The sickeningly perverse book no God abiding, morality loving individual should EVER come across. Thankfully, I am not one of them. I happen to love the book Lolita and quite rightly so.
This book is a literary genius and if you want company to the ride to hell, grab this book quickly before the entire 7 billion of us wake up to realize what we have been missing out on.
The sad part is, however (which incidentally also prompted me to write this blog post) that I can’t describe this book in three words.
If I had to put it in three words, and yes merely THREE I would say: I am speechless
And why is this sad, you ask? Well, even if you didn’t it is sad because it is one of the most wonderfully loquacious books that I have come across with the narrator so verbose that he would make the perfect boutique owner-and an even better writer. His name is Humbert Humbert and every verbose, descriptive and imaginative narration of his seems to be making up for his seemingly banal name.
Two words co-joined to form four syllables of perfected debauchery. It is the name of a man, oh no, a monster who seems to be synonymous with every paedophilic case we may come across in our very short uneventful-lives-which-may-as-well-ultimately-lead-us-to-hell.
But, why is this particular character who is the perverted uncle our mothers tell us to avoid deserving of an entire blog post on this blog which is read by absolutely nobody? Because by the end of the entire charade I felt sad for him. YES, pity
A four letter, magical word you must not utter but you do anyways. Quite like the Voldemort of the muggle life. So, yes I am guilty of feeling “feelings” for a man who has a predisposition for hiding behind park benches and terrorizing guileless young girls who are completely unaware of what he might be thinking. I like him because he told me a story. We, while denying the presence of averse men and women in society We were always real men and women and here is why! (yes, promotion ;)) conveniently continue to forget that every fetish is not a predilection because everybody has a story. He had a story, too and that is pretty darn beautiful.
Back to the real objective of this entire blog post: why I continue to describe this book as preschoolers used to describe an “awesome” event in their life to teachers.
“How was your Paris trip?”
“I have no words for it, ma’am” a toothless me would reply
But, that is the precise point; this book says so much that it leaves nothing for me to say. Everything I say about this book seems prosaic in comparison, closer to an insult rather a compliment. This book makes me feel like a child and quite rightly so because it was written for the benefit for us to see things we don’t and to feel things we shouldn’t.
So, go ahead and read this book and don’t let the “ewwww’s” of the world keep you away from the literary masterpiece that this book is. Be a better person by taking a piecemeal of somebody else’s story. Life is not wrapped up in a net of “how horrible” it is a web, a fucking complex web.