At first she tried to evade his lips but he persisted [. . .]. All at once she gave in, and the minor miracle happened. A shiver of tenderness rippled her features, as a breeze does a reflection. Her eyelashes were wet, her shoulders shook in his clasp. That moment of soft agony was never to be repeated---or rather would never be granted the time to come back again after completing the cycle innate in its rhythm; yet that brief vibration in which she dissolved with the sun, the cherry trees, the forgiven landscape, set the tone for his new existence with its sense of 'all-is-well' despite her worst moods, her silliest caprices, her harshest demands. That kiss, and not anything preceding it, was the real beginning [. . .].

Vladimir Nabokov, from Transparent Things (Vintage International, 1989)