The Many Moods of Vladimir Nabokov

“That… is… a … what is it? Oh! Whachacallit... FILBERT...It’s a filbert.”


“See this butterfly? Pretty, right? You know what it’s called? Nabakovia faga. Did you get that? No, you can’t hold it! Look with your eyes.”


“I told you not to touch my train set. I went into the den, turned on the light, and the goddamn coal car is backwards. Now I’ve got to lock the den. I don’t want to, but I have to. Don’t touch my trains. Don’t. They aren’t toys. They’re collectibles. Don’t touch. Don’t touch. Don’t touch.”



“I was here, I don’t see why you couldn’t have waited to find out what I wanted before you went rushing out. I would have loved a diet root beer. No, I don’t want your coke. No, I like coke fine. That’s not the point. I just wish you would have taken half a moment to reflect that there are more people in this office than your little clique that’s all. And I would have liked a diet root beer.”


“I told you that second Sloppy Joe wasn’t going to do you any good. In the meantime, take off that sweater. Why? Because it’s mine, and I don’t want you getting your bile or whatever all over it. Do you want some soda water or saltines or anything? Anyway, try to finish up. We’ve got a long drive.”


“What’s the problem? I told we were going to lunch. It’s 11:20, and you’re in sweatpants and a Motorhead t-shirt. Snap to it, buddy. And shave, would you? You look like a purse snatcher.”


“I once had a delightful plum outside of Brest, or Spokane. Or Brest. Anyway, it was a hell of a plum. Might have been a nectarine.”


“This is all we’re going to do? Eat eggs? No, no. The eggs are fine (hollandaise is lumpy)… it’s just, you know, I’m 75 today. That’s old. I guess I assumed that other people would have figured that out without me dropping too many hints. I don’t know… brunch? I seem to remember working my ass off getting theater tickets for your… (Oh Jesus, don’t look now, but that guy crossing the street? He’s wearing huaraches with socks. What the hell is wrong with people?)”