Humbert: Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta:
Humbert: She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Humbert: 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.
Humbert: We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing.
Humbert: 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.
Humbert: 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.
Humbert: 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.
Lolita: You're saying you'll give us the money if I go to a motel with you?
Humbert: No, no, no. I mean leave here now, and come live with me. And die with me, and everything with me.
Lolita: You're crazy.
Humbert: Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.