There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
Vladimir NabokovTime is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my templeโthese are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.
Vladimir NabokovThe 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 Nabokov