I reclined in my chair and stared at that wondrous tome, Lolita, my Lolita! A pale little volume of utterly gratifying, moving, funny, and shamefully sensual exploits threading their way across the misty backdrop of America, by that most famous of littérateur, Vladimir Nabokov… his pen stretched across the Russian and English tongues and produced this, my darling Lolita in 1955, the most well-known and arguably finest of his works.
I say to you, ladies and gentlemen, that this a breathtaking story. Humbert Humbert lusts after Lolita, a precocious ‘nymphet’. I should not want to spoil it for you, like so much that is spoiled in the course of Lolita, but I find some contentment in telling you reader that while the middle of the work seems at times to devolve into a mad spiral of lists and repetitions, the end more than makes up for it. It is a veritable tour de force, a masterful exercise in creating a bizarre and gripping scene that will haunt your memory for some time afterwards. This frail old novelstuff novelstuff was left quite out of breath by the time I put its young papery softness to rest on my shelf!
H. H. and his dear Lo are a beguiling pair, existing in a fragile literary space that veers sharply from any semblance of reality at times. I hang my head in shame readers, because I admit I was charmed at times by old Hum’s solipsistic voice. It ties this frightfully subversive novel together, and yet at times seems to thrust madly out of the page with all the sharpness and cruelty appropriate to a paedophile. His dry, sarcastic tone will both shock you and make you laugh.
Thus I use my tiny, insignificant corner of the internet to wholeheartedly recommend this book to you, my dear reader. After hearing my friends’ hearty recommendations I had coveted Lolita for some time, and I am pleased to say that in the end she did not disappoint.