And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: "O rainbow-colored gods. . .

But that mimosa grove-the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since-until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.

I think like a genius, I write like a distinguished author, and I speak like a child.

The tiny madman in his padded cell.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

...All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.

But in my arms she was always Lolita.