Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created; it has its fatal flaw.

Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.

A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.

I don't think in any language. I think in images.

A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.

At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.