Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth. Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes From Vladimir Nabokov Although I do not care for the slogan "art for art's sake", there can be no question that what makes a work of fiction safe from larvae and rust is not its social importance but its art, only its art. Vladimir Nabokov rust fiction art Pnin slowly walked under solemn pines. The sky was dying. He did not believe in an autocratic God. He did believe, dimly, in a democracy of ghosts. The souls of the dead, perhaps, formed committees, and these, in continuous session, attended the destinies of the quick. Vladimir Nabokov destiny sky believe Here lies the sense of literary creation to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in kindly mirrors of future times. . . . To find in objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern . . . Vladimir Nabokov mirrors ordinary lying My principal failing as a writer is the lack of spontaneity; the nuisance of parallel thoughts, second thoughts, third thoughts; inability to express myself properly in any language unless I compose every damned sentence in my bath, in my mind, at my desk. Vladimir Nabokov nuisance inability mind Of all my Russian books, the defense contains and diffuses the greatest 'warmth' which may seem odd seeing how supremely abstract Chess is supposed to be Vladimir Nabokov defense may book A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely. Vladimir Nabokov fallacy rely environment Theoretically there is no absolute proof that one's awakening in the morning (the finding oneself again in the saddle of one's personality) is not really a quite unprecedented event, a perfectly original birth. Vladimir Nabokov events personality morning And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine. Vladimir Nabokov pockets fists keys And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with the gaunt arches of its Boulevard Exelmans and the ceaseless Alpine gurgle of desolate latrines), is the most adequate and ever-present symbol of that vast silent explosion. Vladimir Nabokov night death thinking The road now stretched across open country, and it occured to me - not by way of protest, not as a symbol, or anything like that, but merely as a novel experience - that since I had disregarded all laws of humanity, I might as well disregard the rules of traffic. So I crossed to the left side of the highway and checked the feeling, and the feeling was good. It was a pleasant diaphragmal melting, with elements of diffused tactility, all this enhanced by the thought that nothing could be nearer to the elimination of basic physical laws than deliberately driving on the wrong site of the road. Vladimir Nabokov law feelings country The term "bend sinister" means a heraldic bar or band drawn from the left side (and popularly, but incorrectly, supposed to denote bastardy). This choice of title was an attempt to suggest an outline broken by refraction, a distortion in the mirror of being, a wrong turn taken by life, a sinistral and sinister world. The title's drawback is that a solemn reader looking for "general ideas" or "human interest" (which is much the same thing) in a novel may be led to look for them in this one. Vladimir Nabokov taken mean ideas I don't want an elderly gentleman from Vienna with an umbrella inflicting his dreams upon me. Vladimir Nabokov elderly personality dream Only ambitious nonentities and hearty mediocrities exhibit their rough drafts. It's like passing around samples of sputum. Vladimir Nabokov rough-drafts ambitious writing Her lips were like large crimson polyps. Vladimir Nabokov crimson lips I have the European urge to use my feet when a drive can be dispensed with. Vladimir Nabokov use feet walking An active and creative reader is a re-reader. Vladimir Nabokov active reader creative Treading the soil of the moon, palpating its pebbles, tasting the panic and splendor of the event, feeling in the pit of one's stomach the separation from Terra-these form the most romantic sensation an explorer has ever known . . . this is the only thing I can say about the matter. The utilitarian results do not interest me. Vladimir Nabokov space moon feelings I could also distinguish the glint of a special puddle (the one Krug had somehow perceived through the layer of his own life), an oblong puddle invariably acquiring the same form after every shower because of the constant spatulate shape of a depression in the ground. Possibly something of the kind may be said to occur in regard to the imprint we leave in the intimate texture of space. Twang. A good night for nothing. Vladimir Nabokov space good-night depression Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth's green see-saw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord. Vladimir Nabokov lap saws air To know that no one before you has seen an organ you are examining, to trace relationships that have occurred to no one before, to immerse yourself in the wondrous crystalline world of the microscope, where silence reigns, circumscribed by its own horizon, a blindingly white arena - all this is so enticing that I cannot describe it. Vladimir Nabokov arena silence white
