I have gotten myself a copy of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita today. I must admit, it has been a delayed purchase, with my buying other books instead of getting Lolita straight away. The first time i heard about the book was from a review written in another language which drives my teacher to the edge. And from that we can conclude that what I have derived from it would be lacking some words, if not the whole substance itself.
I can clearly recall that the review was a short blub of Sofia Coppola's, of whom became idolistic to me for some moment above some reason or another, and that when I read it, I was far more pure and naive than I am now. The first time I picked it up from the store bookshelf and read the first few pages, I thought it was a mere obsessive love story. When I reread the first page for the thousandth time today, for the first description in my eyes is the most simple and beautiful introduction ever, I realized the disclosed prose of clearly, uncivilised longing. Hey don't blame me, I read it in French Vogue.
If you are as naive as I was, and the word Lolita didnt ring any bells for you, the word has actually become a pseudonym for "A seductive adolescent girl" to dictionary.com, "nympets" to those who understand the concept of nymphomania or forms of ulysses, or "kiddie sex" as a friend of mine says it.
I'm not going to explain the whole book to you... Because I believe I have said some obscene words and imaginative prose here already. So click here, as I believe this book's beauty is in coming to the facts yourself and not someone else. That is the exact copy they have in Kinokuniya, though I purchased the second last copy so go on and try your luck.
Yet don't get the story wrong, the prose, the obsession, the intoxicating heartfelt words that go on for paragraphs without stop, choking choking you with beauty itself is actually really really good. I won't put my foot into any area that agrees or disagrees with the book. I agree it is indeed obscene, purtrid and sinful. Yet I can't disagree that its beautiful, enchanting, critical and raw with polished poems in every paragraph.
Language-wise, since I don't really understand Salman Rushdie's prose that much, I can say the prose here beats The Ground Beneath her Feet anytime. Ok, you have the right to say I'm being facile. But really, if it wasn't for Ulysses by James Joyce, The Ground Beneath Her Feet would be the hardest book I've tried to read so far. And Henry Thoreau. Yeah. Hmm.
On a lighter note, my english teacher makes us bring a novel to school everytime there is english. We would do our work normally and when there is time, we would be given time to read and then present our books. The presentations have not started yet, though I know the first one to go upfront and talk would most probably be me because of my sometimes-quite-unfortunate-at-times-like-these name. I think I might present something more cheerfull, like the Great Gatsby or something. Really, try imagining me presenting Lolita.
"Er. This is an obsessive yet beautiful story of which prose I ador-"
"Get to the point Ainaa."
"Errr.Its a story about apedophilewhoishauntedbyhischildhoodgirlfriendwhodiedfromsomewierdtyphus
thinganditsastoryabouthimcourtingthe12yearoldgirlandfornicateswithherandallander."
*Whole class stares in silence while I get sent to the counsellor's office for being mentally disturbed*
Yeah anyway I'm not too bummed if I have to read a part of the first page. I love it so much. Here's a small part of it:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip 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 ten 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 always Lolita.
I can clearly recall that the review was a short blub of Sofia Coppola's, of whom became idolistic to me for some moment above some reason or another, and that when I read it, I was far more pure and naive than I am now. The first time I picked it up from the store bookshelf and read the first few pages, I thought it was a mere obsessive love story. When I reread the first page for the thousandth time today, for the first description in my eyes is the most simple and beautiful introduction ever, I realized the disclosed prose of clearly, uncivilised longing. Hey don't blame me, I read it in French Vogue.
If you are as naive as I was, and the word Lolita didnt ring any bells for you, the word has actually become a pseudonym for "A seductive adolescent girl" to dictionary.com, "nympets" to those who understand the concept of nymphomania or forms of ulysses, or "kiddie sex" as a friend of mine says it.
I'm not going to explain the whole book to you... Because I believe I have said some obscene words and imaginative prose here already. So click here, as I believe this book's beauty is in coming to the facts yourself and not someone else. That is the exact copy they have in Kinokuniya, though I purchased the second last copy so go on and try your luck.
Yet don't get the story wrong, the prose, the obsession, the intoxicating heartfelt words that go on for paragraphs without stop, choking choking you with beauty itself is actually really really good. I won't put my foot into any area that agrees or disagrees with the book. I agree it is indeed obscene, purtrid and sinful. Yet I can't disagree that its beautiful, enchanting, critical and raw with polished poems in every paragraph.
Language-wise, since I don't really understand Salman Rushdie's prose that much, I can say the prose here beats The Ground Beneath her Feet anytime. Ok, you have the right to say I'm being facile. But really, if it wasn't for Ulysses by James Joyce, The Ground Beneath Her Feet would be the hardest book I've tried to read so far. And Henry Thoreau. Yeah. Hmm.
On a lighter note, my english teacher makes us bring a novel to school everytime there is english. We would do our work normally and when there is time, we would be given time to read and then present our books. The presentations have not started yet, though I know the first one to go upfront and talk would most probably be me because of my sometimes-quite-unfortunate-at-times-like-these name. I think I might present something more cheerfull, like the Great Gatsby or something. Really, try imagining me presenting Lolita.
"Er. This is an obsessive yet beautiful story of which prose I ador-"
"Get to the point Ainaa."
"Errr.Its a story about apedophilewhoishauntedbyhischildhoodgirlfriendwhodiedfromsomewierdtyphus
thinganditsastoryabouthimcourtingthe12yearoldgirlandfornicateswithherandallander."
*Whole class stares in silence while I get sent to the counsellor's office for being mentally disturbed*
Yeah anyway I'm not too bummed if I have to read a part of the first page. I love it so much. Here's a small part of it:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip 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 ten 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 always Lolita.
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