Torn page from a book

"She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, leaning back on the cushion, one felted foot on the floor. The wooden floor slanted, a little steel ball would have rolled into the kitchen. I knew all i wanted to know. I had no intention of torturing my darling. Somewhere beyond Bill's shack an afterwork radio had begun singing of folly and fate, and there she was in her ruined looks and her adult, rope-veined narrow hands and her goose-flesh white arms, and her shallow ears, and her unkempt armpits, there she was (my Lolita!), hopelessly worn at seventeen, with that baby, dreaming already in her becoming a big shot and retiring around 2020 A.D.-and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else.

She was the only faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves chocking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds . . .but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshiped. What I used to pamper among the tangled veins of my heart, mon grand pêché radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that i cancelled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and half throttled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another's child, but still grey-eyed still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still mine...even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torn-even then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere side of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita."
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note: Vladimir Nabokov really blows my mind. Wish someone adores me as such.