Lolita

You could not imagine the dilemma that goes through my head when as I get further and further into this book, and as Humbert’s perversions become more and more pronounced. While reading Humbert’s encounters with Lolita, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of disgust, yet at the same time, the beautiful language keeps my eyes glued to the book. Humbert recounts his despicable desires towards Lolita, yet he does so with flourishing prose. I find the part where he, erm, fantasizes about Lolita (and does the you-know-what when imagining Lolita) particularly disturbing. However, his sophisticated descriptions make it seem like I’m reading some sort of high-end erotica or something. Reading Chapters 10-13 is like looking at a piece of art depicting a gory, gruesome murder: the content is so scary, so revolting, but the strokes are done so aesthetically, so masterfully, you can’t help but keep on looking.

I believe that I am not alone in this dilemma. Now I see why many people regard Lolita as a literary classic. Thank you for messing with my mind, Nabokov.