Vladimir Nabokov

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

I have gone through much sadness and hardship.

I loved her. It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.

“Dick, this is my Dad!

I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook

come to live with me, and die with me, and everything with me

Is there no hope of your coming?

twelve-year-old

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style

palate