I think it is all a matter of love.

And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

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.

But in my arms she was always Lolita.

There is no science without fancy and no art without fact.

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.

I think it is all a matter of love.