Lolita

What I heard then was the melody of children at play. Nothing but that. And I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that chorus. I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the deadleaf echo of the nymphet from long ago but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man s child. She could fade and wither I didn t care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.