The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
At night, in his drugged sleep, something more significant would burst through. Together with naked Martha, he would be sawing off the head of Piffke in a public toilet, even though in the first place...
[...] odrębność stanowi jedną z podstawowych cech życia. Jeżeli nie otacza nas powłoka cielesna, musimy umrzeć. Człowiek egzystuje tylko wtedy, kiedy jest odizolowany od otoczenia. Czaszka to nasz heł...
We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.
The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.
Sometimes, though, angels smoke-in their sleeves. But when the archangel goes by, they throw their cigarettes away: This is what falling stars are.
She had been crying after a routine row with her mother and, as had happened on former occasions, had not wished me to see her swollen eyes: she had one of those tender complexions that after a good c...
Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.
Nobody strolled and laughed on the sidewalks as relaxing burghers would in sweet, mellow, rotting Europe.
Las regiones apacibles y vagas en que me movía eran patrimonio de los poetas, no el terreno del crimen
Just as the universal family of gifted writers transcends national barriers, so is the gifted reader a universal figure, not subject to spatial or temporal laws. It is he—the good, the excellent reade...
I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.
Every author believes, when his first book is published, that those that acclaim it are his personal friends or impersonal peers, while its revilers can only be envious rogues and nonentities.
Certainly it’s all in bloom, certainly we’ll go. For aren’t you and I gods? . . . I sense in my blood the rotation of unexplorable universes. . . .
An oblong puddle inset in the coarse asphalt; like a fancy footprint filled to the brim with quicksilver; like a spatulate hole through which you can see the nether sky. Surrounded, I note, by a diffu...
Eventually, however, a distraught McCoo in wet clothes turned up at the only hotel of green-and-pink Ramsdale with the news that his house had just burned down - possibly, owing to the synchronous con...
One cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader. And I shall tell you why. When we read a book for the first time the very pr...
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.My sin, my soul.
The more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.