Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
— Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. 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. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
— Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
I guess in a way we are all odd man out, until we find the match that makes us even. Someone who challenges us to be our best. Someone who understands us, even at our worst. I was beginning to appreciate how rare a thing that was.
— Kevin Arnold
Isn’t that the holiday with the giant crackers?
— Overheard in Central Park - NYC