Book Twentyfive: Lolita

Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov



Ah, Lolita. I can't say whether I think this is more about love or sex or just nasty unquenchable pedophilia, but it's pretty freaking good. Any writer who can have you almost sympathizing with a bad, bad man is doing a great, great job. And to think, English isn't even his first language. It's mine, and I frequently can't even put two words together, never mind write stuff as good as this:

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.

And that's just the first paragraph!

I think I first read this book about ten years ago, but it's worth reading again. Luckily, the Stanley Kubrick film is playing next week at SIFF Cinema, so I'm looking forward to seeing how it holds up.