Should be reading more and writing less, but well...
Feel my heart, reader, feel it, its throbbing and beating, beating me to death. The death of normalcy, simplicity, and all that my earlier normal and simple writing stood for - or shall I say banality? The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth - Lo - Lee - Ta.
I am in love. In love with Lolita, her simple attire (she looks black and white, but now, she is hardly that, is she?), her appeal's complexity, my inability, or if you generously will, my incapacity to understand her completely, and most of all, that dolorous fact that she will never be mine, fully.....Lolita, you adorn my shelf and my heart. Worn out, you shall be, no doubt, some day; I will buy a new copy then, whatever your price might be. Did I tell you I loved your dog-eared cutie-two-shoes look? Oh, I might not have, due to my adolescent, almost juvenile principal principle that I will shun vulnerability.
Humbert "The Humbug" Humbert: passionate, pedophile, psychoanalyst, prurient, petulant, poetic, pathetic, promantic, pdigusting, padorable, pintriguing, and rest assured, light years far from being non-chalant, or any such "heroesque" trite traits, like Sir Pelham's cheap dandy. Hombert dear, I am so boringly straight.
Lolita: Lo, lore, brat! I hope your readers, those cheap voyeurs, like you the way I do; I, voyeur-extraordinaire. Ma femme
, be good to them, in all aspects and respects. Don't kill them. Don't make them hate themselves, and you naive reader! yes, you! Read her, lest your life remain ingloriously incomplete. An exercise in bliss; in literary heaven, let mirthful chuckles run amuck. Feel the hot and cold ends of disgusting imagery and chilling wit.
In a singularly repulsive nutshell (the customary conclusion), its just Humbert and his brethren, Lolita and her ilky silky nymphets, star crossed. O queasy reader, don't be cross at the intricate incestuous labyrinth (of the self-referential type) that is Lolita. Go grab her, and feel her end to end. Trust me not, but you have not felt anyone like her before.
ps: Ulysses, here I come.
pps: Insincere apologies to the scrambled Mr or Ms. Vivian Darkbloom.