You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go.
And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.
Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?
The lost glove is happy.
The evolution of sense is, in a sense, the evolution of nonsense.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.