Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane.

I am probably responsible for the odd fact that people don't seem to name their daughters Lolita any more. I have heard of young female poodles being given that name since 1956, but of no human beings.

Solitude was corrupting me.

Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James.

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

He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.