Lolita at 50

Let’s keep up with the literary themes: Here’s a couple articles celebrating fifty years of Nabakov’s masterful paen to love and nymphets, Lolita.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

Now that boys and girls, that’s what we call writing. Wow. The entire novel scintillates with prose like this. It is simply incomparable, a lush delight to read. And the lurid subject matter makes it all the more enthralling. That Nabakov wrote such prose for a perverted pedophile, wow.