And she was mine, she was mine, the key was in my fist, my fist was in my pocket, she was mine.

My Lolita remarked: "You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own"; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling's mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile cliches, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate - dim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions.

You lose your immortality when you lose your memory.

Beauty plus pity -- that is the closest we can get to a definition of art.

My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.

I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.