'.had out demented diarist gone, in the fatal summer of 1947, to a competent pyschopathologist (what is this?), there would have been no disaster but then, neither would there have been this book. Nabakov is behind the joke he is the true writer of the foreward, disguised as 'real.' It is enchanting the way he is able to pull off this hoax with such elan: Indeed, Nabakov loves words too much, has too many games to play with them, to waste time 'dropping F-bombs' and other ineffectual lazy gimmicks.īut no, it is more delicious than even that. 'True, not a single obscene term is to be found in the whole work indeed, the robust philistine who is conditioned by modern conventions into accepting without qualms a lavish array of four-letter words in a banal novel, will be quite shocked by their absence here.' In fact, Nabakov plays a great trick on all unsuspecting readers. (Nabakov in disguise) lays out some important facts right in the foreward of the book, warning those that picked up the book due to its scandalous reputation that they might be disappointed.

He is not in love or even in lust with Lolita. Nabakov, in 'Lolita,' does not waste a single word. A Leisurely Stroll Through 'Lolita,' the Greatest Novel Ever Written

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