I have read a lot of books. Some of those books have been perverse--Tropic of Cancer, or filled with sex-scenes--Outlander, but I had yet to encounter a book like Lolita. A book where I am both completely disgusted and sympathetic with the narrator at the same time. And then I am disgusted with myself for being sympathetic....am I a monster?I think that is part of the beauty of the book. Beauty? Um... or maybe, you know, what makes it so unique. There is this narrator telling us his story, about his lust for young girls-- it's gross and obscene, but his rationalizations to himself work on the reader! Yes Humbert, you aren't that bad, I mean, she didn't know you were getting off while she was sitting on your lap--SO KIND OF YOU.
I did get kind of bored about 2/3 of the way through. I think it was because by that point it had turned into straight up molestation. A 13 year-old and a 40 year-old--and she also starts referring to their escapades as rape, which makes his side not so easy to rationalize anymore.
As I rode the metro reading some of the more dirty scenes I found myself blushing a bit, sort of darting my eyes around wondering if anyone nearby had read the book and knew that I was at "that" scene. Could they read my mind?
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