Still reading Lolita.
I swear, I am the slowest reader in the history of literature. It's an interestingly, controversial amazing book, and it is really well-written. As in really well-written to the point where I've practically collected a novel of words that I either a) don't understand or b) never even heard of or c) are in french, which I've spontaneously scribbled down over the course of reading the dang thing.
pgs this week: 107
all semester: 107 + eight-fifty-something = 958
Sentences of the week:
The park was as black as the sins it concealed.
Parody of a hotel corridor. Parody of silence and death.
Then, she crept into my waiting arms, radiant, relaxed, caressing me with her tender, mysterious impure, indifferent, twilight eyes-- for all the world, like the cheapest of cheap cuties. For that is what nymphets imitate-- while we moan and die.
If my happiness could have talked, it would have filled that genteel hotel with a deafening rooar.
All of these have to do with getting little Delores into the hotel, stuff her full of sleeping pills--enough to last one night-- and then, uh, take advantage of her (that was the least controversial way I could put it). Anyway, Humbert is practically high with giddiness and excitement with this opportunity, and as he put it: if his happiness had a voice, it would roar. How appropriate.
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