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
two black hints
Maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.
letters comic cosmic
Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.
life-is howl
Let all of life be an unfettered howl.
knowledge expression littles
I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.
mystery reason irrational
Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.
evolution nonsense nonsensical
The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
children writing thinking
I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.
meaningless
Words without experience are meaningless.
teacher school squares
There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything; by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.
thinking shadow
We think not in words but in shadows of words.
writing grows tumors
The thought, when written down, becomes less oppressive, but some thoughts are like a cancerous tumor: you express is, you excise it, and it grows back worse than before.
time believe
I confess, I do not believe in time.
dream dust alive
...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
yesterday names foul
Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.