2. What drives me
insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet ... all this gets mixed up
with the exquisite stainless tenderness seeping through the musk and the mud,
through the dirt and the death, oh God, oh God. And what is most singular is
that she, this Lolita, my Lolita, has individualized the writer's ancient lust,
so that above and over everything there is - Lolita.
3. There would have been a
sultan, his face expressing great agony (belied, as it were, by his molding
caress), helping a callypygean slave child to climb a column of onyx. ...a last
throb, a last dab of color, stinging red, smearing pink, a sigh, a wincing
child.
4.....She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf
echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past...brown
leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank
God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. .. I insist the world know how
much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another's
child...still mine...
5. Alas, I was unable to
transcend the simple human fact that whatever spiritual solace I might find,
whatever lithophanic eternities might be provided for me, nothing could make my
Lolita forget the foul lust I had inflicted upon her...
6.. I have still other
smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain...
my Lolita remarked: "You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are
completely on your own"; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and
down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling's mind and that quite
possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichés, there was in her a garden and a
twilight, and a palace gate ... anything of genuine kind. .. She would mail her
vulnerability in trite brashness and boredom, whereas I, using for my
desperately detached comments an artificial tone of voice that set my own last
teeth on edge, provoked my audience to such outbursts of rudeness as made any
further conversation impossible, oh my poor, bruised child.... there were times
when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one. Lolita
girl, brave Dolly Schiller..