She had spent all her life in feeling miserable; this misery was her native element; its fluctuations, its varying depths, alone save her the impression of moving and living. What bothers me is that a sense of misery, and nothing else, is not enough to make a permanent soul. My enormous and morose Mademoiselle is all right on earth but impossible in eternity.
Vladimir NabokovAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: April 22, 1899
- Died: July 2, 1977