Install this theme
we have it all arranged in our minds, and the less often we see a particular person the more satisfying it is to check how obediently he conforms to our notion of him every time we hear of him. Any deviation in the fates we have ordained would strike us as not only anomalous but unethical. We would prefer not to have known at all our neighbor, the retired hot-dog stand operator, if it turns out he has just produced the greatest book of poetry his age has ever seen.
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (via garbage-patch)
True love.

True love.

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, Pale fire (via nabokovlolita)
Anonymous
asks:
“It is evening now, with touching cloudlets in the sky. I took a walk around the plantation, behind the grove of cork oaks, ate peaches and apricots, admired the sunset, listened to a nightingale’s twees and whistles, and both its song and the sunset tasted of apricot and peach.” - From a letter to his mother, (1923)

Mmm. Thank you.

goonlibrary:

“I won’t hide it: I am so unused to the idea of people, well, understanding me - so unused to it that in the very first minutes of our meeting it seemed to me that this was a joke, a masquerade deception….There are just some things that are difficult to talk about - one brushes off their wondrous pollen by touching them with words….Yes, I need you, my fairy tale. For you are the only person I can talk to - about the hue of a cloud, about the singing of a thought, and about the fact that when I went out to work today and looked each sunflower in the face, they all smiled back at me with their seeds.”
— Letter from Vladimir Nabokov to Véra, Véra by Stacy Schiff

goonlibrary:

I won’t hide it: I am so unused to the idea of people, well, understanding me - so unused to it that in the very first minutes of our meeting it seemed to me that this was a joke, a masquerade deception….There are just some things that are difficult to talk about - one brushes off their wondrous pollen by touching them with words….Yes, I need you, my fairy tale. For you are the only person I can talk to - about the hue of a cloud, about the singing of a thought, and about the fact that when I went out to work today and looked each sunflower in the face, they all smiled back at me with their seeds.
— Letter from Vladimir Nabokov to Véra, Véra by Stacy Schiff
millionsmillions:

Dmitri Nabokov, son of Vladimir, passed away this week at the age of 77. His stewardship of his father’s literary estate is admirable and worth remembrance.

In my defense, I was “going through a thing” at the time.

millionsmillions:

Dmitri Nabokov, son of Vladimir, passed away this week at the age of 77. His stewardship of his father’s literary estate is admirable and worth remembrance.

In my defense, I was “going through a thing” at the time.