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.

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.

The future is but the obsolete in reverse.

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

Revelation can be more perilous than Revolution.

A wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine. It is there that occurs the telltale tingle.

There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.