It was an interesting thing to do. Why did I write any of my books, after all? For the sake of the pleasure, for the sake of the difficulty. I have no social purpose, no moral message; I've no general ideas to exploit, I just like composing riddles with elegant solutions.

Theoretically there is no absolute proof that one's awakening in the morning (the finding oneself again in the saddle of one's personality) is not really a quite unprecedented event, a perfectly original birth.

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

Coordinating there Events and objects with remote events And vanished objects. Making ornaments Of accidents and possibilities.

There are teachers and students with square minds who are by nature meant to undergo the fascination of catagories. For them, 'schools' and 'movements' are everything; by painting a group symbol on the brow of mediocrity, they condone their own incomprehension of true genius.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

A masterpiece of fiction is an original world and as such is not likely to fit the world of the reader.