I Don't Think In Any Language. I

Just Like A Man Grieving Because He Has Recently Lost In His Dreams Some Thing That He Had Never Had In Reality, Or Hoping That Tomorrow He Would Dream That He Found It Again. That Is How Mathematics Is Created; It Has Its Fatal Flaw.

Beauty Plus Pity-that Is The Closest We Can Get To A Definition Of Art. Where There Is Beauty There Is Pity For The Simple Reason That Beauty Must Die: Beauty Always Dies, The Manner Dies With The Matter, The World Dies With The Individual.

Our Best Yesterdays Are Now Foul Piles Of Crumpled Names.

Humbert Was Perfectly Capable Of Intercourse With Eve, But It Was Lilith He Longed For.

Oh, My Lolita, I Have Only Words To Play With!