Lolita, light of my life (for a month or so). My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: lo, what a shocker and affront to womanhood; lee, to the side, protected from the wrathful wind of public opinion by the sheer genius of the writing, the humour, and, ultimately, the morality; ta, thank you Vladimir Nabokov, in Heaven, surely?

In answer to Diana’s question (she couldn’t make it to bookclub this month), the bookworms were not able to come to a unanimous conclusion, mainly because at least three of them couldn’t bring themselves to finish the book. I would not have continued reading past the death of the character of Charlotte Haze had it not been for Chris urging me to read on. Actually, Jeremy Irons read it to me on Youtube whilst I painted (as you may know I paint for a living), and when he had finished I made him read it to me all over again; and then I started to read the book for myself, which is when I truly began to appreciate the beauty of the writing and the humour. No, I don’t think Nabokov had an unnatural interest in prepubescent girls, I think he was fascinated by Humbert Humbert, his anti-hero creation. In Nabokov’s own words (from a television interview), “I don’t know any little girls…”