Lolita, light of my life, fire in my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Never did she vibrate under my touch, and a strident "what d'you think you are doing?" was all I got for my pains. To the wonderland I had to offer, my fool preferred the corniest movies, the most cloying fudge

To think that between a Hamburger and a Humberger, she would- invariably, with icy precision- plump for the former.

I might have her produce eventually a nymphet with my blood in her exqusite veins, a Lolita the Second, who would be eight or nine around 1960, when I would still be dans la force de l'âge; indeed, the telescopy of my mind, or un-mind, was strong enough to distinguish in the remoteness of time a vieillard encore vert - or was it green rot? - bizarre, tender, salivating Dr.Humbert, practicing on a supremely lovely Lolita the Third the art of being a granddad.