We must distinguish between ‘sentimental’ and ‘sensitive’. A sentimentalist may be a perfect brute in his free time. A sensitive person is never a cr… - Vladimir Nabokov
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We must distinguish between ‘sentimental’ and ‘sensitive’. A sentimentalist may be a perfect brute in his free time. A sensitive person is never a cruel person. Sentimental Rousseau, who could weep over a progressive idea, distributed his many natural children through various poorhouses and workhouses and never gave a hoot for them. A sentimental old maid may pamper her parrot and poison her niece. The sentimental politician may remember Mother’s Day and ruthlessly destroy a rival. Stalin loved babies. Lenin sobbed at the opera, especially at the Traviata.
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About
Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (22 April (O.S. 10 April) 1899 – 2 July 1977) was a Russian-American writer. He wrote his first literary works in Russian, but gained international prominence as a masterly prose stylist for the novels he composed in English; his Lolita (1955) is frequently cited as one of the most important novels of the 20th century.
Biography information from
Wikiquote·
Portrait adapted from
Wikimedia Commons, Walter Mori (Mondadori Publishers) (Public domain / CC0)
Also Known As
Pen Names:
ვლადიმერ სირინი
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Vladimir Sirin
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Владимир Сирин
Native Name:
Владимир Владимирович Набоков
Alternative Names:
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov
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Vl. Sirin
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Wladimir Nabokoff-Sirin
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V. Sirin
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Nabokov
Her hair was well brushed that day and sheened darkly in contrast with the lusterless pallor of her neck and arms. She wore the striped tee shirt which in his lone fantasies he especially liked to peel off her twisting torso. The oilcloth was divided into blue and white squares. A smear of honey stained what remained of the butter in its cool crock. 'All right. And the third Real Thing?' She considered him. A fiery droplet in the wick of her mouth considered him. A three-colored velvet violet, of which she had done an aquarelle on the eve, considered him from its fluted crystal. She said nothing. She licked her spread fingers, still looking at him. Van, getting no answer, left the balcony. Softly her tower crumbled in the sweet silent sun.
"Where the devil did you get her?" "I beg your pardon?" "I said: the weather is getting better." "Seems so." "Who's the lassie?" "My daughter." "You lie - she's not." "I beg your pardon?" "I said: July was hot."
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Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.
