I am surrounded by some sort of wretched specters, not by people. They torment me as can torment only senseless visions, bad dreams, dregs of delirium, the drivel of nightmares and everything that passes down here for real life.

Complacency is a state of mind that exists only in retrospective: it has to be shattered before being ascertained.

I think it is all a matter of love.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

Freudism and all it has tainted with its grotesque implications and methods, appear to me to be one of the vilest deceits practiced by people on themselves and on others. I reject it utterly, along with a few other medieval items still adored by the ignorant, the conventional, or the very sick.

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.

My own ultraviolet darling. " Lolita