Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!

Turning one's novel into a movie script is rather like making a series of sketches for a painting that has long ago been finished and framed.

She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward first the scepter of my passion.

The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.

That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born.

We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.

I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.