Zembla is a site devoted to the life and works of author, translator, and lepidopterist.
[Il buon lettore] non appartiene a una nazione o a una classe specifica. Non c'è direttore di coscienza o club del libro che possa gestire la sua anima. Il suo modo d'accostarsi a un'opera di narrativ...
[…] a halál nem több, csak a magány végtelen töredékeinek teljesebb kollekciója.
Do what only a true artist can do ... pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation
In a livid wet dress, under the tumbling mist... had run ecstatically up that ridge above Moulinet to be felled there by a thunderbolt.
That is his head, containing a brain of a different brand than that of the synthetic jellies preserved in the skulls around him
The gin kept my heart alive but bemazed my brain
Él me destrozó el corazón. Tú destrozaste mi vida.
Моя тоска по родине лишь своеобразнаягипертрофия тоски по утраченному детству.
– Az ember úgy érzi… Úgy érzi… – mondta –, hogy csupán valami szerepet játszik, és elfelejtette a következő mondatait.
Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.
And yet I shall try again: "they are murdering me!"--all right, all together once more: "they are murdering me!" and again: "murdering"... I want to write this in such a way that you will cover your e...
Why do you think I have ceased caring for you, Lo?-Well, you haven´t kissed me yet, have you?
و هیچکس واقعا کسی را دوست ندارد.
All my best words are deserters and do not answer the trumpet call, and the remainder are cripples.
Another part of the ritual was to ascend with closed eyes. 'Step, step, step,' came my mother's voice as she led me up - and sure enough, the surface of the next tread would receive the blind child's...
I felt instinctively that toilets - as also telephones - happened to be for reasons unfathomable, the points where my destiny was liable to catch. We all have such fateful objects - it may be a recurr...
If one were quite sincere with oneself, no conscience, and hence no consciousness, could be expected to subsist in a world where such things as Mira's death were possible.
Photographs of girl-children; some gaudy moth or butterfly, still alive, safely pinned to the wall.
Under no circumstances would he [Humbert Humbert] have interfered with the innocence of a child, if there was the least risk of a row.
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