/hiatus thanks.


anyway, my exams are over and now I can resume my usual blogging activities, which include, whining, complaining, bitching, criticising and reviewing books/make-up.
and of course my first return post would be about a book.


Trust me though, Lolita isn't just any book.
Its a masterpiece.


Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov, revolves around its main character, Humbert Humbert and his paedophilia; and eventually his lust for the 12-year old Dolores Haze, also affectionately known as Lolita.


I cannot begin to describe to you how artfully and completely this book tore my emotions to tatters and shreds.
I found myself nodding scandalised assent to so many things I would have scowled at in disgust if I had come across them in newspapers.
But no, instead of contempt I found I could only find sympathy and understanding for Humbert as he lusted and wasted all his affections on Lolita.
But Lolita herself;
The thing about this book that left me in tears was the effective ruin of a normal childhood for Lolita.
And in the very end, you cannot find a single person to blame, though you wish and want with everything you have to pin the monstrosity of the destruction of both child and man onto one single person.


In this case, I cannot point out to you one particular thing that I like, seeing as everything ties in together to create a battering ram of emotions and morals.
The language is beautiful though, and even if I hated the book for its disturbing subject matter, I could not say a single word against Nabokov's use of the English language.
But I cannot hate the book, how could I hate something that could render me so emotionally drained in 300 pages?


I need to read something sickeningly fantastical to rid myself now of the pyschological burden of this book.