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 sitting-still reactions
It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.
dream country years
Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you love me thus!
heart blood rainbow
In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.
special acumen attention
I don't read reviews about myself with any special eagerness or attention unless they are masterpieces of wit and acumen, and I never reread them.
stars years wings
A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
daze mazes said
I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling
arms sock
But in my arms she was always Lolita.
perfection faces artistic
And what is death, if not a face at peace - its artistic perfection.
information forged documents
All the information I have about myself is from forged documents.
solitude
Solitude was corrupting me.
bored kind enchanting
The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
anxiety way mimicry
Although I could never get used to the constant state of anxiety in which the guilty, the great, and the tenderhearted live, I felt I was doing my best in the way of mimicry.
sleep night insomnia
He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.
summer night lightning
The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.