Vladimir Nabokov died on this day in 1977

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“A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader.”
Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Literature
+ “The Art of Translation” BY VLADIMIR NABOKOV: “Mr. Nabokov is in the habit of introducing any job of this kind which he undertakes by an announcement that he is unique and incomparable,” Wilson wrote in a 1965 review of Nabokov’s translation of Eugene Onegin, “and that everybody else who has attempted it is an oaf and an ignoramus.”
“Véra has blue eyes and a birdlike profile. Her hair is completely white. They are soon to celebrate a wedding anniversary, “our golden,” Nabokov says. They met in Berlin and married there in 1925, but they might as easily have met in Leningrad. “We went to the same dancing class, didn’t we?” he asks. It has not been an unhappy marriage then? “That is the understatement of the century,” Nabokov smiles.”
+ An Old Magician Named Nabokov Writes and Lives in Splendid Exile by James Salter

Love came Hard

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Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter. Most people make too much of it. On these grounds a good fuck is not to be entirely scorned. But that’s the result of a chance meeting too. You’re damned right. Drink up. We’ll have another.
 pintrest, henrycharlesbukowski 

You put one word after another

“All fiction is a process of imagining: whatever you write, in whatever genre or medium, your task is to make things up convincingly and interestingly and new. And when you’ve an idea - which is, after all, merely something to hold on to as you begin - what then? Well, then you write. You put one word after another until it’s finished - whatever it is.”
Neil Gaiman

+ Neil Gaiman on fantasy offering refuge in times of flux

+ Gaiman's New 'Ocean' Is No Kiddie Pool

+ Neil Gaiman prepares for social media 'sabbatical'

+ Neil Gaiman's Guardian Books podcast: Weird London and the future for writers

Money is the anthem

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“Perhaps there are other bits of my life that would take on content, take on shadow, if only I read more and thought less about money.”
Martin Amis, Money
“Money doesn't mind if we say it's evil, it goes from strength to strength. It's a fiction, an addiction, and a tacit conspiracy.”
Martin Amis, Money

to survive as individuals

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“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.” 
Don Delilo


My girlfriend is so pretty that I can't get over it

Face

My girlfriend is so pretty that I can't get over it. Every week I celebrate the alignments of her features by parading a giant photograph of her lovely face around the town centre, I've written the words 'pretty face' on the picture's border, and drawn and arrow to direct people's attention towards it. It's not bragging, because it's her that's the pretty one, not me. I'm going to parade every week for as long as she lets me be her boyfriend, and probably even longer. Nothing's going to put me off, not even the shouts of 'had her' or 'been there'.

Dan Rhodes


my "friends"

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“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.”
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

How do I get you alone

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"My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude."
Warsan Shire

"Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them."
Dream for an Insomniac


eight hours of non-being

Brittany Nicol Fabry_1280
In less than a week Aqua had accumulated more than two hundred tablets of different potency. She knew most of them — the jejune sedatives, and the ones that knocked you out from eight p.m. till midnight, and several varieties of superior soporifics that left you with limpid limbs and a leaden head after eight hours of non-being, and a drug which was in itself delightful but a little lethal if combined with a draught of the cleansing fluid commercially known as Morona; and a plump purple pill reminding her, she had to laugh, of those with which the little gypsy enchantress in the Spanish tale (dear to Ladore schoolgirls) puts to sleep all the sportsmen and all their blood-hounds at the opening of the hunting season.
Nabokov
  Brittany Nicol Fabry