I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.

The future is but the obsolete in reverse.

I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist.

Words without experience are meaningless.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

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.

Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.