Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.
Lo. Lee. Ta.
I'll be honest. I liked this book even while it disgusted me. It was awful... the story of a pedophile chasing after a young girl. However, it didn't earn its "classic" title through it's pornography. The prose was amazing... check this out:
"...but my brief grunts, just sufficiently articulate to sound like conventional assents or interrogative pause-fillers, precluded any evolution toward chumminess"
I think of the story as a car crash. Sickening in it's perverted nature, yet impossible to look away because it's so captivating.
I read the reflection Nabokov gave at the end, which made me look more in favor of the book. He didn't seem sleazy (I'd like to hope he's no Humbert Humbert) and he writes that Lolita has no moral in tow.
So, in conclusion. Vladimir is a story-teller, and a good one at that. His story is controversial, but it serves to make it even more riveting.
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