I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.

Why do those people guess so much and shave so little, and are so disdainful of hearing aids?

Genius is finding the invisible link between things.

I mean, I have the feeling that something in my mind is poisoning everything else.

Do those clowns really believe what they teach?

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created; it has its fatal flaw.

Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.