Lolita, light of my life, fire in my loins, my sin, my soul.
Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a tip of three steps. Down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning standing four feet teen in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did. Indeed she did. In point of fact, there might've been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child.
In a princedom by sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibited number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs. En-vied.
Look at this tangle of thorns.
YOU ARE READING
Lolita
Romancethe classic tale of a man's inappropriate obsession with a beautiful young girl.
