There is only one school of literature - that of talent.

It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

Old birds like Orlovius are wonderfully easy to lead by the beak, because a combination of decency and sentimentality is exactly equal to being a fool.

My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.

All my stories are webs of style and none seems at first blush to contain much kinetic matter.