If my skin were a canvas and her lips a brush, not an inch of me would have remained unpainted and vice versa.
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Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (/nəˈbɔːkəf, ˈnæbəˌkɔːf, -ˌkɒf/; Russian: Влади́мир Влади́мирович Набо́ков, pronounced [vlɐˈdʲimʲɪr nɐˈbokəf], also known by the pen name Vladimir Sirin; 22 April [O.S. 10 April] 1899c – 2 July 1977) was a Russian-American novelist and entomologist. His first nine novels were in Russian, but he achieved international prominence after he began writing English prose. Nabokov's Lolita (1955), his most noted novel in English, was ranked fourth in the list of the Modern Library 100 Best Novels; Pale Fire (1962) was ranked 53rd on the same list, and his memoir, Speak, Memory (1951), was listed eighth on the publisher's list of the 20th century's greatest nonfiction. He was a finalist for the National Book Award for Fiction seven times. Nabokov was an expert lepidopterist and composer of chess problems. 2Life and career 3Russia Nabokov was born on 22 April 1899 (10 April 1899 Old Style), in Saint Petersburg,b to a wealthy and prominent family of the Russian nobility. His father was the liberal lawyer, statesman, and journalist Vladimir Dmitrievich Nabokov (1870–1922) and his mother was the heiress Yelena Ivanovna née Rukavishnikova, the granddaughter of a millionaire gold-mine owner. His father was a leader of the pre-Revolutionary liberal Constitutional Democratic Party and authored numerous books and articles about criminal law and politics. His cousins included the composer Nicolas Nabokov. His paternal grandfather, Dmitry Nabokov (1827–1904), had been Russia's Justice Minister in the reign of Alexander II. His paternal grandmother was the Baltic German Baroness Maria von Korff (1842–1926
I love only you, I’m happy only in dreams of you, you are my joy and my world, this is as certain and real as being aware of one’s being alive.
Destroy and forget!
The harmony between neck and eyes is the special, yet scarcely investigated, secret of feminine grace.
A definite picture that he knew he had never seen in reality— remained within him more real than any actual memory.
Her charm was too compelling not to be tasted in secret and too sacred to be openly violated.
Was she really pretty, at twelve? Did he want— would he ever want to caress her, to really caress her? Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.
I simply want to tell you that somehow I can’t imagine life without you. I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably.
You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed— you put a glint of happiness on everything.
And I have still other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain.
And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears.
Words without experience are meaningless.
We were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly.
All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add...
I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.
He broke my heart. You merely broke my life.
I want you to come live with me, and die with me, and everything with me.
Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me.
Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.