His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.

I don't belong to any club or group. I don't fish, cook, dance, endorse books, sign books, co-sign declarations, eat oysters, get drunk, go to church, go to analysts, or take part in demonstrations.

We are most artistically caged.

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.

And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.

I should allow only my heart to have imagination; and for the rest rely on memory, that long drawn sunset of one's personal truth.