Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I bought a new Strand bag this weekend, and on my way home, a woman in the elevator with me asked if I work there. I guess my love for Strand has exceeded any kind of normalcy. Regardless, the bag I bought is awesome. (Pic below.) Because it's a Lolita bag. And Lolita is one of my favorite books ever written. Why, you might ask? Read these three passages:

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style."

"My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three."

"I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita."

Nabokov is a genius. I highly recommend this book. Don't be dismayed by its dubious subject matter. If you can get past it, it's worth the read - if only for the prose.

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