I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't. Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes From Vladimir Nabokov Life with you was lovely—and when I say lovely, I mean doves and lilies, and velvet, and that soft pink ‘v’ in the middle and the way your tongue curved up to the long, lingering ‘l.’ Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too. Vladimir Nabokov longmeanthinking Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Vladimir Nabokov pitydefinitionsart It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really. Vladimir Nabokov lengthsitting-stillwriting ...and the red sun of desire and decision (the two things that create a live world) rose higher and higher, while upon a succession of balconies a succession of libertines, sparkling glass in hand, toasted the bliss of past and future nights. Vladimir Nabokov glassesnightpast And yet I am happy. Yes, happy. I swear. I swear that I am happy...What does it matter that I am a bit cheap, a bit foul, and that no one appreciates all the remarkable things about me-my fantasy, my erudition, my literary gift...I am happy that I can gaze at myself, for any man is absorbing-yes, really absorbing! ... I am happy-yes, happy! Vladimir Nabokov appreciatedoemen Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form. Vladimir Nabokov insubordinationformcuriosity Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveler's helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Vladimir Nabokov envelopesspacemen Once upon a time there lived in Berlin, Germany, a man called Albinus. He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster. This is the whole of the story and we might have left it at that had there not been profit and pleasure in the telling; and although there is plenty of space on a gravestone to contain, bound in moss, the abridged version of a man's life, detail is always welcome. Vladimir Nabokov wifespacemen Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds. Vladimir Nabokov simplemindway No writer in a free country should be expected to bother about the exact demarcation between the sensuous and the sensual; this is preposterous; I can only admire but cannot emulate the accuracy of judgment of those who pose the fair young mammals photographed in magazines where the general neckline is just low enough to provoke a past master's chuckle and just high enough not to make a postmaster frown. Vladimir Nabokov writingcountrypast ...for the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures. Vladimir Nabokov landhouseyears Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you love me thus! Vladimir Nabokov dreamcountryyears I cannot disobey something which I do not know and the reality of which I have the right to deny. Vladimir Nabokov denyknowsreality My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges. Vladimir Nabokov mothersummermemories Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly . Vladimir Nabokov butterflykissingdark I don't read reviews about myself with any special eagerness or attention unless they are masterpieces of wit and acumen, and I never reread them. Vladimir Nabokov acumenspecialattention a man who has decided upon self-destruction is far removed from mundane affairs, and to sit down and write his will would be, at that moment, an act just as absurd as winding up one’s watch, since together with the man, the whole world is destroyed; the last letter is instantly reduced to dust and, with it, all the postmen; and like smoke, vanishes the estate bequeathed to a nonexistent progeny. Vladimir Nabokov selfwritingmen Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture. Vladimir Nabokov tortureattractivebeautiful If he was silent I could be silent too. Indeed, I could very well do with a little rest in this subdued, frightened-to-death rocking chair, before I drove to wherever the beast's lair was - and then pulled the pistol's foreskin back, and then enjoyed the orgasm of the crushed trigger. Vladimir Nabokov pistolssilentlittles 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. Vladimir Nabokov achievementmemoriespast
