Quotessence
Home / Authors / Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Nabokov

Vladimir Nabokov Quotes

Novelist

Filter quotes by topic

AllWritingArtIfsLoveMindWorldBookMayShouldThinking

Famous Vladimir Nabokov Quotes

“There are gentle souls who would pronounce Lolita meaningless because it does not teach them anything. I am neither a reader nor a writer of didactic fiction, and, despite John Ray's assertion, Lolita has no moral in tow. For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm. There are not many such books. All the rest is either topical trash or what some call the Literature of Ideas, which very often is topical trash coming in huge blocks of plaster that are carefully transmitted from age to age until somebody comes along with a hammer and takes a good crack at Balzac, at Gorki, at Mann.”

LiteratureAestheticismTopical Trash
Book:Lolita
Create image

“The color of one's creed, neckties, eyes, thoughts, manners, speech, is sure to meet somewhere in time of space with a fatal objection from a mob that hates that particular tone. And the more brilliant, the more unusual the man, the nearer he is to the stake. Stranger always rhymes with danger. The meek prophet, the enchanter in his cave, the indignant artist, the nonconforming little schoolboy, all share in the same sacred danger. And this being so, let us bless them, let us bless the freak; for in the natural evolution of things, the ape would perhaps never have become man had not a freak appeared in the family.”

Freaks
Book:Lectures on Literature
Create image

“Nos enamoramos simultáneamente, de una manera frenética, impúdica, agonizante. Y desesperada, debería agregar, porque este arrebato de mutua posesión sólo se habría saciado si cada uno se hubiera embebido y saturado realmente de cada partícula del alma y el corazón del otro; pero ahí nos quedábamos ambos, incapaces hasta de encontrar esas oportunidades de juntarnos que habrían sido tan fáciles para los chicos callejeros.”

AmorDesamorMelancoliaObsesiónImpotencia
Book:Lolita
Create image

“Hela villan, från den vitkalkade terassen till radioantennen, var sådan - prydlig, putsad och på det hela taget oälskad och meningslös. Husets herre betraktade den som ett skämt. Vad beträffar Martha var det varken estetiska hänsyn eller känsloskäl som styrde hennes smak, hon ansåg bara helt enkelt att en tämligen rik tysk affärsman i nittonhundratjugotalets Berlin borde ha ett hem av precis detta slag, det vill säga det skulle vara av precis samma villaförstadstyp som de hus andra personer i hans ställning hade.”

ConsumptionBourgeoisie
Book:King, Queen, Knave
Create image

“A first-rate college library with a comfortable campus around it is a fine milieu for a writer. There is, of course, the problem of educating the young. I remember how once, between terms, not at Cornell, a student brought a transistor set with him into the reading room. He managed to state that one, he was playing “classical” music; that two, he was doing it “softly”; and that three, “there were not many readers around in summer.” I was there, a one-man multitude.”

CollegeCornell
Book:Strong opinions
Create image

“From his earliest years Cincinnatus, by some strange and happy chance comprehending his danger, carefully managed to conceal a certain peculiarity. He was impervious to the rays of others, and therefore produced when off his guard a bizarre impression, as of a lone dark obstacle in the world of souls transparent to one other; he learned however to feign translucence, employing a complex system of optical illusions, as it were--but he had only to forget himself, to allow a momentary lapse in self control, in the manipulation of cunningly illuminated facets and angles at which he turned his soul, and immediately there was alarm. In the midst of the excitement of a game his coevals would suddenly forsake him, as if they had sensed that his lucid gaze and the azure of his temples were but a crafty deception and that actually Cincinnatus was opaque. Sometimes, in the midst of sudden silence, the teacher, in a chagrined perplexity, would gather up all the reserves of skin around his eyes, gaze at him for a long while and finally say: "What is wrong with you, Cincinnatus?" Then Cincinnatus would take hold of himself, and, clutching his own self to his breast, would remove that self to a safe place.”

DarknessLonelinessIsolationUniqueness Of IndividualHiding In Plain Sight
Book:Invitation to a Beheading
Create image

“We must distinguish between "sentimental" and "sensitive." A sentimentalist may be a perfect brute in his free time. A sensitive person is never a cruel person. Sentimental Rousseau, who could weep over a progressive idea, distributed his many natural children through various poorhouses and workhouses and never gave a hoot for them. A sentimental old maid may pamper her parrot and poison her niece. The sentimental politician may remember Mother's Day and ruthlessly destroy a rival. Stalin loved babies. Lenin sobbed at the opera, especially at the Traviata. A whole century of authors praised the simple life of the poor, and so on. Remember that when we speak of sentimentalists, among them Richardson, Rousseau, Dostoevski, we mean the non-artistic exaggeration of familiar emotions meant to provoke automatically traditional compassion in the reader.”

Sentimentalism
Book:Lectures on Russian Literature
Create image

“A warm flow of pain was gradually replacing the ice and wood of the anaesthetic in his thawing, still half-dead, abominably martyred mouth. After that, during a few days he was in mourning for an intimate part of himself. It surprised him to realize how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a fat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, nuzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft; but now not a landmark remained, and all there existed was a great dark wound, a terra incognita of gums which dread and disgust forbade one to investigate. And when the plates were thrust in, it was like a poor fossil skull being fitted with the grinning jaws of a perfect stranger.”

VladimirNabokov
Book:Pnin
Create image

“Children of her type contrive the purest philosophies. Ada had worked out her own little system. Hardly a week had elapsed since Van’s arrival when he was found worthy of being initiated in her web of wisdom. An individual’s life consisted of certain classified things: "real things" which were unfrequent and priceless, simply "things" which formed the routine stuff of life; and "ghost things," also called "fogs," such as fever, toothache, dreadful disappointments, and death. Three or more things occurring at the same time formed a "tower," or, if they came in immediate succession, they made a "bridge." "Real towers" and "real bridges" were the joys of life, and when the towers came in a series, one experienced supreme rapture; it almost never happened, though. In some circumstances, in a certain light, a neutral "thing" might look or even actually become "real" or else, conversely, it might coagulate into a fetid "fog." When the joy and the joyless happened to be intermixed, simultaneously or along the ramp of duration, one was confronted with "ruined towers" and "broken bridges.”

LifePerfectBridgesTowersFogReal ThingsThingsNabakov
Book:Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle
Create image

“The Russian reader in old cultured Russia was certainly proud of Pushkin and of Gogol, but he was just as proud of Shakespeare or Dante, of Baudelaire or of Edgar Allan Poe, of Flaubert or of Homer, and this was the Russian reader's strength. I have a certain personal interest in the question, for if my fathers had not been good readers, I would hardly be here today, speaking of these matters in this tongue.”

LiteratureRussian CultureUniversal Literature
Book:Lectures on Russian Literature
Create image

“Уви, този „дивен руски език“, който ми се струваше, че все ме очаква някъде, цъфти като вярна пролет зад залостена здраво врата, за която от толкова години съм пазил ключа, се оказа несъществуващ и зад тази врата няма нищо освен овъглени пънове и есенна безнадеждна далнина, а ключът в ръката ми прилича по-скоро на шперц. (...) Движенията на тялото, гримасите, пейзажите, морните, дървета, ароматите, дъждовете, стапящите се и преливащите се оттенъци на природата, всичко нежно-човешко (колкото и да е чудно!), а също и всичко мъжкарско, грубо, сочно-цинично излиза на руски не по-зле, ако не и по-добре, отколкото на английски; но толкова присъщите на английския изтънчени недомлъвки, поезията на мисълта, мигновената искра между съвсем отвлечените понятия, ройването на едносрични епитети, всичко това, а също и всичко, що се отнася до техниката, модите, спорта, естествените науки и противоестествените страсти — на руски изглежда дървено, многословно и често отвратително в смисъл на стил и ритъм. Този разнобой отразява основната разлика в историческо отношение между зеления руски литературен език и зрелия като разпукнала се смокиня английски: между гениалния, но още недостатъчно образован, а понякога доста лишен от вкус младеж и мастития гений, който съчетава запасите от пъстро знание с пълната свобода на духа. Свободата на духа! Цялото дихание на човечеството се вмества в това съчетание от думи.”

LanguageEnglishRussianTranslating
Book:Lolita
Create image

“Poshlust,” or in a better transliteration poshlost, has many nuances, and evidently I have not described them clearly enough in my little book on Gogol, if you think one can ask anybody if he is tempted by poshlost. Corny trash, vulgar clichés, Philistinism in all its phases, imitations of imitations, bogus profundities, crude, moronic, and dishonest pseudo-literature—these are obvious examples. Now, if we want to pin down poshlost in contemporary writing, we must look for it in Freudian symbolism, moth-eaten mythologies, social comment, humanistic messages, political allegories, overconcern with class or race, and the journalistic generalities we all know. Poshlost speaks in such concepts as “America is no better than Russia” or “We all share in Germany’s guilt.” The flowers of poshlost bloom in such phrases and terms as “the moment of truth,” “charisma,” “existential” (used seriously), “dialogue” (as applied to political talks between nations), and “vocabulary” (as applied to a dauber). Listing in one breath Auschwitz, Hiroshima, and Vietnam is seditious poshlost. Belonging to a very select club (which sports one Jewish name—that of the treasurer) is genteel poshlost. Hack reviews are frequently poshlost, but it also lurks in certain highbrow essays. Poshlost calls Mr. Blank a great poet and Mr. Bluff a great novelist. One of poshlost’s favorite breeding places has always been the Art Exhibition; there it is produced by so-called sculptors working with the tools of wreckers, building crankshaft cretins of stainless steel, Zen stereos, polystyrene stinkbirds, objects trouvés in latrines, cannonballs, canned balls. There we admire the gabinetti wall patterns of so-called abstract artists, Freudian surrealism, roric smudges, and Rorschach blots—all of it as corny in its own right as the academic “September Morns” and “Florentine Flowergirls” of half a century ago. The list is long, and, of course, everybody has his bête noire, his black pet, in the series. Mine is that airline ad: the snack served by an obsequious wench to a young couple—she eyeing ecstatically the cucumber canapé, he admiring wistfully the hostess. And, of course, Death in Venice. You see the range.”

PhilistinismPoshlostPoshlust
Book:Strong opinions
Create image

“-No me acuerdo, ¿Cómo cabe recordar lo que uno ha sido en el pasado? Quizá fuera una ostra, o un pájaro, o quizá profesor de matemáticas... De todos modos nuestra anterior vida en Rusia parece algo que hubiera ocurrido antes del principio de los tiempos, algo metafísico, o como quiera usted llamarlo. No, metafísico no es la palabra adecuada... Sí, ahora sé de qué se trata. Es como una metempsicosis.”

RusiaMetempsicosisMashenka
Book:Mary
Create image

“As happens in dreams, when a perfectly harmless object inspires us with fear and thereafter is frightening every time we dream of it (and even in real life retains disquieting overtones), so Dreyer's presence became for Franz a refined torture, an implacable menace. [ ... H]e could not help cringing when, with a banging of doors in a dramatic draft, Martha and Dreyer entered simultaneously from two different rooms as if on a too harshly lit stage. Then he snapped to attention and in this attitude felt himself ascending through the ceiling, through the roof, into the black-brown sky, while, in reality, drained and empty, he was shaking hands with Martha, with Dreyer. He dropped back on his feet out of that dark nonexistence, from those unknown and rather silly heights, to land firmly in the middle of the room (safe, safe!) when hearty Dreyer described a circle with his index finger and jabbed him in the navel; Franz mimicked a gasp and giggled; and as usual Martha was coldly radiant. His fear did not pass but only subsided temporarily: one incautious glance, one eloquent smile, and all would be revealed, and a disaster beyond imagination would shatter his career. Thereafter whenever he entered this house, he imagined that the disaster had happened—that Martha had been found out, or had confessed everything in a fit of insanity or religious self-immolation to her husband; and the drawing room chandelier invariably met him with a sinister refulgence.”

KingQueenKnave
Author:Vladimir Nabokov
Create image

“My darling, what a cat they have! Something perfectly stupendous. Siamese, in colour dark beige, or taupe, with chocolate paws and the tail the same. Moreover, his tail is comparatively short, so his croup has something of a little dog, or rather, a kangaroo, and that’s its colour, too. And that special silkiness of short fur, and some very tender white tints on its folds, and wonderful clear-blue eyes, turning transparently green towards evening, and a pensive tenderness of its walk, a sort of heavenly circumspection of movement. An amazing, sacred animal, and so quiet – it’s unclear what he is looking at with those eyes filled to the brim with sapphire water.”

CatsVladimir NabokovVera Nabokov
Author:Vladimir Nabokov
Create image

“Он спрашивает: "Вы анархист?" -- "Я отвечаю, -- здесь Пнин прерывает свой рассказ, чтобы предаться уютному беззвучному веселью. -- Первое, что мы понимаем под "анархизмом"? Анархизм практический, метафизический, теоретический, абстрактический, индивидуальный, социальный, мистикальный? Когда я был молод, -- так я говорю, -- это все для меня имело важнейшн значейшн. Таким образом, мы имели интереснейшн дискушн, вследствие которой я проводил две цельные недели на Эллис-Айленд", -- брюшко рассказчика начинает сотрясаться; оно сотрясается; рассказчик корчится от смеха.”

NabokovPnin
Book:Pnin
Create image

“A sunset, almost formidable in its splendor, would be lingering in the fully exposed sky. Among its imperceptibly changing amassments, one could pick out brightly stained structural details of celestial organisms, or glowing slits in dark banks, or flat, ethereal beaches that looked like mirages of desert islands. I did not know then (as I know perfectly well now) what to do with such things—how to get rid of them, how to transform them into something that can be turned over to the reader in printed characters to have him cope with the blessed shiver—and this inability enhanced my oppression.”

WritingMemoirObservation
Book:Speak, Memory
Create image

“And speaking of this wonderful machine: [840] I’m puzzled by the difference between Two methods of composing: A, the kind Which goes on solely in the poet’s mind, A testing of performing words, while he Is soaping a third time one leg, and B, The other kind, much more decorous, when He’s in his study writing with a pen. In method B the hand supports the thought, The abstract battle is concretely fought. The pen stops in mid-air, then swoops to bar [850] A canceled sunset or restore a star, And thus it physically guides the phrase Toward faint daylight through the inky maze. But method A is agony! The brain Is soon enclosed in a steel cap of pain. A muse in overalls directs the drill Which grinds and which no effort of the will Can interrupt, while the automaton Is taking off what he has just put on Or walking briskly to the corner store [860] To buy the paper he has read before.”

WritingLiteratureTeachingPaperPenPencilGood Verse
Book:Pale fire
Create image

“I felt that way not because I never once discovered any palpable hard young throat to crush among the masculine mutes that flickered somewhere in the background; but because it was to me "overwhelmingly obvious" (a favorite expression with my aunt Sybil) that all varieties of high school boys - from the perspiring nincompoop whom "holding hands" thrills, to the self-sufficient rapist with pustules and a souped-up car - equally bored my sophisticated young mistress.”

Sarcastic Wisdom
Book:Lolita
Create image

“Tout est parfaitement bien réglé dans nos esprits, et moins nous voyons telle personne en particulier et plus nous sommes heureux de constater, chaque fois que nous entendons parler d'elle, à quel point elle se conforme servilement à l'idée que nous nous faisons d'elle. Tout écart dans les destins que nous avons décrétés nous semblerait non seulement anormal mais immoral. Nous préfèrerions ne pas avoir connu du tout notre voisin, le marchand de hot-dogs en retraite, s'il s'avérait qu'il vient de produire le plus merveilleux recueil de poésies qu'ait connu son époque.”

DestinEnvieVoisinRéussite
Book:Lolita
Create image

“La letteratura, la vera letteratura, non deve essere tracannata come una pozione che può far bene al cuore o al cervello - il cervello, lo stomaco dell'anima. Bisogna prenderla e farla a pezzetti, smontarla, spiaccicarla - e allora il suo amabile profumo si farà sentire nel cavo del palmo e la sgranocchierete e ve la farete passare sulla lingua con godimento; allora, e solo allora, la sua squisita fragranza potrà essere apprezzata nel suo vero valore e le parti frantumate e schiacciate torneranno a unirsi nella vostra mente e riveleranno la bellezza di un'unità alla quale avrete contribuito con qualcoa del vostro sangue.”

Letteratura
Book:Lectures on Russian Literature
Create image