And this is the only immortality you and i may share, my Lolita.

The clumsiest literal translation is a thousand times more useful than the prettiest paraphrase.

Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.

In this crazy mirror of terror and art a pseudo-quotation made up of obscure Shakespeareanisms (Chapter Three) somehow produces, despite its lack of literal meaning, the blurred diminutive image of the acrobatic performance that so gloriously supplies the bravura ending for the next chapter.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.

Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.