Quotes by Vladimir Nabokov
The world is a stage, yes, but the play is unscripted and the actors are often clueless.
The pursuit of happiness is a fool's errand; contentment lies in the appreciation of exquisite misery.
Nostalgia is a seductive liar, whispering tales of a perfection that never was.
Words, like butterflies, are most beautiful when allowed to roam free.
Memory is a mischievous cartographer, redrawing the map of our lives to suit its own purposes.
Sentimentality is a disease, best cured with a generous dose of cynicism.
Reality is the canvas; perception, the brush. One dictates the boundaries, the other, the beauty.
In the tapestry of existence, boredom is the thread that holds the vibrant colors together.
The past is a painted backdrop; beautiful, perhaps, but utterly incapable of supporting the present.
Artifice is the truest form of flattery to a world determined to be dull.
The past is a painted backdrop, beautiful but immutable. Only the present allows for revision.
Life's true art is not avoiding the abyss, but dancing gracefully on its edge.
The greatest stories are often those whispered in shadows, barely audible above the din of the everyday.
The past is a painted backdrop, lovely to gaze upon, impossible to inhabit.
Reality is a fragile thing, easily fractured by the prism of perception.
Desire, like a rare butterfly, is most exquisite when just out of reach.
One's inner landscape is far more treacherous and rewarding than any geographical expedition.
The absurd is merely the truth standing on its head to get a better view.
The greatest prisons are built not of bars, but of unexamined beliefs.
To truly see, one must first unlearn the habit of looking.
The most profound truths are often whispered, barely audible above the din of the obvious.
Never underestimate the power of a well-chosen adjective to transform the mundane into the magical.
Memory, a mischievous imp, often embellishes the mundane and erases the essential.
To write is to build a world from the alphabet, brick by deceptive brick.
The most exquisite cruelty is not in inflicting pain, but in withholding the expected pleasure.
The past is a canvas already painted, best admired from a distance, lest we smudge the details with regret.
Happiness is a fleeting visitor, best enjoyed before it vanishes without a trace.
Perfection is a polished cage; give me delightful imperfection.