| Emphatically,
no killers are we. Poets never kill. Oh, my poor Charlotte, do not
hate me in your eternal heaven among an eternal alchemy of asphalt
and rubber and metal and stone-but thank God, not water, not water!
Nonetheless it was a very close shave, speaking quite objectively.
And now comes the point of my perfect-crime parable. We sat down
on our towels in the thirsty sun, Alex Carlson’s words stirring
carnal desires. “Whispering Winds,” she whispered in
my ear as she looked around, loosened her bra, and turned over on
her stomach to give her back a chance to be feasted upon. – Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov, pg. 82 |
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