My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.
Vladimir NabokovRead
Literature is invention. Fiction is fiction. To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote emphasizes the distinction between fiction and reality, asserting that fictional narratives have their own artistic value.
Nabokov's quote captures the essence of literary creativity by declaring that literature is not merely a reflection of reality but a form of invention. It points out that labeling a fictional story as a 'true story' undermines both the artistic integrity of the narrative and the deeper truths that fiction can convey, suggesting that fiction serves a unique purpose in exploring the human experience beyond mere factual recounting.
Themes
LiteratureInventionFictionArtTruth
In practice
Example use cases
In a writing workshop, to inspire participants about the importance of creative expression.
More from Vladimir Nabokov
All quotes →Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
Vladimir NabokovRead
A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.
Vladimir NabokovRead
But that mimosa grove-the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since-until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.
Vladimir NabokovRead
...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.
Vladimir NabokovRead
I believe the poor fierce-eyed child had figured out that with a mere fifty dollars in her purse she might somehow reach Broadway or Hollywood - or the foul kitchen of a diner (Help Wanted) in a dismal ex-prairie state, with the wind blowing, and the stars blinking, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen, and everything soiled, torn, dead.
Vladimir NabokovRead
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