It is a singular reaction, this sitting still and writing, writing, writing, or ruminating at length, which is much the same, really.

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

Nothing is more exhilarating than philistine vulgarity.

Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

The tiny madman in his padded cell.

If possible, be Russian. And live in another country. Play chess. Be an active trader between languages. Carry precious metals from one to the other. Remind us of Stravinsky. Know the names of plants and flying creatures. Hunt gauzy wings with snares of gauze. Make science pay tribute. Have a butterfly known by your name.

The good, the admirable reader identifies himself not with the boy or the girl in the book, but with the mind that conceived and composed that book.