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
aesthetic affords art call connected exists fiction insofar shall states work
For me, a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.
creation discern fragrant future kindly lies literary mirrors objects ordinary portray posterity reflected tenderness
Here lies the sense of literary creation: to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in kindly mirrors of future times. . . . To find in objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern . . .
violin would-be ache
if a violin string could ache, i would be that string.
love memories thinking
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
mystery reason irrational
Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
obsolete reverse
The future is but the obsolete in reverse.
touch-me ifs dies
Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.
strong spring land
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
adults premature fierceness
We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
links genius invisible
Genius is finding the invisible link between things.
yesterday names foul
Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.
gloves lost
The lost glove is happy.
heart broke my-heart
He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.
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.