Beauty plus pity-that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.

Because you took advantage of my disadvantage.

The lost glove is happy.

A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own.

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

I think it is all a matter of love.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.