cris

“If his Russian was music, his English was murder.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin

“It wasn't a room that any moderately good hotel couldn't duplicate; but there wasn't one chip, one scratch, one speck of dust anywhere, and you had the feeling that the waiters would, without flicking an eyelash, bring you anything that you wanted the way you wanted it, even, if you really insisted, their own ears and eyes, braised in sherry.”
― John Braine, Room at the Top

“Love is an innocent passion. How is it that, for me, it's turned into a source of misery and immortality?”
― Abbé Prévost, Manon Lescaut

“At last both were out of the quivering apartment-the vibration of the door I had slammed after then still rang in every nerve, a poor substitute for the backhand slap with which I ought to have hit her across the cheekbone according to the rules of the movies.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita