An echo on the brink of a russet ravine

An echo on the brink of a russet ravine

And there she was with her ruined looks and her adult, rope-veined narrow hands and her goose-flesh white arms, and her shallow ears, and her unkempt armpits, there she was (my Lolita!), hopelessly worn at seventeen, with that baby, dreaming already in her of becoming a big shot and retiring around 2020 A.D.- and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I am going to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshiped.

It seems that I’ve been reading Lolita for quite some time. It’s not really ‘commuter’ reading as you need to concentrate to absorb, process and enjoy the incredible prose. But it is a true masterpiece. Of that I am in no doubt.

All of my blog entries on Lolita: