Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, also known by the pen name Vladimir Sirin; 22 April 1899c – 2 July 1977) was a Russian-American novelist. His first nine novels were in Russian, and he achieved international prominence after he began writing English prose...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth23 April 1899
CitySaint Petersburg, Russia
CountryUnited States of America
too-late late
Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
butterfly artist forgotten
do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
writing sheep reader
Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.
fairy-tale tales novel
All great novels are great fairy tales.
responsibility answers doe
My answer to your question'Does the writer have a social responsibility?' is NO.You owe me ten cents, sir.
thousand paraphrase prettiest
The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.
vulgarity-is philistines vulgarity
Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.
life honor age
Age indomitably, in the European manner. Do not finish your labours young. Be a planet, not a meteor. Honor the working day. Sit at your desk.
life fashion fire
Burn pedants in pale fire. Accept no fashions. Be your own fashion. Do not rely on earlier triumphs. Be new at each appearance.
life hero use
Use unlikely materials. Who would choose Pnin as hero, but how did we live before Pnin?
life country butterfly
If possible, be Russian. And live in another country. Play chess. Be an active trader between languages. Carry precious metals from one to the other. Remind us of Stravinsky. Know the names of plants and flying creatures. Hunt gauzy wings with snares of gauze. Make science pay tribute. Have a butterfly known by your name.
love thinking matter
I think it is all a matter of love...
lips crimson
Her lips were like large crimson polyps.
towns bed sometimes
My Carmen," I said (I used to call her that sometimes) "we shall leave this raw sore town as soon as you get out of bed." "... Because, really," I continued, "there is no point in staying here." "There is no point in staying anywhere," said Lolita.