More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
Life is a message scribbled in the dark.
Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.
We think not in words but in shadows of words.
I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.
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.
Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
I am sufficiently proud of my knowing something to be modest about my not knowing all.
