Author: David Schwarm
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NOTES FROM Lolita Vladimir Nabokov
And I thought to myself how those fast little articles forget everything, everything, while we, old lovers, treasure every inch of their nymphancy
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XVI
Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perch’d on the young green spray, Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those…
David Given Schwarm 