More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Genius is an African who dreams up snow.
The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition
We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.
The contemplation of beauty, whether it be a uniquely tinted sunset, a radiant face, or a work of art, makes us glance back unwittingly at our personal past and juxtapose ourselves and our inner being with the utterly unattainable beauty revealed to us.
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
Literature, real literature, must not be gulped down like some potion which may be good for the heart or good for the brain—the brain, that stomach of the soul. Literature must be taken and broken to bits, pulled apart, squashed—then its lovely reek will be smelt in the hollow of the palm, it will be munched and rolled upon the tongue with relish; then, and only then, its rare flavor will be appreciated at its true worth and the broken and crushed parts will again come together in your mind and disclose the beauty of a unity to which you have contributed something of your own blood.
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.
Nostalgia in reverse, the longing for yet another strange land, grew especially strong in spring.
I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling
