Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (Russian: Влади́мир Влади́мирович Набо́ков, ; 22 April 1899c – 2 July 1977) was a Russian American novelist. Nabokov's first nine novels were in Russian. He then rose to international prominence as a writer of English prose. He also made serious contributions as a lepidopterist and chess composer.
Nabokov's Lolita (1955) is his most famous novel, and often considered his finest work in English. It exhibits the love of intricate word play and synesthetic detail that characterised all his works. The novel was ranked at No. 4 in the list of the Modern Library 100 Best Novels. Pale Fire (1962) was ranked at No. 53 on the same list. His memoir, Speak, Memory, was listed No. 8 on the Modern Library nonfiction list.
Read more about Vladimir Nabokov: Work, Nabokov's Synesthesia, Entomology, Chess Problems, Politics, Influence
Famous quotes by vladimir nabokov:
“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain
By the false azure in the windowpane;
I was the smudge of ashen fluff—and I
Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
“Why juggle with the term ‘bourgeois’ in regard to Flaubert? You know quite well that in Flaubert’s sense it was not a class category. In other words, Flaubert in the eyes of Marx was a bourgeois in the Marxist sense, while Marx in Flaubert’s eyes was a bourgeois in a Flaubertian sense.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
“A pale self-portrait looked out of the mirror with the serious eyes of all self-portraits.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
“Whether or not his newspaper and a set of senses reduced to five are the main sources of the so-called ‘real life’ of the so- called average man, one thing is fortunately certain: namely, that the average man himself is but a piece of fiction, a tissue of statistics.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
“And in the next instant, immediately behind them, Victor saw his former wife.
At once he lowered his gaze, automatically tapping his cigarette to dislodge the ash that had not yet had time to form. From somewhere low down his heart rose like a fist to deliver an uppercut, drew back, struck again, then went into a fast disorderly throb, contradicting the music and drowning it.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)