
if i look back, i am lost
Not today Justin
we're not kids anymore.
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Unitled by sophiexholden
âWe were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly.â
â Vladimir Nabokov
âI looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth.â
â Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov (born on this day in 1899)
ââLife with you was lovelyâand when I say lovely, I mean doves and lilies, and velvet, and that soft pink âvâ in the middle and the way your tongue curved up to the long, lingering âl.â Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too.â
â Vladimir Nabokov, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight
âAnd I, within my slumberâs blueness, / confused reality with dream.â
â Vladimir Nabokov, in an excerpt from Dream, featured in Collected Poems (via tat-art)
âThe skyâthat blueness gone mad from the heat, and the sand, hot like cream of wheat.â
â Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to VĂ©ra Nabokov (1926), Letters to VĂ©ra
âMy love for you was the throbbing, welling warmth of tears. That is exactly how I imagined paradise: silence and tears, and the warm silk of your knees. This you could not comprehend.â
â Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977), from âBeneficenceâ in âVladimir Nabokov. The Complete Short Storiesâ
âYou came into my life â not as one comes to visit ⊠but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.â
â Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to VĂ©ra Nabokov, Letters to VĂ©ra, ed. and transl. Olga Voronina and Brian Boyd (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014)
âI dreamt of you last nightâas if I was playing the piano and you were turning the pages for me.â
â Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to VĂ©ra Nabokov, 12 January 1924, Letters to VĂ©ra, ed. and transl. Olga Voronina and Brian Boyd (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014)
âYouâre always you, and that donât change, and youâre always changing, and thereâs nothing you can do about it.â
â Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book
âRecently, my son said to me after seeing a ballet on television: âItâs beautiful, but I donât like it.â And I thought, Are many grown-ups capable of such a distinction? Itâs beautiful, but I donât like it. Usually, our grown-up thinking is more along the lines of: I donât like it, so itâs not beautiful. What would it mean to separate those two impressions for art making and for art criticism?â
â â59. itâs beautiful, but I donât like itâ from 100 essays I donât have time to write: on umbrellas and sword fights, parades and dogs, fire alarms, children, and theater, sarah ruhlÂ
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