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The problem lies not with the characters within the novel, but with the reader itself.
Life, Love, libraries, have no future.
For the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented.
Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
Time means succession, and succession, change: Hence timelessness is bound to disarrange Schedules of sentiment.
It isn’t possible. I cannot imagine it. Come on over here, you foolish little doe, and tell me on what day I shall die.
I am quite willing to admit that they are also a deception but right now I believe in them so much that I infect them with truth.
A bowling ball rolled through his head, diagonally from nape to temple; it paused and started back.
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
And the rest is rust and stardust.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
Knowing you have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
The writer’s job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.
Let all of life be an unfettered howl.
A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish – but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.
I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.