Sign In | Create an Account | Welcome, . My Account | Logout | Subscribe | Submit News | Contact Us | Home RSS


October 12, 2010 - Meg Alexander
I now understand my husband’s love affair with “Lolita.”

It sounds sick, I know, especially considering the story’s subject and subsequent notoriety, but my quiet husband is all but boisterous in his obsession with Nabokov — and “Lolita” ranks at the top of his list. This list, mind you, includes not just literature but all art, in all its various forms. And now I get it.

I finished “Lolita” recently and have developed a literary crush of my own, it seems. The book’s conclusion is so brilliant, hilarious, exciting, tragic — what a combination! — and Nabokov pulls is all together like a mad genius. Refraining from writing a spoiler is jklfdjkl;afdsjkjdsaadjj;kl so tempting, I can hardly resist. jk;fd;jklfdjkf;dajkl;dfkjdfjafakjdsfkfdkjdfalk;

Whew. I think I got that out of my system. Let me expound not on the events that take place in “Lolita” but on the general wonder of its conclusion.

Too many times I have read a book, only to be disappointed by the ending. Either it leaves you in need of a stupid sequel; it wraps up too neatly; or it doesn’t seem to wrap up at all, leaving you with that embarrassing “Huh?” moment that tells me either I didn’t get it, or the author didn’t.

“Lolita” was perfection. Nabokov knew what he was doing, beyond a doubt, and he did it, and he did it well. The conclusion provides that rare, blessed “Ahhhh” moment — think angelic Alleluia choir “ahhhh,” not corny metaphorical light bulb moment — that makes you, the reader, want to put the book down just to applaud before picking it up again to start over from the beginning.


Article Comments

No comments posted for this article.

Post a Comment

You must first login before you can comment.

*Your email address:
Remember my email address.


I am looking for:
News, Blogs & Events Web