But who are we, where do we come fromWhen all those yearsNothing but idle talk is leftAnd we are nowhere in the world? ― Boris Pasternak, The Poems of Doctor Zhivago. (Hallmark Editions; First Thus edition January 1, 1967) Originally published January 1st 1965.
Eternalise me just a bit:take some snow and sculpt me in it,with your warm and bare palmpolish me until I shine . . . — Vera Pavlova, Письма в соседнюю комнату: 1001 признание в люk. Translation: Steven Seymour. (AST Publishing House, Moscow, 2006)
He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has. ― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin. (Heinemann 1957)
Consciousness is a message scribbled in the dark. — Vladimir Nabokov, from Pale Fire, “Canto Two.” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1962, corrected edition first published by Vintage International, 1989)
Closure is a greasy little word which, moreover, describes a nonexistent condition. The truth, Venus, is that nobody gets over anything. — Martin Amis, House of Meetings.(Jonathan Cape 2006)
Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream, exhale, release life’s rapture. — Vladimir Nabokov
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, I swear by the miracle-working icon, And by the fire and smoke of our nights: I will never come back to you. — Anna Akhmatova, from “You Thought I Was That Type,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova. (Zephyr Press; Exp Upd Su edition… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
We think not in words but in shadows of words. — Vladimir Nabokov, Strong Opinions (McGraw-Hill, 1973)
Now I am going to reveal to you something which is very pure, a totally white thought. It is always in my heart; it blooms at each of my steps… The Dance is love, it is only love, it alone, and that is enough… I, then, it is amorously that I dance: to poems, to… Continue reading Isadora Duncan
Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be. — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina. (Norilana Books February 16, 2008) Originally published 1873.