Chapter 59 Chapter Twenty-Five

This book is about Lolita; now that I have come to what might be called "Dolores Disparue" (if I am not preempted by another burning martyr), let me analyze the next three Empty years mean nothing.Although there are a few related issues that need to be recorded, the general impression I hope to convey is that at the moment when the vitality is most vigorous, a side door suddenly opens with a bang, and a roar of dark time rushes in, with a rapid speed. The gust of wind drowns out the cries of lonely impending doom. Strange to say, I rarely dream of Lolita, and if I do, it's not as I remember her—not as I consciously and often obsessively see her in my mind when I dream during the day and sleepless at night. To her look.To be more specific, she did appear in my sleep a lot, but in some grotesque disguise, like Valeria or Charlotte, or both.This composite apparition always came to me, changing clothes in a very melancholy and repulsive atmosphere, and leaning in a lazy and seductive pose on a narrow plank or a hard edge. On the chair, the flesh is half hidden, like the rubber valve of a football ball.I always find myself in nasty chambres garnies with broken or misplaced dentures where I get invited to some tedious dissection of live animals that always ends with Charlotte or Valeria weeping in my bloody arms, kissed tenderly by my brotherly lips; The brown wig of a very poor old lady who just got drunk.

One day I pulled a bunch of teenage magazines out of the car and destroyed them all.You know that kind of magazine.They are still Stone Age in nature, but they are quite up-to-date in terms of health care, at least up to Mycenaean levels.A beautiful, buxom actress with long eyelashes and a soft, bright red lower lip advertises a shampoo.Advertising and fashion.Young scholars loved clothes with lots of pleats—que cetait loin, tout cela!It is your hostess' duty to provide dressing gowns.Disconnected trifles kill your conversation.We all know what a teeth picker is, the one who picks off the epidermis of her skin at the office party.Unless a man is very old or important, he should take off his gloves before shaking hands with a woman.Wearing "exciting new bellybands" invites affairs.Tighten your belly and tighten your hips.Tristan in Love Movie.Yes, sir!The mystery of the marriage of Joe and Lo has drawn gossip from those who love Ragua.Beautify yourself quickly and frugally.Comic strip magazine.The bad girl had black hair and drank her father's thick cigar; the good girl had red hair and a pretty mustache that Daddy had cut short.Or the set of comic strips with the big devil and his wife, a little guy. Et moi qui toffrais mon genie... I recalled that rather amusing doggerel I used to write her when she was a child: Well, she always mockingly said it was all right.

The pine and the squirrel, the moor and those hares. There are some special customs that are not eye-catching. Drone hummingbirds soar high and gracefully. The crawling snake spreads its claws in its pockets... The rest of her stuff is even more difficult to throw away.Until the end of 1949, her old pair of sneakers, a men's shirt she had worn, some old-fashioned blue jeans I found in the trunk, a crumpled top My student hat, and other miscellaneous treasures like that, are still in my collection, stained with my kisses and the tears of the male mermaid.Later, when I realized that my head was about to explode, I gathered the miscellaneous stuff together, plus what was originally stored in Beardsley—a box of books, her bicycle, old coats, overshoes — on her fifteenth birthday, as a gift donated by an unknown person to an orphanage on the shore of a windswept lake on the Canadian border.

It is quite probable that if I were to consult a good hypnotist, he might take some of the occasional recollections in my mind and arrange them into a logical pattern.Those memories, which I have run through my book with considerable exaggeration, are far more exaggerated than what came to me even now that I know what to look for in the past.At that point I felt like I had just lost touch with reality; I had previously lived in a nursing home in Quebec and spent the rest of that winter and most of the following spring there.I then decided to go to New York to settle some personal business before going to California to do a thorough search.

Here is a poem I wrote in the nursing home: old perfume? Looking at this poem psychoanalytically, I found it to be the work of a madman.These stiff, rigid, over-rendered rhymes correspond very well to some of the wretched and magnified scenes and images without perspective drawn by psychopaths in tests devised by their astute trainers.I have also written many other poems.I also immerse myself in other people's poems.Yet I never for a moment forgot the burden of vengeance. I would be a rascal if I said that the shock of losing Lolita cured me of my perverted sexual desire for girls, and the reader would be a fool if he believed it.No matter what may affect my love for her, my accursed nature is hard to change.On the playground and on the beach, always against my will, my evil, furtive eyes still struggled to find the limbs of nymphets that gleamed, the hidden parts of Lolita's handmaidens and bouquet girls. symbol.But a fundamental illusion in my mind had vanished.Now I no longer think of possible bliss in some remote place with a little girl (concrete or imaginary); no longer do the sharp teeth of my imagination reach into the harbors of remote islands that lie in memory Lolita's sister.That's all over, at least for now.On the other hand, alas, two years of excessive indulgence had given me certain sensual habits: I feared if I happened upon a temptation on a side road between school and dinner!The emptiness in which I lived would send me into a state of sudden madness and lawlessness.I am corrupted by loneliness.I need companionship and care.My heart is a hysterical, unreliable organ.That's how Rita got involved.