Reading

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.

And... what can I say? It's Lolita. It's the infamous controversial book that I've heard about my whole life but never dared to read. So I finally borrowed it from the library, cracked it open, and discovered a whirlwind world of beautifully written prose, lots of literary irony and a clever albeit disturbing narrator. I can't say I recommend it to anyone, because the subject matter is absolutely the type that could send one into a flood of paranoia and ickiness... But the book's saving graces are threefold:
1) The author Nabokov has been very cautious to engage the readers' sympathy with Humbert Humbert (the narrator) while at the same time managing to allow readers to hate him for his pervertedness.
2) The writing! Oh, the sentences that would drag on and on if they were Victor Hugo's! So many delicious words describing colors and smells and people...
And finally, 3) the fleshing out of characters that nearly forgives the unusual plot. Had Nabokov not allowed Humbert to be so remorseful, so sensitive, and so aware of the contradictory emotions swelling inside him, this book would be a disgustingly pathetic attempt at chronicling a horrific event. Humbert acts as his own psychiatrist as we learn his story. While he does not excuse his actions, Humbert does do a wonderful job at expressing his true regret by understanding what brought them about as best he can.
I really am bummed that I can't ever name my child Lolita, because it's a beautiful name. But think of what it conjures because of this book.