelings I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly. Vladimir Nabokov i-adore-you hurt matter One is always at home in one's past. Vladimir Nabokov home past The compensation for a death sentence is the knowledge of the exact hour when one is to die. A great luxury, but one that is well earned. Vladimir Nabokov luxury hours wells The square root of I is I. Vladimir Nabokov square-roots squares roots Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with! Vladimir Nabokov play You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own. Vladimir Nabokov dying knows All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do so. Vladimir Nabokov soul opportunity children I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane. Vladimir Nabokov windowpane azure shadow At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air. Vladimir Nabokov eight mother air 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. Vladimir Nabokov phantoms population mirrors Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons. Vladimir Nabokov dandelions moon sun Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Vladimir Nabokov light soul fire We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night — every night, every night — the moment I feigned sleep. Vladimir Nabokov dog country book His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle. Vladimir Nabokov struggle wings fall We are most artistically caged. Vladimir Nabokov caged Dostoevky's lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity - all this is difficult to admire. Vladimir Nabokov taste suffering way
