Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer.
Oh, do not scowl at me, reader, I do not intend to convey the impression that I did not manage to be happy.
One night between sunset and riverOn the old bridge we stood, you and I.Will you ever forget it, I queried,- That particular swift that went by?And you answered, so earnestly: Never!And what sobs made...
Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.
Reality is neither the subject nor the object of true art which creates its own special reality having nothing to do with the average reality perceived by the communal eye.
Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.
She was like Marat only with nobody to kill her.
Solitude is the playfield of Satan.
Solitude was corrupting me. I needed company and care.
Speak, Memory is strictly autobiographic. There is nothing autobiographic in Lolita.
That human life is but a first installment of the serial soul and that one's individual secret is not lost in the process of earthly dissolution, becomes something more than an optimistic conjecture,...
The days of my youth, as I look back on them; seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in...
The fire you rubbed left its brand on the most vulnerable, most vicious and tender point of my body. Now I have to pay for your rasping the red rash too strongly, too soon, as charred wood has to pay...
The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.
The sun is a thief: she lures the seaand robs it. The moon is a thief:he steals his silvery light from the sun.The sea is a thief: it dissolves the moon.
Then, after all the excitement, I shall experience a certain satiation of suffering--perhaps on the mountain pass to a kind of happiness which it is too early for me to know (I know only that when I r...
There can be no emblem or parable in a village idiot's hallucinations or in last night's dream of any of us in this hall. In those random visions nothing – underline nothing (grating sound of horizont...
There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
There is titillating pleasure in looking back at the past and asking oneself, 'What would have happened if...' and substituting one chance occurrence for another, , observing how, from a gray, barren,...
There, in front of us, where a broken row of houses stood between us and the harbour, and where the eye encountered all sorts of stratagems, such as pale-blue and pink underwear cakewalking on a cloth...
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