The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.

In and out of my heart flowed my rainbow blood.

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 day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.

The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.

You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own.

In reading, one should notice and fondle details.