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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.

my-sin-my-soul-lo-li-ta:

all loveliness is anguish -

my-sin-my-soul-lo-li-ta:

all loveliness is anguish -

foxworth-hall:

Vladimir and Vera Nabokov

foxworth-hall:

Vladimir and Vera Nabokov

'On Translating Eugene Onegin', appearing in The New Yorker in 1955.

'On Translating Eugene Onegin', appearing in The New Yorker in 1955.