#Quote
More Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
And the rest is rust and stardust.
Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.
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.
Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.
Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.
Resemblances are the shadows of differences. Different people see different similarities and similar differences.
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
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.
For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.
Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture.
