If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

All my life I have been a poor go-to-sleeper. No matter how great my weariness, the wrench of parting with consciousness is unspeakably repulsive to me.

I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.

Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.

Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.

I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita forever; but I also knew she would not be forever Lolita.

The more gifted and talkative one's characters are, the greater the chances of their resembling the author in tone or tint of mind.