Quotes from Vladimir Nabokov

Tropes are the dreams of speech.

The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.

The subject may be crude and repulsive. Its expression is artistically modulated and balanced. This is style. This is art. This is the only thing that really matters in books.

You lose your immortality when you lose your memory. And if you land then on Terra Caelestis, with your pillow and chamberpot, you are made to room not with Shakespeare or even Longfellow, but with guitarists and cretins.

The only consciousness that persists in the hereafter is the consciousness of pain.

There was a rhythm, an alternation in the dripping that I found as teasing as a coin trick.

The distinct feature of everything extant is its monotony.

For some reason, I kept seeing it—it trembled and silkily glowed on my damp retina—a radiant child of twelve, sitting on a threshold, pinging pebbles at an empty can.

Az életnek, a szerelemnek, a könyvtáraknak nincs jövÅ'jük.

The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams.

if one were quite sincere with oneself, no conscience, and hence no consciousness, could be expected to subsist in a world where such things as Mira's death were possible.

Next day, after lunch, I went to see our doctor, a friendly fellow whose perfect bedside manner and complete reliance on a few patented drugs adequately masked his ignorance of, and indifference to, medical science.

Somehow, too, I remembered Chichikov's round of weird visits in Gogol's "Dead Souls.

el veneno estaba en la herida y la herida permaneció siempre abierta

Spontaneous eloquence seems to me a miracle.

This daily headache in the opaque air of this tombal jail is disturbing, but I must persevere. Have written more than a hundred pages and not got anywhere yet. My Calender is getting confused. That must have been around August 15, 1947. Don't think I can go on. Heart, head--everything. Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita, Lolita. Repeat til page is full, printer.

plage, various seaside chairs and stools supported the parents

It isn't possible. I cannot imagine it. Come on over here, you foolish little doe, and tell me on what day I shall die.

I qualify it as pathetic. Pathetic--because despite the insatiable fire of my venereal appetite, I intended, with the most fervent force and foresight, to protect the purity of that twelve-year-old child.

Él me destrozó el corazón. Tú apenas me destruiste la vida

Bueno, algún día, si quieres venirte a vivir conmigo… Crearé un nuevo Dios y le agradeceré con gritos desgarradores si me das una esperanza microscópica.

Actually, observed Lucette, wiping the long envelope which a drop of soda had stained,- Bergson is only for very young people or very unhappy people, such as this available rousse.

Egyvalamit egyszer és mindenkorra, visszavonhatatlanul le kell szögeznem. Csak téged szerettelek, szeretlek és foglak szeretni.

But even during this sleep—still, still—his real life showed through too much.