the lost man chronicles
Lo-lee-tah (literary review)
Lolita is not as lurid as the great unread would have her be. Her most alluring vice is that she is arabesquely literary—floral fold upon cold fret atop of fawning fauna. The controversial novel is narratively meticulous as the narrator is orderly obsessive-compulsive and disorderly compulsively obsessed with his blossoming Dolores Haze.
Vladimir Nabakov bewitches the reader by sweeping you away upon the stream of sordidly wrought thoughts and realized fantasy which takes us viatically across motel America.
A fugitive in his own mind, Humbert Humbert, the pedantic pedophile that divulges all—every love-sick detail of this meandering wanderlust and lascivious mistrust of the waif in his stead—profiles the gritty character and paranoid conniving of a criminal-in-the-making—mile by mile, inch by cutaneous inch. His wiles are almost garish in their obsequious and absconding manner, the surreptitious means by which he openly flaunts morals and mores and thumbs his Cyranno skyward at all the perfunctory, provincial and vacuous rote motions and routines of his neighbors. Supercilious because he is an aristocratic silhouette of an European émigré, the pedigree of which leaves him sufficient argent to travel wayward with his captive dependant forces her to be a uncaring trollop. His travelogue is sciatheric, retrospectively reminiscing in the shadowy wake of a licentious mind gone mad.
Albeit, Humbert is richly honest with his sputtering conveyance of every thought and spurious motivation, giving great insight into the squalor and disrepute of the edgy character, the hirsute details eventually weigh upon the reader like a fur coat in April, a fine thing to wear in the cool-crisp of the morning, but a burden by the sultry noon.
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