Ugh! Lolita has become the bane of my existence. BF Fermata (I will explain the nickname later.) finished the book two months ago. And lent it to someone who finished it last week! I am such a loser. But I will tell you that BF Fermata never quits. She always does what she sets out to do, which makes her amazing. But it also makes me feel like a total under-achiever, and I blame her (not at all) for getting me into this hateful relationship with everything that has to do with Lolita. I mean it. Humbert, Nabakov, Lolita, all of them! I will not lie when I say that I momentarily “lost” the book and found it on the floor in the back seat of my car. That is where things go to die, but I rescued it. It is now sitting on my unpacked desk, with its bookmark gleefully hanging out reminding me how much I have left to read.
The weird thing is that I actually kind of like the book. Or, at least, I find it interesting. I go through spurts with it. I pick it up. I struggle through a couple of pages, and then, I get into a groove. After an hour, I think I’ve gone pretty far, and guess how many pages I’ve gone through? 12! 12 damn pages. And I promptly decide not to try again until I next feel like (cue Jeopardy theme). I will never finish this book. But I will, eventually. By Christmas? No, Thanksgiving. Let’s say Thanksgiving. And then, and only then, will I discuss its brilliance. So, there.