My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Lo. Lee. Ta. Valentine’s Day, he put roses and a small novel inside the crook of my arm. Flowers, white. Card, red. & it is good. All pedaphilic glamour aside… it’s good. And I guess I’m afraid that a good novel is a true novel. Yes, yes, duder dipped into the pubescent soup. Yes, the man is a man, not a monster. I got that. But I already knew that. And as for that whole line about old Europe and new America: well, if that’s what it takes to sleep at night, fine, but I don’t give a shit about that kind of metaphor. I kept straining to hear Lolita through the narrator’s story. Where was she? Who was she? I’m afraid that even the end-of-the-book moral repositioning never let us even glimpse at her. She was what a child? an innocent? She was never herself so who knew. I didn’t hate him for fucking her. I hated him for covering her up.