Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (Russian: Влади́мир Влади́мирович Набо́ков, ; 22 April 1899c – 2 July 1977) was a Russian American novelist. Nabokov's first nine novels were in Russian. He then rose to international prominence as a writer of English prose. He also made serious contributions as a lepidopterist and chess composer.
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Some articles on Vladimir Nabokov:
... The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (in some British editions, The Collected Stories) is a posthumous collection of every known short story that Vladimir Nabokov ever wrote, with the exception of "The ... not previously published in English are translated by the author's son, Dmitri Nabokov ...
... Nabokov's Quartet is a collection of four of Vladimir Nabokov's short stories ... Honor" "Lik" "The Vane Sisters" "The Visit to the Museum" The latter two were reprinted in 1968 in Nabokov's Congeries, and "Lik" and "The Vane Sisters" are included in Tyrants ... posthumously within The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov ...
... Nabokov's blues The scientific odyssey of a literary genius ... Les Papillons de Nabokov ... A Guide to Nabokov's Butterflies and Moths ...
... Speak Memory (1966), the Russian writer Vladimir Nabokov tells us of his "fine case of colored hearing ... hardly pronounceable kzspygv" — From Vladimir Nabokov, p ... Nabokov's mother, Elena Ivanovna, was a synesthete, as was also his wife, Véra, and his son Dmitri Nabokov ...
... Lawrence (England) The Defence by Vladimir Nabokov (Russia, France) Wolf Solent by John Cowper Powys (England) The Good Companions by J ... The Memorial by Christopher Isherwood (England) Laughter in the Dark by Vladimir Nabokov (Russia, France) Light In August by William Faulkner A Glastonbury Romance by ... Scott Fitzgerald Threepenny Novel by Bertoldt Brecht (Germany) Despair by Vladimir Nabokov It's a Battlefield by Graham Greene A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh 20,000 Streets Under ...
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“... but by that time a lot of sea had rolled by and Lucette was too tired to wait. Then the night was filled with the rattle of an old but still strong helicopter. Its diligent beam could spot only the dark head of Van, who, having been propelled out of the boat when it shied from its own sudden shadow, kept bobbing and bawling the drowned girl’s name in the black, foam-veined, complicated waters.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
“Because of the unusual remoteness of Russia, and because of nostalgia’s remaining throughout one’s life an insane companion, with whose heartrending oddities one is accustomed to put up in public, I feel no embarrassment in confessing to the sentimental stab of attachment to my first book.”
—Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)