Letters To Vera Quotes

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It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you – and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created – out of five vowels and three consonants.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Yes, I need you, my fairy-tale. Because you are the only person I can talk with about the shade of a cloud, about the song of a thought — and about how, when I went out to work today and looked a tall sunflower in the face, it smiled at me with all of its seeds.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
You came into my life-not as one comes to visit (you know, “not taking one’s hat off”) but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your steps.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Each letter of the alphabet is a steadfast loyal soldier in a great army of words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories. One letter falls, and the entire language falters.
Vera Nazarian (The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration)
I love you, my sun, my life, I love your eyes-closed- all the little tails of your thoughts, your stretchy vowels, your whole soul from head to heels.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Without you I wouldn’t have moved this way, to speak the language of flowers.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
I love you, I’m waiting for you unbearably.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling him of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and still many more, so very many tomorrows.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
The mind writes with a pen, the heart, with a pencil.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
I am a very boring and unpleasant man, drowned in literature... But I love you.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
The weather this morning was so-so: dullish, but warm, a boiled-milk sky, with skin- but if you pushed it aside with a teaspoon, the sun was really nice, so I wore my white trousers.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
How can I explain to you, my happiness, my golden wonderful happiness, how much I am all yours — with all my memories, poems, outbursts, inner whirlwinds? Or explain that I cannot write a word without hearing how you will pronounce it — and can’t recall a single trifle I’ve lived through without regret — so sharp! — that we haven’t lived through it together — whether it’s the most, the most personal, intransmissible — or only some sunset or other at the bend of a road — you see what I mean, my happiness? And I know: I can’t tell you anything in words — and when I do on the phone then it comes out completely wrong. Because with you one needs to talk wonderfully, the way we talk with people long gone… in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision… You can be bruised by an ugly diminutive — because you are so absolutely resonant — like seawater, my lovely. I swear — and the inkblot has nothing to do with it — I swear by all that’s dear to me, all I believe in — I swear that I have never loved before as I love you, — with such tenderness — to the point of tears — and with such a sense of radiance.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
I’m walking out now into the soft light, the cooling hum of evening, and I will love you tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and still many more, so very many more tomorrows. — Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra [March 1925] Letters to Véra, tr. by Olga Voronin & Brian Boyd
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
It's pouring, the trees are getting greener before my eyes, I love you. A little over three weeks left. I'm almost afraid of the intensity of that happiness.
Vera Nabokov
My sweetheart, my love, my love, my love—do you know what—all the happiness of the world, the riches, power and adventures, all the promises of religions, all the enchantment of nature and even human fame are not worth your two letters. It was a night of horror, terrible anguish, when I imagined that your undelivered letter, stuck at some unknown post office, was being destroyed like a sick little stray dog . . . But today it arrived—and now it seems to me that in the mailbox where it was lying, in the sack where it was shaking, all the other letters absorbed, just by touching it, your unique charm and that that day all Germans received strange wonderful letters—letters that had gone mad because they had touched your handwriting. The thought that you exist is so divinely blissful in itself that it is ridiculous to talk about the everyday sadness of separation—a week’s, ten days’—what does it matter? since my whole life belongs to you. I wake at night and know that you are together with me,—I sense your sweet long legs, your neck through your hair, your trembling eyelashes—and then such happiness, such simmering bliss follows me in my dreams that I simply suffocate . . .
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Kisses, my love, deep ones, to the point of fainting-
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Cara signora Milena, la giornata è molto breve, con Lei e soltanto con qualche altra inezia è bell'e passata e terminata. E' molto se rimane un po' di tempo per scrivere alla vera Milena perché quella ancor più vera era qui tutto il giorno nella camera, sul balcone, nelle nuvole.
Franz Kafka (Letters to Milena)
My delightful, my love, my life, I don’t understand anything: how can you not be with me? I’m so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed—you put a glint of happiness on everything—always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged—and I don’t know when I love your eyes more—when they are open or shut. It’s eleven p.m. now: I’m trying with all the force of my soul to see you through space; my thoughts plead for a heavenly visa to Berlin via air . . . My sweet excitement . . . Today I can’t write about anything except my longing for you. I’m gloomy and fearful: silly thoughts are swarming—that you’ll stumble as you jump out of a carriage in the underground, or that someone will bump into you in the street . . . I don’t know how I’ll survive the week. My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? How strange that although my life’s work is moving a pen over paper, I don’t know how to tell you how I love, how I desire you. Such agitation—and such divine peace: melting clouds immersed in sunshine—mounds of happiness. And I am floating with you, in you, aflame and melting—and a whole life with you is like the movement of clouds, their airy, quiet falls, their lightness and smoothness, and the heavenly variety of outline and tint—my inexplicable love. I cannot express these cirrus-cumulus sensations. When you and I were at the cemetery last time, I felt it so piercingly and clearly: you know it all, you know what will happen after death—you know it absolutely simply and calmly—as a bird knows that, fluttering from a branch, it will fly and not fall down . . . And that’s why I am so happy with you, my lovely, my little one. And here’s more: you and I are so special; the miracles we know, no one knows, and no one loves the way we love. What are you doing now? For some reason I think you’re in the study: you’ve got up, walked to the door, you are pulling the door wings together and pausing for a moment—waiting to see if they’ll move apart again. I’m tired, I’m terribly tired, good night, my joy. Tomorrow I’ll write you about all kinds of everyday things. My love.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
English lecturers... who treat the Americans as a race of barbarians without any history should be taken for a tour round Washington before they are permitted to speak!
Vera Brittain (Selected Letters of Winifred Holtby and Vera Brittain, 1920-1935)
LETTERA 3 LA VERA AMICIZIA Ma se stimi amico uno, e poi non hai in lui la stessa fiducia che hai in te stesso, commetti un grave errore e ignori il valore della vera amicizia.
Seneca (Lettere a Lucilio)
It's cold today, but in a spring way, and I love you.
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
when you are alone your letters become longer your poems shorter — Vera Pavlova, from “13″ of “22 Haiku,” Album for the Young (and Old): Poems, trans. Steven Seymour ( Alfred A. Knopf, 2017)
Vera Pavlova (Album for the Young (and Old): Poems)
I try and reconstruct them from faded photographs and a few letters which survived the holocaust and my emigration to England nearly half a century ago. Their world has become submerged in the past, like Atlantis, and they have taken my childhood with them.
Vera Forster (A Daughter of Her Century)
...Would you like to know the view I have out of my window, since you love snow? So here you are: the broad whiteness of the Moldau, and along that whiteness, little black silhouettes of people cross from one shore to the other, like musical notes. For example, the figure of some boy is dragging behind him a D-sharp: a sledge. Across the river there are snowy roofs in a distant, lightweight sky... I walked around the cathedral along a slippery path between snowdrifts. The snow was light, dry: grab a handful, throw it up, and it disperses in the air like dust, as if flying back up. The sky darkened. In it appeared a thin golden moon: half of a broken halo. I walked along the edge of the fortress wall. Old Prague lay below in the thickening mist. The snowy roofs clustered together, cumbrous and dim. The houses seemed to have been piled anyhow, in a moment of terrible and fantastic carelessness. In this frozen storm of outlines, in this snowy semi-darkness, the streetlamps and windows were burning with a warm and sweet lustre, like well-licked punch lollipops. In just one place you could also see a little scarlet light, a drop of pomegranate juice. And in the fog of crooked walls and smoky corners I divined an ancient ghetto, mystical ruins, the alley of Alchemists...
Vladimir Nabokov (Letters to Vera)
Ho l'illusione per un momento che qualcosa aderisca, acquisti peso, profondità, pienezza, sia completa. Così, per un momento, sembra la mia vita. Se fosse possibile, te la offrirei tutta intera. La staccherei dal ramo come si stacca un grappolo d'uva. Direi: "Prendila. È la mia vita". [...] Ma per farti capire, per consegnarti la mia vita, devo raccontarti una storia - e sono tante, così tante, le storie - storie di infanzia, storie di scuola, di amore, di matrimonio, di morte ecc. ecc. Nessuna è vera. Eppure, come bambini ci raccontiamo delle storie, e per adornarle inventiamo queste belle frasi, ridicole, sgargianti. Come sono stanco di storie, come sono stanco di frasi che escono così bene, con tanto di piedi per terra! E come non mi fido di quei bei progetti di vita, così precisi, tracciati su un foglio di carta da lettere. Comincio a desiderare un linguaggio a parte, come quello degli innamorati, parole smozzicate, inarticolate, simili allo scalpiccio dei piedi sul selciato. Comincio a cercare un progetto che si accordi meglio con i momenti di umiliazione e di vittoria che innegabilmente di quando in quando capitano a tutti.
Virginia Woolf (The Waves)
Y hasta el destino mismo es como un tejido amplio y maravilloso, en cuya trama cada hilo es guiado con infinita ternura por una mano cariñosa, y colocado a la vera de otro hilo, para ser sostenido y conllevado por otro mil
Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet)
In fondo, per certa gente, la vera colpa di un uomo e di una donna consiste nell'amarsi in un letto
Oriana Fallaci (Letter to a Child Never Born)
¿Piensas de veras que tanto le habría estremecido tu leve paso, que huye como brisa de primavera? Si, asustasteis su corazón: pero más viejos terrores se desencadenaron en él al choque de ese contacto.
Rainer Maria Rilke (Letters to a Young Poet)
God is good no matter what circumstances you’re facing. We need to remember that, and to keep declaring that God is good, no matter what. That we know it to be true.” Vera
Suzanne Woods Fisher (The Letters (The Inn at Eagle Hill #1))
Sempre più lento andava il pensieroso e si chiedeva frattanto: « Ma che è dunque ciò che avevi voluto apprendere dalle dottrine e dai maestri, e che essi, pur avendoti rivelato tante cose, non sono riusciti a insegnarti? ». Ed egli trovò: « L'Io era, ciò di cui volevo apprendere il senso e l'essenza. L'Io era, ciò di cui volevo liberarmi, ciò che volevo superare. Ma non potevo superarlo, potevo soltanto ingannarlo, potevo soltanto fuggire o nascondermi davanti a lui. In verità, nessuna cosa al mondo ha tanto occupato i miei pensieri come questo mio Io, questo enigma ch'io vivo, d'essere uno, distinto e separato da tutti gli altri, d'essere Siddharta! E su nessuna cosa al mondo so tanto poco quanto su di me, Siddharta!». Colpito da questo pensiero s'arrestò improvvisamente nel suo lento cammino meditativo, e tosto da questo pensiero ne balzò fuori un altro, che suonava: « Che io non sappia nulla di me, che Siddharta mi sia rimasto così estraneo e sconosciuto, questo dipende da una causa fondamentale, una sola: io avevo paura di me, prendevo la fuga davanti a me stesso! L'Atman cercavo, Brahma cercavo, e volevo smembrare e scortecciare il mio Io, per trovare nella sua sconosciuta profondità il nocciolo di tutte le cortecce, l'Atman, la vita, il divino, l'assoluto. Ma proprio io, intanto, andavo perduto a me stesso ». Siddharta schiuse gli occhi e si guardò intorno, un sorriso gli illuminò il volto, e un profondo sentimento, come di risveglio da lunghi sogni, lo percorse fino alla punta dei piedi. E appena si rimise in cammino, correva in fretta, come un uomo che sa quel che ha da fare. « Oh! » pensava respirando profondamente « ora Siddharta non me lo voglio più lasciar scappare! Basta! cominciare il pensiero e la mia vita con l'Atman e col dolore del mondo! Basta! uccidermi e smembrarmi, per scoprire un segreto dietro le rovine! Non sarà più lo Yoga-Veda a istruirmi, né l'Atharva-Veda, né gli asceti, né alcuna dottrina. Dal mio stesso Io voglio andare a scuola, voglio conoscermi, voglio svelare quel mistero che ha nome Siddharta ». Si guardò attorno come se vedesse per la prima volta il mondo. Bello era il mondo, variopinto, raro e misterioso era il mondo! Qui era azzurro, là giallo, più oltre verde, il cielo pareva fluire lentamente come i fiumi, immobili stavano il bosco e la montagna, tutto bello, tutto enigmatico e magico, e in mezzo v'era lui, Siddharta, il risvegliato, sulla strada che conduce a se stesso. Tutto ciò, tutto questo giallo e azzurro, fiume e bosco penetrava per la prima volta attraverso la vista in Siddharta, non era più l'incantesimo di Mara, non era più il velo di Maya, non era più insensata e accidentale molteplicità del mondo delle apparenze, spregevole agli occhi del Brahmino, che, tutto dedito ai suoi profondi pensieri, scarta la molteplicità e solo dell'unità va in cerca. L'azzurro era azzurro, il fiume era fiume, e anche se nell'azzurro e nel fiume vivevan nascosti come in Siddharta l'uno e il divino, tale era appunto la natura e il senso del divino, d'esser qui giallo, là azzurro, là cielo, là bosco e qui Siddharta. Il senso e l'essenza delle cose erano non in qualche cosa oltre e dietro loro, ma nelle cose stesse, in tutto. « Come sono stato sordo e ottuso! » pensava, e camminava intanto rapidamente. «Quand'uno legge uno scritto di cui vuoi conoscere il senso, non ne disprezza i segni e le lettere, né li chiama illusione, accidente e corteccia senza valore, bensì li decifra, li studia e li ama, lettera per lettera. Io invece, io che volevo leggere il libro del mondo e il libro del mio proprio Io, ho disprezzato i segni e le lettere, a favore d'un significato congetturato in precedenza, ho chiamato illusione il mondo delle apparenze, ho chiamato il mio occhio e la mia lingua fenomeni accidentali e senza valore. No, tutto questo è finito, ora son desto, mi sono risvegliato nella realtà e oggi nasco per la prima volta.
Hermann Hesse (Siddhartha)
[Your letter] is a morass of confusion, wordiness, overloaded sentences and strained metaphors… [The greater part of it is incomprehensible], or else it is that I have neither the time nor the patience to dig the principle sentence out of the surrounding forests of subordinate clauses.” – Vera Brittain to her husband George Catlin, 1925.
Vera Brittain
Wisconsin was covered several inches deep in snow -- very beautiful, with light ice-floes on the lakes and rivers, and the bare trees and tall grasses like brown feathers against the snow. As the sun set it was reflected in the ice-covered lakes and the light snow -- but all the same I'm glad that most of my [lecture] tour has been in summer and autumn weather. As soon as winter comes there is an extraordinary effect of desolation in these miles upon miles of uninhabited prairies and hills.
Vera Brittain (Selected Letters of Winifred Holtby and Vera Brittain, 1920-1935)