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
writing men two
Poor Knight! he really had two periods, the firsta dull man writing broken English, the seconda broken man writing dull English.
moon sky black
Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon
heart speak-english mind
My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.
dog
Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?
looks thorns
Look at this tangle of thorns.
memories immortality loses
You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.
moon sea light
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.
strong morning kissing
- Might it console you to know that I expect nothing but torture from her return? That I regard you as a bird of paradise? She shook her head. - That my admiration for you is painfully strong? - I want Van – she cried – and not intangible admiration. - Intangible? You goose. You my gauge it, you may brush it once very lightly with the knuckles of you gloved hand. I said knuckles. I said once. That will do. I can't kiss you. Not even your burning face. Good-bye, pet. Tell Edmond to take a nap after he returns. I shall need him at two in the morning.
trying littles forests
Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.
butterfly dark kissing
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 .
dying knows
You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.
fire light soul
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
mirrors phantoms population
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
gloves lost
The lost glove is happy.