Bokelskere.no

Henne kunne jeg selvfølgelig ikke drepe, som noen har trodd.
Henne elsket jeg jo. Det var kjærlighet ved første blikk og ved
siste blikk og ved hvert eneste, eneste blikk.

I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.

The shock of her death froze something in me. The child I loved was gone, but I kept looking for her - long after I had left my own childhood behind. The poison was in the wound, you see. And the wound wouldn't heal.

A normal man, given a group photograph of school girls and asked to point out the loveliest one, will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them.

She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks, she was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always - Lolita. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin. My soul. Lolita.

What I heard then was the melody of children at play, nothing but that. And I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita's absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that chorus.

Murder me! Murder me like you murdered my mother!

Well I haven't missed you. In fact, I've been revoltingly unfaithful to you. But it doesn't matter, because you don't care about me anymore anyway.

Jeg kunne så menn godt trenge litt hvile i den undertrykte dødsredde gyngestolen, før jeg kjørte dit hvor udyrets hule var - og der trakk forhuden vekk fra pistolmunningen og nøt den utløste avtrekkers orgasme: jeg har alltid vært en flink liten disippel av medisinmannen fra Wien.

Noe som minner om den tiende eller tyvende soldat i voldtektskøen, der han kaster pikens sorte sjal over det hvite ansiktet hennes for ikke å se de håpløse øynene mens han tar ut sine millitære gledesrasjoner i den triste, plyndrede landsbyen.