Lolita Vladimir Nabokov

Lo. Lee. Ta. On Valentine's Day, my lover put roses and a small novel inside the crook of my arm. The flowers were white. The card was red. The novel...

I'd already seen the movie. I knew better than to read it. He knew better than to give it to me. But there I was, hunkered in the kitchen after he'd fallen asleep, reading. I'm still trying to figure out why he gave it to me.

The book is good. All the pedaphilic glamour aside... it's good. And I guess I'm afraid that a good novel is a true novel. Yes, the poor naughty guy dipped his fingers into the pubescent soup. Yes, the man is a man, not a monster. I got that. But I already knew that. And as for that whole line about old Europe and new America: well, if that's what it takes to sleep at night, fine. But I'm not too keen on history. And I don't give a shit about complicated socio-historical metaphor.

I kept straining to hear Lolita through the narrator's story. Where was she? Who was she? I'm afraid that even the end-of-the-book moral repositioning never let us even glimpse at her. She was a child or a seductress or an American or an angel. But she was never herself. I didn't hate him for fucking her. I hated him for covering her up. Maybe that was the real point of the story.