By Vladimir Nabokov
The Enchanter is the Ur-Lolita, the precursor to Nabokov's vintage novel. right now hilarious and chilling, it tells the tale of an outwardly first rate guy and his deadly obsession with yes pubescent ladies, whose coltish grace and unconscious coquetry show, to his brain, a unique bud at the verge of bloom.
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53 THE LAST RESORT ON THE ADRIATIC I never supposed for the love of me that it would all be so vivid; it makes what I plan to do feel just right. I mean, I almost expect to see Joan on the boat, to just sort of run into her on deck, in the dining-room, or the bar, or even the casino. When I get to thinking about her in that way, my heart races and I feel giddy and generally have to retire to the cabin. When I turn the key I even think that I might find her there, perhaps in bed, reading. It's ridiculous I know, the whole thing, just blessed ridiculous.
They looked so mental I was almost relieved when a group of pigs stormed in and swarmed all over us. I watched the expression of disappointment on the face of one seasoned DS fucker. He knew that had we been holding it would have been a race to the lavvy to flush the gear away, but none of us had moved. Nobody was holding. They ritually turned the place over. One cop picked up my works and looked sneeringly at me. I raised my eyebrows and smiled lazily at him. — Let's get this rubbish down the fucking station, he shouted.
He sneered. — W h a t . . I knew, but couldn't comprehend. A thousand impulses flowed through my body, fusing me into immobility. — Chrissie's dead. — Oosterdok... it was Chrissie . . — Yes, it was Chrissie. I suppose you'll be happy now. — NAW MAN . . NAW! I protested. — Liar! Fucking hypocrite! You treated her like shit. You and 26 EUROTRASH others like you. You were no good for her. Used her like an old rag then discarded her. Took advantage of her weakness, of her need to give. People like you always do.