Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins

Upon my completion of Lolita today, I felt elated. I was able to finish another summer book, the day before the commencement of classes. However in confusing contradiction,  while reading the final climactic passages, I also felt a slight sadness overcome me. I secretly longed for the impossible: A never ending story. Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled to be finished reading about a big brute  who obliviously yanks the innocence out of a small nymphet. 

I  just realize that there are a limited number of books made accessible to the average reader that are true works of art. They are few and far between, and I now have one less work-of-art book waiting to be read with the novelty of an unacquainted mind . 

Not only is the story engrossing but the writing is phenomenal.  I was repeatedly awed by the craftsmanship of Nabokov's writing which led me to better understand, with astounding clairty, why Lolita is a revered classic . To this moment, I am still in disbelief that Nabokov's native language is not English.

Through his meticulous and perfect selection of contrasting adjectives, alliterations and allusions, Nabokov was able to create a poetic and titilating novel  that flows freely and effortlessly from the pages to its eagerly awaiting reader without the use of a single expletive . At moments, the reader is allowed to drift alongside the words and  is even allowed to forget how contrived the writing is. That is not to say that the author's prose never appears pretentious, as there is a hearty portion of french scattered throughout the book. It just doesn't detract from marvel that much, because it camouflages well with the protagonist's pompous personality.  

He is able to make the mundane palatable over and over again. An example of the said craft was pulled from a paragraph where he describes neon light: "Some way further across the street, neon lights flickered twice slower than my heart: the outline of a restaurant sign, a large coffee-pot, kept bursting, every full second or so, into emerald life, and every time it went out, pink letters saying Fine Foods relayed it, but the pot could still be made out as a latent shadow teasing the eye before its next emerald resurrection" (299).   The not-so-vital neon light, the minutiae, is instantly made more memorable. 

The truly amazing thing about Lolita is that Nabokov is able to transform an abominable, heart-wrenching story about a large hairy man, who is obsessed with a utterly vulnerable young girl, into a unique love story. It almost leaves the reader feeling sorry for Humbert, the wretched and detestable protagonist. Inspired. INSPIRED, I am, indeed. (A recommendation seems overtly apparent).