There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child. Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov More Quotes From Vladimir Nabokov Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James. Vladimir Nabokov uniquepridemean I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all. Vladimir Nabokov egoknowinghumble Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much. Vladimir Nabokov imaginationlifeorder I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life. Vladimir Nabokov realdreampeople I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face. Vladimir Nabokov echoesmenchildren If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece. Vladimir Nabokov obscurepoetlife-is A good laugh is the best pesticide. Vladimir Nabokov good-laughpesticideslaughing The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free. Vladimir Nabokov spiralscirclesform There is only one school of literature - that of talent. Vladimir Nabokov talentliteratureschool Life is a message scribbled in the dark. Vladimir Nabokov messageslife-isdark Let the credulous and the vulgar continue to believe that all mental woes can be cured by a daily application of old Greek myths to their private parts. Vladimir Nabokov psychologygreekbelieve You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs―the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limbs, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate―the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power. Vladimir Nabokov flamesartistchildren She had spent all her life in feeling miserable; this misery was her native element; its fluctuations, its varying depths, alone save her the impression of moving and living. What bothers me is that a sense of misery, and nothing else, is not enough to make a permanent soul. My enormous and morose Mademoiselle is all right on earth but impossible in eternity. Vladimir Nabokov soulfeelingsmoving But in my arms she was always Lolita. Vladimir Nabokov sockarms The sun is a thief: she lures the sea and robs it. The moon is a thief: he steals his silvery light from the sun. The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon. Vladimir Nabokov lightmoonsea All the information I have about myself is from forged documents. Vladimir Nabokov forgeddocumentsinformation Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution. Vladimir Nabokov revelationsrevolution I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost. Vladimir Nabokov tangibleyellowlittles Have you ever happened, reader, to feel that subtle sorrow of parting with an unloved abode? The heart does not break, as it does in parting with dear objects. The humid gaze does not wander around holding back a tear, as if it wished to carry away in it a trembling reflection of the abandoned spot; but in the best corner of our hearts we feel pity for the things which we did not bring to life with our breath, which we hardly noticed and are now leaving forever. This already dead iventory will not be resurrected in one's memory. Vladimir Nabokov reflectionheartmemories It is certainly not then-not in dreams- but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction. Vladimir Nabokov truthdreampast
