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.

We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing.

The shock of her death froze something in me. The child I loved was gone, but I kept looking for her - long after I had left my own childhood behind. The poison was in the wound, you see. And the wound wouldn't heal.

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 dead-leaf 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.

From here to that old car you know so well is a stretch of twenty-five paces. Make those twenty-five steps. With me. Now.

You're saying you'll give us the money if I go to a motel with you?

No, no, no. I mean leave here now, and come live with me. And die with me, and everything with me.

Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.

我最爱的就是她，可以肯定，就像自己必死一样肯定。昔日的如花妖女，现在只剩下枯叶回乡，苍白，混俗，臃肿，腹中的骨肉是别人的，但我爱她，她可以褪色，可以萎谢，怎样都可以，但我只看她一眼，万般柔情，涌上心头。

年少时遗落的萤火之光，在某个深夜再次看见，宛如缥缈天地的极光。