I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.

I need you, the reader, to imagine us, for we don't really exist if you don't.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.

Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.

A creative writer must study carefully the works of his rivals, including the Almighty. He must possess the inborn capacity not only of recombining but of re-creating the given world. In order to do this adequately, avoiding duplication of labor, the artist should know the given world.

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.