A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
Vladimir NabokovA thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead.
Vladimir NabokovI have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.
Vladimir Nabokov