Solitude was corrupting me.

Genius is an African who dreams up snow.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .

Devices which in some curious new way imitate nature are attractive to simple minds.

The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.