{...}, however, belonged to those women who combine healthy beauty with hysterical tearing, lyrical explosions with very practical, banal thinking, vile character with sentimentality, sluggish...

The memory did not give him peace. They could be withstanded for a while and only from the perspective of an incurable disease, in a clear prejudice of the upcoming death.

- And the sentiment becomes burdensome. After all, there is something too physical in trying to preserve a childhood particle on your bridge. - You don't first bring faith to the sense of touch.

This whole psychiatry is nothing but a kind of microcosm of communism {...}. It would be better to leave people their personal problems. The question arises whether troubles are the only thing in the...

{...} separateness is one of the basic features of life. If we are not surrounded by a bodily coating, we must die. Man exists only when he is isolated from the environment. The skull is our...

... and no one really loves anyone.

Some - who I am also one of them - hate the stories that are happy with the end. We feel we are fooled. The routine is in harm. The fate should not stop. Bahmani, which is stopped just a few meters...

This stood for the Evolution of Sense, his greatest course {with an enrollment of twelve, none even remotely apostolic} which had opened and would close with the phrase destined to be overquoted one...

Some people - and I am one of them - hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not...

...if one were quite sincere with oneself, no conscience, and hence no consciousness, could be expected to subsist in a world where such things as Mira's death were possible.

{...} after an early dinner at The Egg and We, a recently inaugurated and not very successful little restaurant which Pnin frequented from sheer sympathy with failure {...}

Both Erica and Liza Wind were morbidly concerned with heredity, and instead of delighting in Victor's artistic genius, they used to worry gloomily about its genetic cause.

the satisfaction of a special Pninian craving.

I do not want, John. You know I do not understand what is advertisement and what is not advertisement.

{...} Everything that arouses admiration caused by eternal approaching the goal awaits destruction.

All of which does not alter the fact that Pnin was on the wrong train.

Some people - and I am one of them - hate funny ending. We felt fooled. Damage is normal. The karma is enforced. The snowy battle stopped in the middle of the road with only a few steps on the cramped...

The bowl that emerged was one of those gifts whose first impact produces in the recipient's mind a colored image, a blazoned blur, reflecting with such emblematic force the sweet nature of the donor...

Some people-and I am one of them-hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam.

My patient was one of those singular and unfortunate people who regard their heart {"a hollow, muscular organ," according to the gruesome definition in Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, which...

If his Russian was music, his English was murder.

Because of a streak of dreaminess and a gentle abstraction in his nature, Victor in any queue was always at its very end. He had long since grown used to this handicap, as one grows used to weak sight...

Genius is a lack of adaptation.

When, on a Sunday evening in May 1876, Anna throws herself under the freight train, she has existed more than four years since the beginning of the novel, but in the case of the Lyovins, during the...

…two lumpy old ladies in semitransparent raincoats, like potatoes in cellophane…

To hold her, to keep her -- just as she was -- with her cruelty, with her vulgarity, with her blinding blue eyes, with her miserable poetry, with her fat feet, with her impure, dry, sordid, infantile...

His life was a constant war with insensate objects that fell apart, or attacked him, or refused to function, or viciously got themselves lost as soon as they entered the sphere of his existence.

All three of them stood for a moment gazing at the stars.''And all these are worlds,'' said Hagen.''Or else,'' said Clements with a yawn, ''a frightful mess. I suspect it is really a fluorescent...

Why not leave their private sorrows to people? Is sorrow not, one asks, the only thing in the world people really possess?

We sat and drank, each with a separate past locked up in him, and fate's alarm clocks set at unrelated futures -- when, at last, a wrist was cocked, and eyes of consorts met.