More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
...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.
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.
Play! Invent the world! Invent reality!
Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.
I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.
And the rest is rust and stardust.
I don't think in any language. I think in images.
