From Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita (1997) :
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
I've never felt compelled to write this sort of thing to anyone, you're the last I'd ever even think of dedicating anything to. You'll probably disregard this just by reading the first sentence, I've got nothing to apologize for because I'm simply a stranger giving you a taste of who I am and what I'd like to say. Regardless of whether you care or not (which I'm almost positive is the latter), this will be short and I really don't feel like my time's gone to waste by writing this up. It's okay, this is probably in the trash by now and most likely eye-rolled.
I don't want to be like you at all. Overall, you're absolutely the opposite of what I'd like to become. In fact, I'm almost glad that you weaved your own experiences to fictional names, I'm sure that you also threw in some made-up accounts to embellish that lifestyle of yours. I'm glad because it's people like you that make me acknowledge the person I don't want to become. Though your words are easy, it's not difficult to note that your last read didn't necessarily entrance me. Not that I expect it to. Good writing.
You see, the more that I beared your mid-life experiences on sexual satisfactions with girls my age, the more numb and diluted in interest my expectations became. But I promise that these words are getting at something.
Towards the end of your book, I collected small intervals of you that I surprisingly not only found as a relief from your redundance of stroking, groping, pulling, or climaxing; they were secrets. Or so they seem. Maybe it's just what I'd like to call them. What they consisted of were honest meanings to what those emotions actually are. And after I was done reading your book, the more these pieces of information became remnants. So much so that I can actually state that I began identifying myself to you. That amidst this raw, factual tide of explicitness and discovered emptiness, surfaced too an understanding of fear; but ultimately, dimension.
I'm being too stupid about this. Perhaps. But this is what pulled me to you, and this is what's been on my mind lately. Especially with these rough relationship roads. All I can say is that I respect you that much more for curating your writing in such a way that was effective for me and maybe others, too. There's just something there. Anyways, I don't want to thank you for doing what you do. Thanking somebody for that has always seemed a ridiculous thing to me. If I thank you for anything it's just being you, I guess. For just being a human and seeping it through. But mostly, no, I don't thank you.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Out of context, anyone could have mistook her as a child harlot. A lascivious kitten, dangling to the boy spectator her sways, her sultry and playful motions, her exclusive sensuality; smoothly coordinated to the melodic keys resounding his white walls. Those inviting little dances of hers hoped to be reminisced as the only ones those honey-gemmed eyes will ever watch and those full rose lips will ever curl for. Most importantly, the only that will maintain him romanced and mad for her existence.
Sunflowers. Yes, those must have been it. That’s what those gold eyes looked like. He featured the most characteristic that I’ve ever seen. From far they were simple honey discs that delineated the figure of his desired princess, following her every swing, his eyes dancing with her, trying to avoid an unwelcome blink. If you were to ask me how they looked up close, they were black marbles centering the furious yellow petals.
I could have easily misconstrued that glaring face.