“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.”
— Vladimir Nabokov, letter to his wife Véra (1925), Letters to Véra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)
Vladimir Nabokov, letter to his wife Véra (1926), Letters to Véra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)
[Text ID: “And there is still another thing I want to tell you - and this thing, please, you should also listen to carefully and remember well. I want to tell you…No, please, consider it well - I want to tell you that I: love you without end.”]
– Vladimir Nabokov, from a letter to Vera (14 June 1925), featured in “Letters To Vera” by Vladimir Nabokov (Russian, 1899-1977).
The image: Nabokov’s handwriting.
“My life, 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. Good night, my joy, my unending love. I’m thinking now how you suddenly shudder when you fall asleep – and about much more, about the one thing that cannot be expressed by words.”
— Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to Vera
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra (1924)
“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 in his letter to future wife Véra Yevseyevna Slonim dated 30 December, Letters to Véra
“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?”
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra
“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.”
— Vladimir Nabokov in his letter to Vera Slonim, August 1924, featured in Letters to Vera
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra (1937)
“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, do you know what I mean, in terms of purity and lightness and spiritual precision –”
— Vladimir Nabokov, from a letter to Vera Nabókova; 8 November 1923; trans. Olga Voronina.
I want somebody to love me like Vladimir Nabokov loved his wife Vera. This man was so in love with her, he wrote her countless letters full of beautiful words like “I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love, my happiness”. He wrote so many letters they made a book out of it (called Letters to Vera). I need that kind of love.
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra (1926)
Vladimir Nabokov, letter to his wife Véra (1924), Letters to Véra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)
[Text ID: “I’m more than thinking about you — I’m living about you,”]
when Vladimir Nabokov wrote, “I can’t tell you how piercingly and endlessly I think about you.” and Franz Kafka wrote, "I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you."
"It's pouring, the trees are getting greener before my eyes, I love you. I'm almost afraid of the intensity of this happiness."
-Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Vera tr. by Olga Voronina & Brian Boyd
September will be filled with happiness.
September will be filled with blessings.
September will be filled with positivity.
September will be filled with progress.
September will be filled with kindness.
September will be filled with love.
September will be filled with opportunities.
"The Church of Santa Maria della Salute, Venice" by Michele Giovanni Marieschi, 1740-41
