Lolita

Taking advantage of the summer lull, I am dutifully reading Lolita, prompted by Martin Amis' enthusiasm, by Richard Prince's collection of first editions in numerous covers and translations, by the lure of a twentieth century classic. No doubt, Nabokov is a virtuoso: "Lo.Lee.Ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth". Try it out: it is exact, precise like the best parts of his belaboured prose. But I must confess mixed feelings. Like all virtuosos, Nabokov finds it hard no to show off his mastery. To catch the translucent diamonds, one has to cut through much dead wood, climb over alliterations, swim past elaborate descriptions, master clever puns, decipher erudite allusions and puzzle over word games. And the humour? Yes, the text is suffused with it, but I haven't enjoyed yet one single laughing out loud moment. The best? The alluring nymphet herself, with her slang, her languorous poses, her sharp repartie, her mixture of kwowingness and naiveté.