There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

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

No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.

Pnin slowly walked under solemn pines. The sky was dying. He did not believe in an autocratic God. He did believe, dimly, in a democracy of ghosts. The souls of the dead, perhaps, formed committees, and these, in continuous session, attended the destinies of the quick.

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

To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.

At a very early stage of the novel's development I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it.