It is strange that the tactile sense, which is so infinitely less precious to men than sight, becomes at critical moments our main, if not only, hand… - Vladimir Nabokov

Any future is unknown – but sometimes it acquires a particular fogginess, as if some other force had come to the aid of destiny's natural reticence and distributed this resilient fog, from which thought rebounds.

Solitude was corrupting me.

- Might it console you to know that I expect nothing but torture from her return? That I regard you as a bird of paradise?
She shook her head.
- That my admiration for you is painfully strong?
- I want Van – she cried – and not intangible admiration.
- Intangible? You goose. You my gauge it, you may brush it once very lightly with the knuckles of you gloved hand. I said knuckles. I said once. That will do. I can't kiss you. Not even your burning face. Good-bye, pet. Tell Edmond to take a nap after he returns. I shall need him at two in the morning.