Author of quotes: Vladimir Nabokov. Page 3

How many times had he swore to himself that tomorrow with her tear, up easily the right expression, but I couldn't imagine that last minute when you shake her hand and quietly leaves the room. Here is the movement, to turn, to leave was unthinkable.

And strength was not because he did not have a particular desire, and the torment was that he searched in vain for the desire. He couldn't force himself to reach out to the lamp to turn on the light. It seemed to him inconceivable miracle this simple transition from intention to implementation. Nothing graced his colorless melancholy, thoughts crept without communication, heart beating quietly, linen pesky stuck to the body.

Returning home, he tried to read, but what was in the book, seemed to him so strange and inappropriate that he abandoned her in the middle of the subordinate clause. He was found what he called "the scattering will." He sat motionless in front of the Desk and
couldn't decide what to do: to change the position of the body, whether to stand up to go wash my hands, open the box, which was a cloudy day had passed into twilight...

... and finally, when I had completely enmeshed with the heat radiating darling this network of ethereal caresses, I dared stroke her leg, at the gooseberry hairs along the tibia.

Suddenly we were in love with each other - madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly; I would even add the hopeless...

... we are inclined to endow our friends with the stability properties and the fate of that literary characters acquire in the reader's mind.

Floor only the servant of art.

Faking, I thought, pretending to be right, to evade my caresses; I burned a passion, but the poor girl began very tedious whining, when I got to her.

Lolita is so close and yet so woefully unattainable, and so to love her, to love on the eve of a new era when, according to my estimates, the Volkhov, it would have to stop being a nymphet, stop torturing me.

For there is on earth a second of bliss undead jailbait.

How smug I marveled that she was mine, mine, mine...

Too long, too idle, too wasteful, I dreamed about it. I lost the dream. Looking at agonizing miniatures, small print, double light I'm hopelessly spoil your inner vision. Exactly the same I spent, when in 1918 dreamed that the winter, when you're done with entomological walks, goes on Denikin's army and get to Tamarindo hamlet; but the winter passed and I was still going, and in March, the Crimea began to crumble under the pressure of the Reds, and the evacuation began.

In order to explain initial flowering of the human mind, I think you should assume a pause in the evolution of nature, life-giving moment of laziness and bliss. The struggle for existence - what nonsense! The curse of labor and battle takes man back to the boar. We're often laughed when he said maniacally sparkle in the eye of the household ladies, when in the food and distribution plans she glazed gaze wanders through the morgue meat. Proletarians, resedential! Old books are wrong. The world was created on the day of rest.

Bunin books I loved in adolescence and later chose his awesome flowing poetry that brocaded prose which he was famous. When I met him in exile, he had just received the Nobel prize. It painfully took the fluidity of time, old age, death, - and he noted with pleasure that keeps me straighter, though thirty years older. I remember he invited me to some kind - probably an expensive and good restaurant for intimate conversation. Unfortunately, I can not stand restaurants, vodka, snacks, music, and intimate conversations. Bunin was puzzled by my indifference to the grouse and annoyed by my refusal to open the soul. By the end of lunch we were already bored with each other. "You will die in agony and utterly alone," he said to me when we went to the hangers.