When writing, Vladmir Nabokov was a complete perfectionist. A pained, anxious wreck, he would read a sentence that he wrote and then spend hours looking out the window or laying on his stomach on a dusty, wooden floor looking for the right word, searching through his brain and through the world around him. Like many writers before and after him, he would sometimes end stories abruptly, because he simply knew them to be done. His art had taken its course and he was wise enough to know that his involvement with it was done with, it was time for him to pass it on to others, back to the people and things that had inspired it. Circle of life.

Unlike many others, Nabokov saw art for what it really was. A reflection of what and who we are, the most selfish and plain and perfect form of consumption, introspection, and understanding. I hate what art has become. It's been infiltrated by self-serving minds that have torn down the very core of what made art pure and beautiful. Like most other human-made things that have been ruined, it needs its honesty back.