I am reading Lolita, by Vladimir Nobokov, at my friend Marie’s recommendation. I am not yet sure how I feel about it, but there are parts that make me glow with glee they are written so delightfully, or that they envoked recognition of something or other. Such:
I had always thought that wringing one’s hands was a fictional gesture–the obscure outcome, perhaps, of some medieval ritual; but as I took to the woods, for a spell of despair and desperate meditation, this was the gesture (“look, Lord, at these chains!”) that would have come nearest to the mute expression of my mood. (p. 93)
…and as I watched, with the stark lucidity of a future recollection (you know–trying to see things as you will remember having seen them)… (p. 97)
“Bad, bad girl,” said Lo comfortably. “Juvenile delickwent, but frank and fetching. That light was red. I’ve never seen such driving.” (p. 128)
But I only started dog-earing pages a quarter way in. It’s like, for the first fifth, I was reading in a kind of shock; unthinkingly drinking, barely sinking in. I’ll have to go again, of course.