Author
22 April 1899–2 July 1977
Also known as Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, Владимир Набоков, Владимир Владимирович Набоков, V. Nabokov, V.V. Nabokov, Vladimir V. Nabokov, Влади́мир Влади́мирович Набо́ков, 弗拉基米尔·纳博科夫, Nabokefu, Vladimir Vladimirovič Nabokov, VLADIMIR NABOKOV, vladimir nabokov, Vladimir nabokov, Vladimir Nobokov, Nabokov Vladimir, Vladmir Nabokov, Vladímir Nabokov, Valdimir Nabokov, Vladimer Nabokov, NABOKOV, Nabokov V., В. Набоков, Nabokov Vladimir Vladimirovich, Vladimir NABOKOV, Vadimir Nabokov
Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (Russian: Влади́мир Влади́мирович Набо́ков; 23 April [O.S. 10 April] 1899c – 2 July 1977) was a multilingual Russian-American novelist and short story writer. Nabokov wrote his first nine novels in Russian, then rose to international prominence as a master English prose stylist. He also made contributions to entomology and had an interest in chess problems.
Nabokov's Lolita (1955) is frequently cited as among his most important novels and is his most widely known, exhibiting the love of intricate word play and synesthetic detail that characterised all his works. The novel was ranked at #4 in the list of the Modern Library 100 Best Novels. Pale Fire (1962) was ranked at #53 on the same list. His memoir entitled Speak, Memory was listed #8 on the Modern Library nonfiction list. (Source.)
310 works
Recorded as 1777; date may be inaccurate
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Readers in conversation
Public notes, reviews, lists, and conversations around Vladimir Nabokov.
…r more specifically, the inevitability of his death. High-concept, this is not (@Pnin meets @Twister?), but DeLillo is, if anything, a cracking prose stylist. White Noise is endlessly quotable, and it seems like every other p…
A reader-curated list
Everybody always talks about Nabokov's prose (and it is beautiful), but for me, what's so impressive is the shear power of his imagination. Nabokov's description is so detailed that you're left thinking he must be able to hold a nearly photographic image of t…
A reader-curated list
But while the blood still throbs through my writing hand, you are still as much part of blessed matter as I am, and I can still talk to you from here to Alaska
And then black night. That blackness was sublime. I felt distributed through space and time: One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand Under the pebbles of a panting strand, One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain, In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain. There…
I have unfortunate news. And that’s that, unfortunately, subject is object. The two are inextricably welded together. Thing viewed is thing viewing and the two cannot separate despite their best efforts. Never the two shall part. Despite how often Idealism or…
