Outside the sun is pouring heat. Plants are covered with dust and fumes. People avoid the outdoors like the plague. Even the lizards are languid, stuck to their posts but gazing furtively, never letting their guard down, not for one moment.
— Indigenous Dialogues” —
“All silence is the recognition of a mystery.”
— from The Short Stories of Vladimir Nabokov
“There are gentle souls who would pronounce Lolita meaningless because it does not teach them anything. I am neither a reader nor a writer of didactic fiction…For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.”
“… a novel is a mirror, taking a walk down a big road. Sometimes you’ll see nothing but blue skies; sometimes you’ll see the muck in the mud piles along the road. And you’ll accuse the man carrying the mirror in his basket of being immoral! His mirror reflects the muck, so you’ll accuse the mirror, too! Why not also accuse the highway where the mud is piled, or, more strongly still, the street inspector who leaves water wallowing in the roads…”