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

I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

It is certainly not then-not in dreams- but when one is wide awake, at moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.

Even while writing his book, he had become painfully aware how little he knew his own planet while attempting to piece together another one from jagged bits filched from deranged brains.

Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.