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
art crazy mirrors
In this crazy mirror of terror and art a pseudo-quotation made up of obscure Shakespeareanisms (Chapter Three) somehow produces, despite its lack of literal meaning, the blurred diminutive image of the acrobatic performance that so gloriously supplies the bravura ending for the next chapter.
fall struggle wings
His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.
real life-is guilty
As to the rest, I am no more guilty of imitating 'real life' than'real life' is responsible for plagiarizing me.
oval philistines rounds
Those Eggheadsareterrible Philistines. A realgood head is not oval but round.
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.
sorry cry life-is
Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.
thinking nurse mad
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.
memories heart reflection
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..
heart sea kidneys
My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.
butterfly artist forgotten
do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
baby art husband
I hope you will love your baby. I hope it will be a boy. That husband of yours, I hope, will always treat you well, because otherwise my specter shall come out of him, like black smoke, like a demented giant, and pull him apart nerve by nerve. ...I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
expression cosmos kangaroos
How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!
night landscape surprise
What surprises you in life? The marvel of consciousness -- that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidts the night of non-being.