Lolita

I have met many book-lovers
over the years. Several of them, upon learning of my passion about
books, have recommended that I read Lolita.
I knew the premise of the book and refused to read it out of
principle. “But it’s literature, it’s Nabokov.” I heard so many
arguments, but I still refused to read it.


A few weeks ago, my bookclub met and we were told that the Mark Twain
book we’d picked for April was dreadful and decided to switch it. I
recommended we read Lolita. None of us were too thrilled about the
prospect but we all felt that it was a book we had to read before we
died. And now that were were in our 30s, and “mature,” we might as
well get to it. Semi-reluctantly, we all agreed to pick it as our
April book.

Knowing it would be a form of torture, I bought and started the book
immediately. The text was much less dense than I had imagined and the
story moved relatively quickly. There were some interesting bits here
and there and the writing was quite impeccable. But that’s it.


I wish I could say all those people were right and I was wrong. I
wish I could say I totally changed my mind on it and it was
phenomenal. The truth is, I could never get past the child-
molestation. I could never get past what a disgusting (and I find
that to be the very perfect fit adjective in this case) man he was.
There was no second in which I could relate to him or empathize.
Thank God I don’t have a daughter, I might have hated it even more.
There was no room for my pity in the character. No explanation why he
might have become such a despicable person. Nothing that spoke to me
in a way that allowed me to enjoy the book, the story and the people.


I ask you, if you’re one of those “Lolita is amazing” people:
please tell me what I missed? Why is this book such a must-read?