I Think I Lack a Sense of Humor

At least, if I’m to believe this review of Lolita, I am.  I’m not put off by the taboo subject matter, and at times, I relished the language with gusto, but Nabokov’s arguably most famous novel did not leave me wanting more.  I’m not sure I understand why; examined feature-by-feature, I admire a lot about the novel.  The narrator’s voice is witty and delightfully unreliable.  I love me a road story, which in many ways, this is.   In places, the playfulness of the language engaged me so thoroughly that I had to read it out loud to make sure I’d wrung every drop of liveliness from it.  In the end, though, it simply wasn’t a good fit for me.  I do not deny the enduring brilliance of the novel; I do admit to struggling to finish it, especially after Lo’s kidnapping.  I wanted to care for H.H., for Lo, for anyone; I fear I never developed a bond with the characters, even one based in distaste. 

Lolita is a novel that I thought I had read already, but I couldn’t remember anything about it than the obvious:  perverted older man hooks up with pre-teen.  There is so much more than that to the novel, and I’m glad to have read it, but only, as Dan Bern might say, so I can cross it off my list.

My trip to NY was a whirlwind, and I failed to take a single picture.  So much for my photo essay of my former home.

I hope you’re staying cool.  We drank lemonade slushies in the shade, and now I plan to stick close to the air conditioning.  Not very environmentally friendly, but this weather is the type of thing that lets a girl knows just how far she’ll go for a cause, no?