For what reason ought to everybody read a book about a pedophile's over the top and honestly net association with a young lady? Since on the off chance that you are a peruser — an admirer of words, plays on words, witticisms, allegories, and references — Lolita is an artistic magnum opus that can't be ignored in a spasm of nauseous profound quality. Humbert, the novel's temperamental storyteller, realizes that he's a terrible degenerate but then the peruser can't resist getting a charge out of him as he studies post-war America and little Lolita with the whimsical, negative eye of an European expat hapless in a tasteless country, and stuck irreversibly — and irredeemably — in the memory of a youthful relationship. If it's not too much trouble overlook the faultfinders: Lolita isn't an ethical quality story and it isn't a romantic tale. It's a shameless take a gander at a freak mind written in the absolute most deft and excellent English at any point distributed.
