At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air. - Vladimir Nabokov

Dying, dying, Lolita Haze,
Of hate and remorse I’m dying.
And again my hairy fist I raise,
And again I hear you crying.

The fact that since my youth – I was 19 when I left Russia — my political creed has remained as bleak and changeless as an old gray rock. It is classical to the point of triteness. Freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of art. The social or economic structure of the ideal state is of little concern to me. My desires are modest. Portraits of the head of the government should not exceed a postage stamp in size. No torture and no executions.

When I hear a critic speaking of an author’s sincerity I know that either the critic or the author is a fool