The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
Vladimir NabokovThe cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Vladimir NabokovMy private tragedy, which cannot, and indeed should not, be anybody's concern, is that I had to abandon my natural idiom, my untrammeled, rich, and infinitely docile Russian tongue for a second-rate brand of English, devoid of any of those apparatusesโthe baffling mirror, the black velvet backdrop, the implied associations and traditionsโwhich the native illusionist, frac-tails flying, can magically use to transcend the heritage in his own way.
Vladimir Nabokov