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I am getting the weirdest, most conflicting and confusing feels EVER after reading the first few chapters of Nabakov's Lolita.
I find I have to read it in small doses for fear that the narrator will start to make too much sense, and my safe and secure definitions or morality seep out of the bottom of their labelled boxes and spread all over my floorboards.
I just don't want to wipe them up when I'm done, and discover I've left some stains that are permanent or at least require some heavy-duty cleaning.
Help! I'm sympathizing with a pedophile! Nabakov, you kill me with language! You need not flex, you can merely set a beautifully hand-crafted carving knife on the table in front of me, and convince me to stab myself!
And you make me want more! You beautiful, beautiful, big brained Ruskie!