I first read Лолита (Nabokov’s translation of Lolita) twentysomething years ago. It was a hardbound, poor-quality photocopy of an American edition — a notch up from “real” samizdat. It weighed at least half a kilo. I loved the book. In 1990s, I bought a then newly published Russian edition. It was a bliss.
My earlier attempts to read the novel in its original tongue were unsuccessful. Somehow I couldn’t keep struggling with Nabokov’s language beyond the first forty pages or so. The last time I gave up was about five years ago. Then, last month, the breakthrough came: I went to Fuerteventura and finally discovered the ideal conditions for reading Lolita:
What can I say? English Lolita really is as good as Russian Лолита. Now I wish I knew French enough to read all of it without Internet help (for, in contrast to Russian version, the numerous French phrases are left untranslated). It is one of the greatest love stories ever written.
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